Crittenden

There can be no better hot-bed of sentiment than the mood of man and

woman when the man is going to war; and if Mrs. Stanton had not shaken

that nugget of wisdom from her memories of the old war, she would have

known it anyhow, for she was blessed with a perennial sympathy for the

heart-troubles of the young, and she was as quick to apply a remedy to

the children of other people as she was to her own, whom, by the way,

she cured, one by one, as they grew old enough to love and suffer, and

learn through suffering what it was to be happy. And how other mothers

wondered how it was all done! In truth, her method--if she had a

conscious method--was as mysterious and as sure as is the way of nature;

and one could no more catch her nursing a budding passion here and there

than one could catch nature making the bluegrass grow. Everybody saw the

result; nobody saw just how it was done. That afternoon an instance was

at hand. Judith wanted to go home, and Mrs. Stanton, who had brought her

to camp, wanted to go to town. Phyllis, too, wanted to go home, and her

wicked little brother, Walter, who had brought her, climbed into

Basil's brake before her eyes, and, making a face at her, disappeared in

a cloud of dust. Of course, neither of the brothers nor the two girls

knew what was going on, but, a few minutes later, there was Basil

pleading with Mrs. Stanton to let him take Phyllis home, and there was

Crittenden politely asking the privilege of taking Judith into his

buggy. The girl looked embarrassed, but when Mrs. Stanton made a

gracious feint of giving up her trip to town, Judith even more

graciously declined to allow her, and, with a smile to Crittenden, as

though he were a conscious partner in her effort to save Mrs. Stanton

trouble, gave him her hand and was helped into the smart trap, with its

top pressed flat, its narrow seat and a high-headed, high-reined,

half-thoroughbred restive between the slender shafts; and a moment

later, smiled a good-by to the placid lady, who, with a sigh that was

half an envious memory, half the throb of a big, kind heart, turned to

her own carriage, assuring herself that it really was imperative for her

to drive to town, if for no other reason than to see that her

mischievous boy got out of town with the younger Crittenden's brake.

Judith and Crittenden were out of the push of cart, carriage, wagon, and

street-car now, and out of the smoke and dust of the town, and

Crittenden pulled his horse down to a slow trot. The air was clear and

fragrant and restful. So far, the two had spoken scarcely a dozen words.

Crittenden was embarrassed--he hardly knew why--and Judith saw it, and

there was a suppressed smile at the corners of her mouth which

Crittenden did not see.