Crittenden

"I love that boy," pointing with his whip ahead. "Do you remember that

passage I once read you in Stevenson about his 'little brother'?"

Judith nodded.

The horse behind was creeping up now, and his open nostrils were visible

past the light hair blowing about Judith's neck. Crittenden spoke one

quiet word to his own horse, and Judith saw the leaders of his wrist

begin to stand out as Raincrow settled into the long reach that had

sent his sire a winner under many a string.

"Well, I know what he meant--that boy never will. And that is as a man

should be. The hope of the race isn't in this buggy--it has gone on

before with Phyllis and Basil."

Once the buggy wheels ran within an inch of a rather steep bank, and

straight ahead was a short line of broken limestone so common on

bluegrass turnpikes, but Judith had the Southern girl's trust and

courage, and seemed to notice the reckless drive as little as did

Crittenden, who made the wheels straddle the stones, when the variation

of an inch or two would have lamed his horse and overturned them.

"Yes, they are as frank as birds in their love-making, and they will

marry with as little question as birds do when they nest. They will have

a house full of children--I have heard her mother say that was her

ambition and the ambition she had for her children; and they will live a

sane, wholesome, useful, happy life."

The buggy behind had made a little spurt, and the horses were almost

neck and neck. Wharton looked ugly, and the black-eyed girl with fluffy

black hair was looking behind Judith's head at Crittenden and was

smiling. Not once had Judith turned her head, even to see who they were.

Crittenden hardly knew whether she was conscious of the race, but they

were approaching her gate now and he found out.

"Shall I turn in?" he asked.

"Go on," said Judith.

There was a long, low hill before them, and up that Crittenden let

Raincrow have his full speed for the first time. The panting nostrils of

the other horse fell behind--out of sight--out of hearing.

"And if he doesn't get back from the war, she will mourn for him

sincerely for a year or two and then----"

"Marry someone else."

"Why not?"

That was what she had so often told him to do, and now he spoke as

though it were quite possible--even for him; and she was both glad and a

little resentful.