Crittenden

And so, during her drive home, she had thought all the way of him and

of herself since both were children--of his love and his long

faithfulness, and of her--her--what? Yes--she had been something of a

coquette--she had--she had; but men had bothered and worried her, and,

usually, she couldn't help acting as she had. She was so sorry for them

all that she had really tried to like them all. She had succeeded but

once--and even that was a mistake. But she remembered one thing: through

it all--far back as it all was--she had never trifled with Crittenden.

Before him she had dropped foil and mask and stood frankly face to face

always. There was something in him that had always forced that. And he

had loved her through it all, and he had suffered--how much, it had

really never occurred to her until she thought of a sudden that he must

have been hurt as had she--hurt more; for what had been only infatuation

with her had been genuine passion in him; and the months of her

unhappiness scarcely matched the years of his. There was none other in

her life now but him, and, somehow, she was beginning to feel there

never would be. If there were only any way that she could make amends.

Never had she thought with such tenderness of him. How strong and brave

he was; how high-minded and faithful. And he was good, in spite of all

that foolish talk about himself. And all her life he had loved her, and

he had suffered. She could see that he was still unhappy. If, then,

there was no other, and was to be no other, and if, when he came back

from the war--why not?

Why not?

She felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks, her lips parted, and as she

turned from the sunset her eyes had all its deep tender light.

Dusk was falling, and already Raincrow and Crittenden were jogging along

toward her at that hour--the last trip for either for many a day--the

last for either in life, maybe--for Raincrow, too, like his master, was

going to war--while Bob, at home, forbidden by his young captain to

follow him to Chickamauga, trailed after Crittenden about the place with

the appealing look of a dog--enraged now and then by the taunts of the

sharp-tongued Molly, who had the little confidence in the courage of her

fellows that marks her race.

Judith was waiting for him on the porch, and Crittenden saw her from

afar.

She was dressed for the evening in pure white--delicate, filmy--showing

her round white throat and round white wrists. Her eyes were soft and

welcoming and full of light; her manner was playful to the point of

coquetry; and in sharp contrast, now and then, her face was intense

with thought. A faint, pink light was still diffused from the afterglow,

and she took him down into her mother's garden, which was old-fashioned

and had grass-walks running down through it--bordered with pink beds and

hedges of rose-bushes. And they passed under a shadowed grape-arbour and

past a dead locust-tree, which a vine had made into a green tower of

waving tendrils, and from which came the fragrant breath of wild grape,

and back again to the gate, where Judith reached down for an

old-fashioned pink and pinned it in his button-hole, talking with low,

friendly affection meanwhile, and turning backward the leaves of the

past rapidly.