Crittenden

As he glanced out of the window, he could see a great crowd about the

station. A brass band was standing in front of the station-door--some

holiday excursion was on foot, he thought. As he stepped on the

platform, a great cheer was raised and a dozen men swept toward him,

friends, personal and political, but when they saw him pale, thin,

lean-faced, feverish, dull-eyed, the cheers stopped and two powerful

fellows took him by the arms and half carried him to the station-door,

where were waiting his mother--and little Phyllis.

When they came out again to the carriage, the band started "Johnny Comes

Marching Home Again," and Crittenden asked feebly: "What does all this mean?"

Phyllis laughed through her tears.

"That's for you."

Crittenden's brow wrinkled in a pathetic effort to collect his thoughts;

but he gave it up and looked at his mother with an unspoken question on

his lips. His mother smiled merely, and Crittenden wondered why; but

somehow he was not particularly curious--he was not particularly

concerned about anything. In fact, he was getting weaker, and the

excitement at the station was bringing on the fever again. Half the time

his eyes were closed, and when he opened them on the swiftly passing

autumn fields, his gaze was listless. Once he muttered several times, as

though he were out of his head; and when they drove into the yard, his

face was turning blue at the lips and his teeth began to chatter. Close

behind came the doctor's buggy.

Crittenden climbed out slowly and slowly mounted the stiles. On the top

step he sat down, looking at the old homestead and the barn and the

stubble wheat-fields beyond, and at the servants coming from the

quarters to welcome him, while his mother stood watching and fondly

humouring him.

"Uncle Ephraim," he said to a respectful old white-haired man, "where's

my buggy?"

"Right where you left it, suh."

"Well, hitch up--" Raincrow, he was about to say, and then he remembered

that Raincrow was dead. "Have you got anything to drive?"

"Yessuh; we got Mr. Basil's little mare."

"Hitch her up to my buggy, then, right away. I want you to drive me."

The old darky looked puzzled, but Mrs. Crittenden, still with the idea

of humouring him, nodded for him to obey, and the old man turned toward

the stable.

"Yessuh--right away, suh."

"Where's Basil, mother?"

Phyllis turned her face quickly.

"He'll be here soon," said his mother, with a smile.