Crittenden

The doctor looked at his flushed face.

"Come on, my boy," he said, firmly. "You must get out of the sun."

Crittenden shook his head.

"Mother, have I ever done anything that you asked me not to do?"

"No, my son."

"Please don't make me begin now," he said, gently. "Is--is she at home?"

"Yes; but she is not very well. She has been ill a long while," she

added, but she did not tell him that Judith had been nursing at Tampa,

and that she had been sent home, stricken with fever.

The doctor had been counting his pulse, and now, with a grave look,

pulled a thermometer from his pocket; but Crittenden waved him away.

"Not yet, Doctor; not yet," he said, and stopped a moment to control his

voice before he went on.

"I know what's the matter better than you do. I'm going to have the

fever again; but I've got something to do before I go to bed, or I'll

never get up again. I have come up from Tampa just this way, and I can

go on like this for two more hours; and I'm going."

The doctor started to speak, but Mrs. Crittenden shook her head at him,

and Phyllis's face, too, was pleading for him.

"Mother, I'll be back in two hours, and then I'll do just what you and

the doctor say; but not now."

* * * * *

Judith sat bare-headed on the porch with a white shawl drawn closely

about her neck and about her half-bare arms. Behind her, on the floor of

the porch, was, where she had thrown it, a paper in which there was a

column about the home-coming of Crittenden--plain Sergeant Crittenden.

And there was a long editorial comment, full of national spirit, and a

plain statement to the effect that the next vacant seat in Congress was

his without the asking.

The pike-gate slammed--her father was getting home from town. The buggy

coming over the turf made her think what a change a few months had

brought to Crittenden and to her; of the ride home with him the previous

spring; and what she rarely allowed herself, she thought of the night of

their parting and the warm colour came to her cheeks. He had never sent

her a line, of course. The matter would never be mentioned--it couldn't

be. It struck her while she was listening to the coming of the feet on

the turf that they were much swifter than her father's steady-going old

buggy horse. The click was different; and when the buggy, instead of

turning toward the stable, came straight for the stiles, her heart

quickened and she raised her head. She heard acutely the creak of the

springs as some one stepped to the ground, and then, without waiting to

tie his horse, stepped slowly over the stiles. Unconsciously she rose to

her feet, not knowing what to think--to do. And then she saw that the

man wore a slouch hat, that his coat was off, and that a huge pistol was

buckled around him, and she turned for the door in alarm.