Crittenden

"Judith!"

The voice was weak, and she did not know it; but in a moment the light

from the lamp in the hallway fell upon a bare-headed, gaunt-featured man

in the uniform of a common soldier.

"Judith!"

This time the voice broke a little, and for a moment Judith stood

speechless--still--unable to believe that the wreck before her was

Crittenden. His face and eyes were on fire--the fire of fever--she could

not know that; and he was trembling and looked hardly able to stand.

"I've come, Judith," he said. "I haven't known what to do, and I've come

to tell you--to--ask----"

He was searching her face anxiously, and he stopped suddenly and passed

one hand across, his eyes, as though he were trying to recall something.

The girl had drawn herself slowly upward until the honeysuckle above her

head touched her hair, and her face, that had been so full of aching

pity for him that in another moment she must have gone and put her arms

about him, took on a sudden, hard quiet; and the long anguish of the

summer came out suddenly in her trembling lip and the whiteness of her

face.

"To ask for forgiveness," he might have said; but his instinct swerved

him; and-"For mercy, Judith," he would have said, but the look of her face

stopped the words in an unheard whisper; and he stooped slowly, feeling

carefully for a step, and letting himself weakly down in a way that

almost unnerved her again; but he had begun to talk now, quietly and

evenly, and without looking up at her.

"I'm not going to stay long. I'm not going to worry you. I'll go away in

just a moment; but I had to come; I had to come. I've been a little

sick, and I believe I've not quite got over the fever yet; but I

couldn't go through it again without seeing you. I know that, and

that's--why--I've--come. It isn't the fever. Oh, no; I'm not sick at

all. I'm very well, thank you----"

He was getting incoherent, and he knew it, and stopped a moment.

"It's you, Judith----"

He stopped again, and with a painful effort went on slowly--slowly and

quietly, and the girl, without a word, stood still, looking down at him.

"I--used--to--think--that--I--loved--you. I--used--to--think I

was--a--man. I didn't know what love was, and I didn't know what it was

to be a man. I know both now, thank God, and learning each has helped me

to learn the other. If I killed all your feeling for me, I deserve the

loss; but you must have known, Judith, that I was not myself that

night. You did know. Your instinct told you the truth; you--knew--I

loved--you--then--and that's why--that's why--you--God bless

you--said--what--you--did. To think that I should ever dare to open my

lips again! but I can't help it; I can't help it. I was crazy,

Judith--crazy--and I am now; but it didn't go and then come back. It

never went at all, as I found out, going down to Cuba--and yes, it did

come back; but it was a thousand times higher and better love than it

had ever been, for everything came back and I was a better man. I have

seen nothing but your face all the time--nothing--nothing, all the time

I've been gone; and I couldn't rest or sleep--I couldn't even die,

Judith, until I had come to tell you that I never knew a man could love

a woman as--I--love--you--Judith. I----"