Crittenden

"Why, Phyllis."

Phyllis was giving way, and, thereupon, with her own mother and Basil's

mother looking on, and to Basil's blushing consternation, she darted for

his neck-band and kissed him on the throat. The throat flushed, and in

the flush a tiny white spot showed--the mouth of a tiny wound where a

Mauser bullet had hissed straight through.

Then the old auditorium again, and Crittenden, who had welcomed the

Legion to camp at Ashland, was out of bed, against the doctor's advice,

to welcome it to home and fireside. And when he faced the crowd--if they

cheered Basil, what did they do now? He was startled by the roar that

broke against the roof. As he stood there, still pale, erect, modest,

two pairs of eyes saw what no other eyes saw, two minds were thinking

what none others were--the mother and Judith Page. Others saw him as the

soldier, the generous brother, the returned hero. These two looked

deeper and saw the new man who had been forged from dross by the fire of

battle and fever and the fire of love. There was much humility in the

face, a new fire in the eyes, a nobler bearing--and his bearing had

always been proud--a nobler sincerity, a nobler purpose.

He spoke not a word of himself--not a word of the sickness through which

he had passed. It was of the long patience and the patriotism of the

American soldier, the hardship of camp life, the body-wearing travail of

the march in tropical heat. And then he paid his tribute to the regular.

There was no danger of the volunteer failing to get credit for what he

had done, but the regular--there was no one to speak for him in camp, on

the transports, on the march, in tropical heat, and on the battlefield.

He had seen the regular hungry, wet, sick, but fighting still; and he

had seen him wounded, dying, dead, and never had he known anything but

perfect kindness from one to the other; perfect courtesy to outsider;

perfect devotion to officer, and never a word of complaint--never one

word of complaint.

"Sometimes I think that the regular who has gone will not open his lips

if the God of Battles tells him that not yet has he earned eternal

peace."

As for the war itself, it had placed the nation high among the seats of

the Mighty. It had increased our national pride, through unity, a

thousand fold. It would show to the world and to ourselves that the

heroic mould in which the sires of the nation were cast is still casting

the sons of to-day; that we need not fear degeneracy nor dissolution for

another hundred years--smiling as he said this, as though the dreams of

Greece and Rome were to become realities here. It had put to rest for a

time the troublous social problems of the day; it had brought together

every social element in our national life--coal-heaver and millionaire,

student and cowboy, plain man and gentleman, regular and volunteer--had

brought them face to face and taught each for the other tolerance,

understanding, sympathy, high regard; and had wheeled all into a solid

front against a common foe. It had thus not only brought shoulder to

shoulder the brothers of the North and South, but those brothers

shoulder to shoulder with our brothers across the sea. In the interest

of humanity, it had freed twelve million people of an alien race and

another land, and it had given us a better hope for the alien race in

our own.