And who knew but that, up where France's great statue stood at the

wide-thrown portals of the Great City of the land, it had not given to

the mighty torch that nightly streams the light of Liberty across the

waters from the New World to the Old--who knew that it had not given to

that light a steady, ever-onward-reaching glow that some day should

illumine the earth?

* * * * *

The Cuban fever does not loosen its clutch easily.

Crittenden went to bed that day and lay there delirious and in serious

danger for more than a fortnight. But at the end a reward came for all

the ills of his past and all that could ever come.

His long fight was over, and that afternoon he lay by his window, which

was open to the rich, autumn sunlight that sifted through the woods and

over the pasture till it lay in golden sheens across the fence and the

yard and rested on his window-sill, rich enough almost to grasp with his

hand, should he reach out for it. There was a little colour in his

face--he had eaten one good meal that day, and his long fight with the

fever was won. He did not know that in his delirium he had spoken of

Judith--Judith--Judith--and this day and that had given out fragments

from which his mother could piece out the story of his love; that, at

the crisis, when his mother was about to go to the girl, Judith had come

of her own accord to his bedside. He did not know her, but he grew

quiet at once when the girl put her hand on his forehead.

Now Crittenden was looking out on the sward, green with the curious

autumn-spring that comes in that Bluegrass land: a second spring that

came every year to nature, and was coming this year to him. And in his

mood for field and sky was the old, dreamy mistiness of pure

delight--spiritual--that he had not known for many years. It was the

spirit of his youth come back--that distant youth when the world was

without a shadow; when his own soul had no tarnish of evil; when passion

was unconscious and pure; when his boyish reverence was the only feeling

he knew toward every woman. And lying thus, as the sun sank and the

shadows stole slowly across the warm bands of sunlight, and the

meadow-lark called good-night from the meadows, whence the cows were

coming homeward and the sheep were still browsing--out of the quiet and

peace and stillness and purity and sweetness of it all came his last

vision--the vision of a boy with a fresh, open face and no shadow across

the mirror of his clear eyes. It looked like Basil, but it was "the

little brother" of himself coming back at last--coming with a glad,

welcoming smile. The little man was running swiftly across the fields

toward him. He had floated lightly over the fence, and was making

straight across the yard for his window; and there he rose and floated

in, and with a boy's trustfulness put his small, chubby hand in the big

brother's, and Crittenden felt the little fellow's cheek close to his as

he slept on, his lashes wet with tears.




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