haps, but graceful, round, and slender, as was
the throat. The hair was a trifle darker, he thought, but brown still,
and as rich with gold as autumn sunlight. The profile was in outline
now--it was more cleanly cut than ever. The face was a little older, but
still remarkably girlish in spite of its maturer strength; and as she
turned to answer his look, he kept on unconsciously reaffirming to his
memory the broad brow and deep clear eyes, even while his hand was
reaching for the brim of his hat. She showed only gracious surprise at
seeing him and, to his wonder, he was as calm and cool as though he were
welcoming back home any good friend who had been away a long time. He
could now see that the lieutenant belonged to the Tenth United States
Cavalry; he knew that the Tenth was a colored regiment; he understood a
certain stiffness that he felt rather than saw in the courtesy that was
so carefully shown him by the Southern volunteers who were about him;
and he turned away to avoid meeting him. For the same reason, he
fancied, Judith turned, too. The mere idea of negro soldiers was not
only repugnant to him, but he did not believe in negro regiments. These
would be the men who could and would organize and drill the blacks in
the South; who, in other words, would make possible, hasten, and prolong
the race war that sometimes struck him as inevitable. As he turned, he
saw a tall, fine-looking negro, fifty yards away, in the uniform of a
sergeant of cavalry and surrounded by a crowd of gaping darkies whom he
was haranguing earnestly. Lieutenant and sergeant were evidently on an
enlisting tour.

Just then, a radiant little creature looked up into Crittenden's face,
calling him by name and holding out both hands--Phyllis, Basil's little
sweetheart. With her was a tall, keen-featured fellow, whom she
introduced as a war correspondent and a Northerner.

"A sort of war correspondent," corrected Grafton, with a swift look of
interest at Crittenden, but turning his eyes at once back to Phyllis.
She was a new and diverting type to the Northern man and her name was
fitting and pleased him. A company passed just then, and a smothered
exclamation from Phyllis turned attention to it. On the end of the line,
with his chin in, his shoulders squared and his eyes straight forward,
was Crittenden's warrior-brother, Basil. Only his face coloured to show
that he knew where he was and who was looking at him, but not so much as
a glance of his e