hed in his
right hand. It was a miniature, and Crittenden stared at
it--unwinking--stared and stared while it slowly came into the strong,
white light. It looked like the face of Judith. It wasn't, of course,
but he dragged himself slowly, slowly closer. It was Judith--Judith as
he had known her years ago. He must see now; he _must_ see _now_, and he
dragged himself on and up until his eyes bent over the dead man's face.
He fell back then, and painfully edged himself away, shuddering.

"Blackford! Judith! Blackford!"

He was face to face with the man he had longed so many years to see; he
was face to face at last with him--dead.

As he lay there, his mood changed and softened and a curious pity filled
him through and through. And presently he reached out with his left hand
and closed the dead man's eyes and drew his right arm to his side, and
with his left foot he straightened the dead man's right leg. The face
was in clear view presently--the handsome, dare-devil face--strangely
shorn of its evil lines now by the master-sculptor of the spirit--Death.
Peace was come to the face now; peace to the turbulent spirit; peace to
the man whose heart was pure and whose blood was tainted; who had lived
ever in the light of a baleful star. He had loved, and he had been
faithful to the end; and such a fate might have been his--as justly--God
knew.

Footsteps approached again and Crittenden turned his head.

"Why, he isn't dead!"

It was Willings, the surgeon he had known at Chickamauga, and Crittenden
called him by name.

"No, I'm not dead--I'm not going to die."

Willings gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Well, there's grit for you," said the other surgeon. "We'll take him
next."

"Straighten _him_ out there, won't you?" said Crittenden, gently, as
the two men stooped for him.

"Don't put him in there, please," nodding toward the trench behind the
tents; "and mark his grave, won't you, Doctor? He's my bunkie."

"All right," said Willings, kindly.

"And Doctor, give me _that_--what he has in his hand, please. I know
her."

* * * * *

A tent at Siboney in the fever-camp overlooking the sea.

"Judith! Judith! Judith!"

The doctor pointed to the sick man's name.

"Answer him?"

But the nurse would not call his name.

"Yes, dear," she said, gently; and she put one hand on his forehead and
the other on the hand that was clinched on his breast. Slowly his hand
loosened and clasp