h time,
perhaps, how far she had been to blame.

"The comfort I have is that I have been, and still am, honest with
myself. I haven't done what I ought not and then tried to persuade
myself that it was right. I always knew it was wrong, and I did it
anyhow. And the hope I have is that, like the man in Browning's poem, I
believe I always try to get up again, no matter how often I stumble. I
sha'n't give up hope until I am willing to lie still. And I guess, after
all--" he lifted his head suddenly--"I haven't missed being a man."

"And a gentleman," added Judith gently.

"According to the old standard--no." Crittenden paused.

The sound of buggy wheels and a fast-trotting horse rose behind them.
Raincrow lifted his head and quickened his pace, but Crittenden pulled
him in as Basil and Phyllis swept by. The two youngsters were in high
spirits, and the boy shook his whip back and the girl her
handkerchief--both crying something which neither Judith nor Crittenden
could understand. Far behind was the sound of another horse's hoofs, and
Crittenden, glancing back, saw his political enemy--Wharton--a girl by
his side, and coming at full speed. At once he instinctively gave half
the road, and Raincrow, knowing what that meant, shot out his feet and
Crittenden tightened the reins, not to check, but to steady him. The
head of the horse behind he could just see, but he went on talking
quietly.

"I love that boy," pointing with his whip ahead. "Do you remember that
passage I once read you in Stevenson about his 'little brother'?"

Judith nodded.

The horse behind was creeping up now, and his open nostrils were visible
past the light hair blowing about Judith's neck. Crittenden spoke one
quiet word to his own horse, and Judith saw the leaders of his wrist
begin to stand out as Raincrow settled into the long reach that had
sent his sire a winner under many a string.

"Well, I know what he meant--that boy never will. And that is as a man
should be. The hope of the race isn't in this buggy--it has gone on
before with Phyllis and Basil."

Once the buggy wheels ran within an inch of a rather steep bank, and
straight ahead was a short line of broken limestone so common on
bluegrass turnpikes, but Judith had the Southern girl's trust and
courage, and seemed to notice the reckless drive as little as did
Crittenden, who made the wheels straddle the stones, when the variation
of an inch or two would have lamed his horse and overturn