ly she rose. "I must go now. Christianna will be back
to-morrow."

She went away, passing up the narrow path between the wounded and out at
the further door. Allan watched her going, then turned a little on the
flock bed, and lifting his unbandaged arm laid it across his eyes. _The
65th cut to pieces--The 65th cut to pieces--_

At sunset Judith went home. The small room up in the branches of the
tulip tree--she hardly knew how many months or years she had inhabited
it. There had passed, of course, only weeks--but Time had widened its
measure. To all intents and purposes she had been a long while in
Richmond. This high, quiet niche was familiar, familiar! familiar the
old, slender, inlaid dressing-table and the long, thin curtains and the
engraving of Charlotte Corday; familiar the cool, green tree without the
window and the nest upon a bough; familiar the far view and wide
horizon, by day smoke-veiled, by night red-lit. The smoke was lifted
now; the eye saw further than it had seen for days. The room seemed as
quiet as a tomb. For a moment the silence oppressed her, and then she
remembered that it was because the cannon had stopped.

She sat beside the window, through the dusk, until the stars came out;
then went downstairs and took her part at the table, about which the
soldier sons of the house were gathering. They brought comrades with
them. The wounded eldest son was doing well, the army was victorious,
the siege was lifted, the house must be made gay for "the boys." No
house was ever less bright for Judith. Now she smiled and listened, and
the young men thought she did not realize the seriousness of the army
talk about the 65th. They themselves were careful not to mention the
matter. They talked of a thousand heroisms, a thousand incidents of the
Seven Days; but they turned the talk--if any one, unwary, drew it that
way--from White Oak Swamp. They mistook her feeling; she would rather
they had spoken out. Her comfort was when, afterwards, she went for a
moment into the "chamber" to see the wounded eldest. He was a
warm-hearted, rough diamond, fond of his cousin.

"What's this damned stuff I hear about Richard Cleave and a
court-martial? What--nonsense! I beg your pardon, Judith." Judith kissed
him, and finding "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne" face down on the counterpane
offered to read to him.

"You would rather talk about Richard," he said. "I know you would. So
should I. It's all the damnedest nonsense! Such a ch