Men,
too, were entering, though not many. A few were in uniform; others as
they came from the Capitol or from office or department. Judith, too,
mounted the steps. She was very tired, and her religion was an
out-of-door one, but there came upon her a craving for the quiet within
St. Paul's and for the beautiful, old, sonorous words. She entered,
found a shadowy pew beneath the gallery, and knelt a moment. As she rose
another, having perhaps marked her as she entered, paused at the door of
the pew. She saw who it was, put out a hand and drew her in. Margaret
Cleave, in her black dress, smiled, touched the younger woman's forehead
with her lips, and sat beside her. The church was not half filled; there
were no people very near them, and when presently there was singing, the
sweet, old-world lines beat distantly on the shores of their
consciousness. They sat hand in hand, each thinking of battlefields; the
one with a constant vision of Port Republic, the other of some
to-morrow's vast, melancholy, smoke-laden plain.

As was not infrequently the case in the afternoon, an army chaplain read
the service. One stood now before the lectern. "Mr. Corbin Wood,"
whispered Judith. Margaret nodded. "I know. We nursed him last winter in
Winchester. He came to see me yesterday. He knew about Will. He told me
little things about him--dear things! It seems they were together in an
ambulance on the Romney march."

Her whisper died. She sat pale and smiling, her beautiful hands lightly
folded in her lap. For all the years between them, she was in many ways
no older than Judith herself. Sometimes the latter called her "Cousin
Margaret," sometimes simply "Margaret." Corbin Wood read in a mellow
voice that made the words a part of the late sunlight, slanting in the
windows. He raised his arm in an occasional gesture, and the sunbeams
showed the grey uniform beneath the robe, and made the bright buttons
brighter. _Thou turnest man to destruction; and sayest, Return, ye
children of men. For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday
when it is past, and as a watch in the night._

The hour passed, and men and women left St. Paul's. The two beneath the
gallery waited until well-nigh all were gone, then they themselves
passed into the sunset street. "I will walk home with you," said Judith.
"How is Miriam?"

"She is beginning to learn," answered the other; "just beginning, poor,
darling child! It is fearful to be young, and to meet th