The gray walls of Indian summer tumbled at the horizon and let the glory
of many fires shine out among the leaves. Once or twice the breath of
winter smote the earth white at dawn. Christmas was coming, and God was
good that Christmas.
Peace came to Crittenden during the long, dream-like days--and
happiness; and high resolve had deepened.
Day by day, Judith opened to him some new phase of loveliness, and he
wondered how he could have ever thought that he knew her; that he loved
her, as he loved her now. He had given her the locket and had told her
the story of that night at the hospital. She had shown no surprise, and
but very little emotion; moreover, she was silent. And Crittenden, too,
was silent, and, as always, asked no questions. It was her secret; she
did not wish him to know, and his trust was unfaltering. Besides, he had
his secrets as well. He meant to tell her all some day, and she meant to
tell him; but the hours were so full of sweet companionship that both
forbore to throw the semblance of a shadow on the sunny days they spent
together.
It was at the stiles one night that Judith handed Crittenden back the
locket that had come from the stiffened hand of the Rough Rider,
Blackford, along with a letter, stained, soiled, unstamped, addressed to
herself, marked on the envelope "Soldier's letter," and countersigned by
his Captain.
"I heard him say at Chickamauga that he was from Kentucky," ran the
letter, "and that his name was Crittenden. I saw your name on a piece of
paper that blew out of his tent one day. I guessed what was between you
two, and I asked him to be my 'bunkie;' but as you never told him my
name, I never told him who I was. I went with the Rough Riders, but we
have been camped near each other. To-morrow comes the big fight. Our
regiments will doubtless advance together. I shall watch out for him as
long as I am alive. I shall be shot. It is no premonition--no fear, no
belief. I know it. I still have the locket you gave me. If I could, I
would give it to him; but he would know who I am, and it seems your wish
that he should not know. I should like to see you once more, but I
should not like you to see me. I am too much changed; I can see it in my
own face. Good-night. Good-by."
There was no name signed. The initials were J. P., and Crittenden looked
up inquiringly.