different light from the humblest soldier
in the ranks--which is just what he would have asked. The Colonel had
cast an envious eye on Raincrow at Tampa, and, straightway, he had taken
the liberty of getting the Sergeant to take the horse to the Colonel's
tent with the request that he use him throughout the campaign. The horse
came back with the Colonel's thanks; but, when the order came that the
cavalry was to go unmounted, the Colonel sent word that he would take
the horse now, as the soldier could not use him. So Raincrow was aboard
the ship, and the old Colonel, coming down to look at the horse one day,
found Crittenden feeding him, and thanked him and asked him how he was
getting along; and, while there was a smile about his humorous mouth,
there was a kindly look in his blue eyes that pleased Crittenden
mightily. As for the old Sergeant, he could never forget that the
soldier was a Crittenden--one of his revered Crittendens. And, while he
was particularly stern with him in the presence of his comrades, for
fear that he might be betrayed into showing partiality--he was always
drifting around to give him a word of advice and to shake his head over
the step that Crittenden had taken.

That step had made him good in body and soul. It made him lean and
tanned; it sharpened and strengthened his profile; it cleared his eye
and settled his lips even more firmly. Tobacco and liquor were scarce,
and from disuse he got a new sensation of mental clearness and physical
cleanliness that was comforting and invigorating, and helped bring back
the freshness of his boyhood.

For the first time in many years, his days were full of work and,
asleep, awake, or at work, his hours were clock-like and steadied him
into machine-like regularity. It was work of his hands, to be sure, and
not even high work of that kind, but still it was work. And the measure
of the self-respect that this fact alone brought him was worth it all.
Already, his mind was taking character from his body. He was distinctly
less morbid and he found himself thinking during those long days of the
sail of what he should do after the war was over. His desire to get
killed was gone, and it was slowly being forced on him that he had been
priggish, pompous, self-absorbed, hair-splitting, lazy,
good-for-nothing, when there was no need for him to be other than what
he meant to be when he got back. And as for Judith, he felt the
bitterness of gall for himself when he thought