y to town
and stopped her in the road; but the girl had spoken so strangely that
the mother drove on, at loss to understand and much hurt. Next day she
learned that Judith, despite her ill health and her father's protests,
had gone to nurse the sick and the wounded--what Phyllis plead in vain
to do. The following day a letter came from Mrs. Crittenden's elder son.
He was well, and the mother must not worry about either him or Basil. He
did not think there would be much fighting and, anyhow, the great risk
was from disease, and he feared very little from that. Basil would be
much safer as an aid on a General's staff. He would get plenty to eat,
would be less exposed to weather, have no long marches--as he would be
mounted--and no guard duty at all hours of day and night. And, moreover,
he would probably be less constantly exposed to bullets. So she must not
worry about him. Not one word was there about Judith--not even to ask
how she was, which was strange. He had said nothing about the girl when
he told his mother good-by; and when she broached the subject, he
answered sadly:

"Don't, mother; I can't say a word--not a word."

In his letter he had outlined Basil's advantages, not one of which was
his--and sitting on the porch of the old homestead at sunset of the last
rich day in June, the mother was following her eldest born through the
transport life, the fiery marches, the night watches on lonely outposts,
the hard food, the drenching rains, steaming heat, laden with the breath
of terrible disease, not realizing how little he minded it all and how
much good it was doing him. She did know, however, that it had been but
play thus far to what must follow. Perhaps, even now, she thought, the
deadly work was beginning, while she sat in the shrine of peace--even
now.

And it was. Almost at that hour the troops were breaking camp and
moving forward along the one narrow jungle-road--choked with wagon,
pack-mule, and soldier--through a haze of dust, and, turning to the
right at the first crossing beyond corps head-quarters--under
Chaffee--for Caney. Now and then a piece of artillery, with its flashes
of crimson, would pass through the advancing columns amid the waving of
hats and a great cheering to take position against the stone fort at
Caney or at El Poso, to be trained on the block-house at San Juan. And
through the sunset and the dusk the columns marched, and, after night
fell, the dark, silent masses of slouch hats, s