So that, each day there was a relief to the night agony, which, every
morning, began straightway with the thought that the fight might be
going on at that very hour. Not once did Judith come near. She had been
ill, to be sure, but one day Mrs. Crittenden met her on the way 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