turned from the sunset her eyes had all its deep tender light.

Dusk was falling, and already Raincrow and Crittenden were jogging along
toward her at that hour--the last trip for either for many a day--the
last for either in life, maybe--for Raincrow, too, like his master, was
going to war--while Bob, at home, forbidden by his young captain to
follow him to Chickamauga, trailed after Crittenden about the place with
the appealing look of a dog--enraged now and then by the taunts of the
sharp-tongued Molly, who had the little confidence in the courage of her
fellows that marks her race.

Judith was waiting for him on the porch, and Crittenden saw her from
afar.

She was dressed for the evening in pure white--delicate, filmy--showing
her round white throat and round white wrists. Her eyes were soft and
welcoming and full of light; her manner was playful to the point of
coquetry; and in sharp contrast, now and then, her face was intense
with thought. A faint, pink light was still diffused from the afterglow,
and she took him down into her mother's garden, which was old-fashioned
and had grass-walks running down through it--bordered with pink beds and
hedges of rose-bushes. And they passed under a shadowed grape-arbour and
past a dead locust-tree, which a vine had made into a green tower of
waving tendrils, and from which came the fragrant breath of wild grape,
and back again to the gate, where Judith reached down for an
old-fashioned pink and pinned it in his button-hole, talking with low,
friendly affection meanwhile, and turning backward the leaves of the
past rapidly.

Did he remember this--and that--and that? Memories--memories--memories.