As Crittenden climbed the stiles, old Keziah filled the kitchen-door.

"Time you gittin' back, suh," she cried with mock severity. "I been
studyin' 'bout you. Little mo' an' I'd 'a' been comin' fer you myself.
Yes--suh."

And she gave a loud laugh that rang through the yard and ended in a
soft, queer little whoop that was musical. Crittenden smiled but,
instead of answering, raised his hand warningly and, as he approached
the portico, he stepped from the gravel-walk to the thick turf and began
to tiptoe. At the foot of the low flight of stone steps he
stopped--smiling.

The big double front door was wide open, and straight through the big,
wide hallway and at the entrance of the dining-room, a sword--a long
cavalry sabre--hung with a jaunty gray cap on the wall. Under them stood
a boy with his hands clasped behind him and his chin upraised. The lad
could see the bullet-hole through the top, and he knew that on the visor
was a faded stain of his father's blood. As a child, he had been told
never to touch the cap or sword and, until this moment, he had not
wanted to take them down since he was a child; and even now the habit of
obedience held him back for a while, as he stood looking up at them.
Outside, a light wind rustled the leaves of the rose-bush at his
mother's window, swept through the open door, and made the curtain at
his elbow swell gently. As the heavy fold fell back to its place and
swung out again, it caught the hilt of the sword and made the metal
point of the scabbard clank softly against the wall. The boy breathed
sharply, remembered that he was grown, and reverently reached upward.
There was the stain where the blood had run down from the furrowed wound