certain stiffness that he felt rather than saw in the courtesy that was
so carefully shown him by the Southern volunteers who were about him;
and he turned away to avoid meeting him. For the same reason, he
fancied, Judith turned, too. The mere idea of negro soldiers was not
only repugnant to him, but he did not believe in negro regiments. These
would be the men who could and would organize and drill the blacks in
the South; who, in other words, would make possible, hasten, and prolong
the race war that sometimes struck him as inevitable. As he turned, he
saw a tall, fine-looking negro, fifty yards away, in the uniform of a
sergeant of cavalry and surrounded by a crowd of gaping darkies whom he
was haranguing earnestly. Lieutenant and sergeant were evidently on an
enlisting tour.

Just then, a radiant little creature looked up into Crittenden's face,
calling him by name and holding out both hands--Phyllis, Basil's little
sweetheart. With her was a tall, keen-featured fellow, whom she
introduced as a war correspondent and a Northerner.

"A sort of war correspondent," corrected Grafton, with a swift look of
interest at Crittenden, but turning his eyes at once back to Phyllis.
She was a new and diverting type to the Northern man and her name was
fitting and pleased him. A company passed just then, and a smothered
exclamation from Phyllis turned attention to it. On the end of the line,
with his chin in, his shoulders squared and his eyes straight forward,
was Crittenden's warrior-brother, Basil. Only his face coloured to show
that he knew where he was and who was looking at him, but not so much as
a glance of his eye did he send toward the tent. Judith turned to
Crittenden quickly:

"Your little brother is going to the war?" The question was thoughtless