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. Was there anything she had let go unforgotten? And then, as they approached the porch in answer to a summons to supper, brought out by a little negro girl, she said: "You haven't told me what regiment you are going with." "I don't know." Judith's eyes brightened. "I'm so glad you have a commission." "I have no commission." Judith looked puzzled. "Why, your mother----" "Yes, but I gave it to Basil." And he explained in detail. He had asked General Carter to give the commission to Basil, and the General had said he would gladly. And that morning the Colonel of the Legion had promised to recommend Basil for the exchange. This was one reason why he had come back to the Bluegrass. Judith's face was growing more thoughtful while he spoke, and a proud light was rising in her eyes. "And you are going as----" "As a private." "With the Rough Riders?" "As a regular--a plain, common soldier, with plain, common soldiers. I am trying to be an American now--not a Southerner. I've been drilling at Tampa and Chickamauga with the regulars." "You are much interested?" "More than in anything for years." She had seen this, and she resented it, foolishly, she knew, and without reason--but, still, she resented it. "Think of it," Crittenden went on. "It is the first time in my life, almost, I have known what it was to wish to do something--to have a purpose--that was not inspired by you." It was an unconscious and rather ungracious declaration of independence--it was unnecessary--and Judith was surprised, chilled--hurt. "When do you go?" Crittenden pulled a telegram from his pocket. "To-morrow morning. I got this just as I was leaving town." "To-morrow!"