"I heard him say at Chickamauga that he was from Kentucky," ran the letter, "and that his name was Crittenden. I saw your name on a piece of paper that blew out of his tent one day. I guessed what was between you two, and I asked him to be my 'bunkie;' but as you never told him my name, I never told him who I was. I went with the Rough Riders, but we have been camped near each other. To-morrow comes the big fight. Our regiments will doubtless advance together. I shall watch out for him as long as I am alive. I shall be shot. It is no premonition--no fear, no belief. I know it. I still have the locket you gave me. If I could, I would give it to him; but he would know who I am, and it seems your wish that he should not know. I should like to see you once more, but I should not like you to see me. I am too much changed; I can see it in my own face. Good-night. Good-by." There was no name signed. The initials were J. P., and Crittenden looked up inquiringly. "His name was not Blackford; it was Page--Jack Page. He was my cousin," she went on, gently. "That is why I never told you. It all happened while you were at college. While you were here, he was usually out West; and people thought we were merely cousins, and that I was weaning him from his unhappy ways. I was young and foolish, but I had--you know the rest." The tears gathered in her eyes. "God pity him!" Crittenden turned from her and walked to and fro, and Judith rose and walked up to him, looking him in the eyes. "No, dear," she said; "I am sorry for him now--sorry, so sorry! I wish I could have helped him more. That is all. It has all gone--long ago. It never was. I did not know until I left you here at the stiles that night." Crittenden looked inquiringly into her eyes before he stooped to kiss her. She answered his look. "Yes," she said simply; "when I sent him away." Crittenden's conscience smote him sharply. What right had he to ask such a question--even with a look? "Come, dear," he said; "I want to tell you all--now." But Judith stopped him with a gesture. "Is there anything that may cross your life hereafter--or mine?" "No, thank God; no!" Judith put her finger on his lips. "I don't want to know." * * * * * And God was good that Christmas.