The gray walls of Indian summer tumbled at the horizon and let the glory
of many fires shine out among the leaves. Once or twice the breath of
winter smote the earth white at dawn. Christmas was coming, and God was
good that Christmas.

Peace came to Crittenden during the long, dream-like days--and
happiness; and high resolve had deepened.

Day by day, Judith opened to him some new phase of loveliness, and he
wondered how he could have ever thought that he knew her; that he loved
her, as he loved her now. He had given her the locket and had told her
the story of that night at the hospital. She had shown no surprise, and
but very little emotion; moreover, she was silent. And Crittenden, too,
was silent, and, as always, asked no questions. It was her secret; she
did not wish him to know, and his trust was unfaltering. Besides, he had
his secrets as well. He meant to tell her all some day, and she meant to
tell him; but the hours were so full of sweet companionship that both
forbore to throw the semblance of a shadow on the sunny days they spent
together.

It was at the stiles one night that Judith handed Crittenden back the
locket that had come from the stiffened hand of the Rough Rider,
Blackford, along with a letter, stained, soiled, unstamped, addressed to
herself, marked on the envelope "Soldier's letter," and countersigned by
his Captain.