"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."