Then came toasts after the good old fashion—­graceful toasts—­to the hostess and the brides, to the American soldier, regular and volunteer.  And at the end, Crittenden, regular, raised his glass and there was a hush.

It was good, he said, to go back to the past; good to revive and hold fast to the ideals that time had proven best for humanity; good to go back to the earth, like the Titans, for fresh strength; good for the man, the State, the nation.  And it was best for the man to go back to the ideals that had dawned at his mother’s knee; for there was the fountain-head of the nation’s faith in its God, man’s faith in his nation—­man’s faith in his fellow and faith in himself.  And he drank to one who represented his own early ideals better than he should ever realize them for himself.  Then he raised his glass, smiling, but deeply moved: 

“My little brother.”

He turned to Basil when he spoke and back again to Judith, who, of all present, knew all that he meant, and he saw her eyes shine with the sudden light of tears.

At last came the creak of wheels on the snow outside, the cries of servants, the good-bys and good-wishes and congratulations from one and all to one and all; the mother’s kiss to Basil and Phyllis, who were under their mother’s wing; the last calls from the doorway; the light of lanterns across the fields; the slam of the pike-gate—­and, over the earth, white silence.  The mother kissed Judith and kissed her son.

“My children!”

Then, as was her custom always, she said simply: 

“Be sure to bolt the front door, my son.”

And, as he had done for years, Crittenden slipped the fastenings of the big hall-door, paused a moment, and looked out.  Around the corner of the still house swept the sounds of merriment from the quarters.  The moon had risen on the snowy fields and white-cowled trees and draped hedges and on the slender white shaft under the bent willow over his father’s and his uncle’s grave—­the brothers who had fought face to face and were sleeping side by side in peace, each the blameless gentleman who had reverenced his conscience as his king, and, without regret for his way on earth, had set his foot, without fear, on the long way into the hereafter.  For one moment his mind swept back over the short, fierce struggle of the summer.

As they had done, so he had tried to do; and as they had lived, so he, with God’s help, would live henceforth to the end.  For a moment he thought of the flag hanging motionless in the dim drawing-room behind him—­the flag of the great land that was stretching out its powerful hand to the weak and oppressed of the earth.  And then with a last look to the willow and the shaft beneath, his lips moved noiselessly: 

“They will sleep better to-night.”

Judith was standing in the drawing-room on his hearth, looking into his fire and dreaming.  Ah, God, to think that it should come to pass at last!