ntly ill, and the knitting she was trying to do had fallen from
her listless hand.

The Colonel's daughter was much embarrassed, but the private soldier's
wife was all coolness and composure.

"The chaplain asked me to come to see you," said Anita, standing
irresolute, not knowing whether to stay or to go.

"Thank you and thank the chaplain also," replied Mrs. Lawrence. Then
she courteously offered Anita a seat.

Anita had meant to ask if Mrs. Lawrence needed anything, but she found
herself as unable to say this to Mrs. Lawrence as to any officer's
wife. All she could do was to pick up the knitting and say:

"Perhaps you will let me finish this for you. I can knit very well."

It was a warm jacket for the little boy, who needed it. Mrs.
Lawrence's coldness melted a little.

"Thank you," she said, "there is not much to be done on it now."

With that oblique persuasion, Anita took up the jacket, and her quick
fingers made the needles fly. Her glance was keen, and although
apparently concentrated on her work, she saw the strange mixture of
plainness and luxury in the little room. The floor was covered with a
fine rug, and a little glass cupboard shone with cut glass and silver.

The two women talked a little together but Mrs. Lawrence showed her
weariness by falling off to sleep in the chair. The little boy went
quietly out, and Anita sat knitting steadily in the silent room. The
setting sun shone upon Mrs. Lawrence's pale face, revealing a beauty
that neither time nor grief nor hardship could wholly destroy.

Involuntarily, Anita's eye travelled around the strange-looking room.
On the mantel was a large photograph; Anita's heart leaped as she
recognized it to be Broussard. It was evidently a fresh photograph,
and a very fine one. Broussard stood in a graceful attitude, his hand
on his sword, looking every inch the _beau sabreur_. Anita became so
absorbed that her hand stopped knitting; it was as if Broussard himself
had walked into the room.

Presently she felt, rather than saw, a glance fixed upon her. Mrs.
Lawrence was wide awake, lying back in her chair, her dark eyes bent on
Anita, whose hands lay idle in her lap.

The gaze of the two women met, for Anita was a woman grown in matters
of the heart. She imagined she saw pity in Mrs. Lawrence's expression.
Instantly, she began to knit rapidly. She wished to talk
unconcernedly, but the words would not come. Broussard's association
with the pal