ly, "Kun'l, I ain't
never goin' ter try an' enlist no mo', so help me Gord A'mighty. An' I
ain't a'goin' to pay no more 'tention to the chaplain's sermons, 'cause
'twuz that there chaplain as fust got me in this here mess, cuss him!"

This last was under Kettle's breath, and the Colonel pretended not to
hear.

CHAPTER VII

THE PLEADING EYES OF WOMEN

It was May before the winter loosened its grasp on Fort Blizzard. Once
more, the fort was in touch with the outside world for a few months. The
mails came regularly and there were two trains a day at the station, ten
miles away. In May Anita had a birthday--her eighteenth.

"You can't call me a child any longer, daddy," she said to Colonel
Fortescue, on the May morning when she was showered with birthday gifts.
Nevertheless, Colonel Fortescue continued to call her a child, but a
glance at her reading showed that Anita was very much grown up. She
still read piles of books and pamphlets concerning the Philippines and
knew all about the stinging and creeping and crawling things that made
life hideous in the jungles, the horrors of fever, the merciless heat,
and the treacherous Moros who stabbed the sleeping soldiers by night. No
word had come from Broussard across the still and sluggish Pacific.

The chaplain did not fail to remind Anita that it was a Christian act to
continue her visits to Mrs. Lawrence, who still remained weak and
nerveless and ill, and Anita was ready enough to do so. Mrs. Lawrence
never mentioned Broussard's name and, in fact, spoke little at any time.
A mental and bodily torpor seemed to possess her, and she was never able
to do more than walk feebly, supported by Mrs. McGillicuddy's strong arm,
to a bench, sit there for an hour or two, and return to her own two
rooms. Occasionally she asked if she should give up her quarters, but as
the surgeon and the chaplain and Mrs. McGillicuddy all united in telling
Colonel Fortescue that Mrs. Lawrence was really unable to move, the
Colonel silently acquiesced in her occupation of the quarters, which were
not needed for any one else.

Once or twice a week, Anita would go to see her, and read to her, and
take the sewing or knitting out of her languid hand and do it for her.
Mrs. Lawrence, who appeared to notice little that went on around her,
observed that Anita's eyes always sought the photograph of Broussard on
the mantel, but his name was never uttered between them, nor did Mrs.
Lawrence ever