turned her long-lashed eyes full on Beverley.

"Daddy doesn't do justice to Mr. Broussard," she said, "but you ought to
have seen the way he grasped Mr. Broussard's hands after the music ride."

Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue, sitting in the cool, dim drawing-room, heard
Beverley's laughter floating in from the garden. Beverley saw the case
at a glance.

The torrid summer slipped by, and in November it was winter again, and
the earth was snowbound once more. In all those months Mrs. Lawrence
remained, feeble and nerveless, in the two little rooms she was still
permitted to occupy. By that time she was a shadow. Mrs. McGillicuddy
was more kind than ever to her, and Sergeant McGillicuddy grew more
sombre every day, thinking that his words had brought Lawrence to ruin
and his unfortunate wife close to the boundaries of the far country. The
chaplain took the Sergeant in hand, and so did the Colonel, but the
Sergeant, who had a tender heart under his well-fitting uniform, was not
a happy man. Anita went regularly to see Mrs. Lawrence, and as the young
are appalled at the thought of life going out, she watched with
palpitating fear what seemed a steady journey toward the land where
spirits dwell. But always on those visits to the woman who seemed
slipping from life into the great ocean of forgetfulness, there was a
thrill of joy for Anita; she could see Broussard's picture. Young and
imaginative souls live and thrive on very little.

The introspective life that Anita led was strongly expressed in her
music. Never had Neroda a pupil who was willing to work so hard as
Anita, and the result charmed him. On this afternoon Anita was at her
lesson in the great drawing-room, the red sunset pouring in through the
long windows and flooding the room with crimson lights and purple
shadows. Anita, wearing a little, nun-like black gown that outlined her
slim figure, played, with wonderful fire and finish, a wild and gorgeous
Hungarian dance by Brahms.

There was a delicate melody winding through all of the rich harmonies, as
it ran up the scale, like a bird soaring into the blue sky, and then
descended with splendid double notes, into the sombre and passionate G
string, the string that touches the soul. It grew more of a miracle to
Neroda than ever to watch Anita's slender bow-arm flashing back and
forth, drawing out, with amazing force, the soul of the violin, her
slender figure erect and poised high, vibrating with the strin