The Colonel stood firmly by his chaplain, who was a man after his own heart, and that very afternoon Anita went to Mrs. Lawrence's quarters. The door was opened by the little boy, Ronald, whom Anita knew, as everybody else did. The girl's heart beat as she entered the narrow passage-way in which she had seen Broussard and Mrs. Lawrence standing together, and it beat more as she walked into the little sitting-room, where Mrs. Lawrence sat in an arm chair at the window. She was evidently 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.