“Last night I had a visit from Lawrence.  He has a great affection for his wife and child, and wanted me to talk with his wife about a family matter in which he feels he can not advise her.  Can you kindly suggest some way by which I may have a private talk of a few minutes with Mrs. Lawrence?”

Colonel Fortescue scribbled on the back of the note: 

“Come to my office in my house at ten o’clock and I will have Mrs. Lawrence here.”

Broussard felt a little chagrined when he received this note.  Suppose Anita should see him?  She had already seen Mrs. Lawrence put her hand on his shoulder.  There was, however, no gainsaying the C. O., and at ten o’clock Broussard rang the bell at the Commandant’s house.  Sergeant McGillicuddy opened the door for him and showed him into the little office across the hall, saying: 

“Them’s the Colonel’s orders, sir.”

At the same moment Mrs. Lawrence, pale, beautiful and stately, walked in from the back entrance.  As she and Broussard met in the sunny hall, brimming with the morning light, Anita walked down the stairs and came face to face with Broussard and Mrs. Lawrence.

Broussard’s dark skin turned dull red; Mrs. Lawrence, calmly unconscious, bowed to Anita, who, in her turn, bowed and passed on; her head, usually with a graceful droop, was erect; she radiated silent displeasure.  Then Broussard and Mrs. Lawrence entered the office and Broussard closed the door.  He was full of discomfort and chagrin, but it did not make him forgetful of the pale woman before him.

Mrs. Lawrence sat down in a chair; it was plain that she was not strong.  Broussard, taking her hand, said to her affectionately: 

“Last night Lawrence told me all.  Remember, after this, that you and he have a brother, and the boy will be to me as a son.”

The slow tears gathered in Mrs. Lawrence’s eyes and fell upon her thin cheeks.

“My husband told me when he came home last night.  I can’t express what I feel—­but the boy shall remember you in his innocent prayer.”

“It’s the boy I want to speak about,” said Broussard, “Lawrence tells me that you have a chance of going back to your own people and that you are breaking down under the hard work of a soldier’s wife.  You can never get used to it.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Mrs. Lawrence, calmly, “especially as I was brought up to have a French maid.  But I don’t intend to leave my husband.  I love him too well.  Don’t ask me why I love him so.  I couldn’t explain it to you to save my life, but I will say that since the day we were married—­I ran away to marry him—­he has never spoken an unkind word to me.  He had nothing to give me except his love, but he has given me that.  Whatever his faults may be as a soldier, he has been a good husband to me.”

“A good husband!”

Broussard involuntarily repeated the words, marvelling and admiring the constancy, the self-delusion, the blind devotion of the woman before him.