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 ask Anita to write another letter.

On Anita’s birthday, in the afternoon, she went to see Mrs. Lawrence, ostensibly to carry her some of the fruit and flowers that were so abundant at the Commanding Officer’s house, where the great garden was blooming beautifully.  Mrs. Lawrence accepted Anita’s gifts with more animation than usual, and buried her face in the lilac blossoms.  From her lap a letter dropped and Anita picked it up; it was in Broussard’s handwriting, which Anita knew.  A vivid blush came into Anita’s face; however silent she might be about Broussard, her eyes and lips were always eloquent when anything suggested him.  Mrs. Lawrence made no comment on the letter and presently Anita went away.  The Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue, sitting in the drawing-room at tea, saw her pass the wide window and go into the beautiful walled garden, which was, next her violin, Anita’s chief delight.  It was a wonderful garden for a couple of years of growth and it had developed amazingly under Anita’s hand.

Sergeant McGillicuddy was a good amateur gardener, and at that very moment, wearing a suit of blue overalls, was digging away industriously.  The Sergeant had lost a good deal of his cheerfulness in those later days of winter, but the garden seemed to inspire him, as it did Anita.  The girl went up to him and the two were in close conference concerning a bed of cowslips the sergeant was making.  Through the open window the sunny air floated, drenched with perfume.  Anita was laughing at something the Sergeant said;—­they had usually been serious enough while working together in the garden.

Presently Anita came into the drawing-room, carrying in her thin, white skirt, as if it were an apron, a great mass of blossoms.  Colonel Fortescue held out a letter to her.