A broken ankle at fifty does not heal in a day, and until Christmas Eve Colonel Fortescue was a prisoner in his chair, doing his administrative work; and when that was done being cheered and soothed by the tenderness in which he had been lapped since the day when, as a young lieutenant, he married Betty Beverley in an old Virginia church.  Never was anything seen like Anita’s devotion to her father.  It seemed as if she were never out of sound and reach of him and gave up all the merry-making of the Christmas time to be with him.  This prevented Broussard from seeing Anita very often, and never alone, but they had entered the Happy Valley together, and basked in the delicate joy of love unspoken, but not unfelt.  Anita knew that Broussard was only biding his time, and Broussard knew that Anita was waiting, in smiling silence.  The Colonel wrote Broussard a very handsome note of thanks and Mrs. Fortescue greeted him with grateful thanks.  Then, Christmas was coming, the claims of the After-Clap and the eight McGillicuddys became insistent.  Broussard did not forget the prisoner in the grim military prison, nor the woman so faithful to the prisoner.  Sergeant McGillicuddy spent a small fortune in such comforts as Lawrence was allowed to receive at Christmas time, and his knotty, weather-beaten face grew positively cheerful over the way Lawrence was really reforming.

Broussard knew that Anita would not come to the Christmas Eve ball, because in the evening her father liked her to read to him.  But Broussard went to the ball, and for the first time found a Christmas ball dull.  Flowers were scarce at Fort Blizzard, but by the expenditure of much time and money Broussard succeeded in getting a great box of fresh white roses for Anita on Christmas Day.

Broussard went to the early service at the chapel in the darkness that comes before the dawn.  The little chapel shone with lights and echoed with the triumphant Christmas music.  It was quite full, but Anita sat alone in the C. O.’s pew.  She was all in black, except a single white rose pinned over her heart.  When the service was over, and the people had streamed out, and the brilliant lights were replaced by a radiance, faint and soft, Anita remained on her knees, praying.  Broussard remained on his knees, too, thinking he was praying, but in reality worshipping Anita.  Presently, she rose and passed out into the cold, gray dawn.  Broussard went out, too, meaning to intercept her and walk home with her.  But at the door Kettle appeared, carrying in his arms the After-Clap, now nearly three years old, and capable of making a great deal of noise.  At once, he sent up a shout for “’Nita!” and Anita, cruelly oblivious of Broussard’s claims, took the After-Clap by the hand and ran off to see his Christmas tree—­that being the After-Clap’s day.  Kettle, however, lagged behind to administer consolation to Broussard.

“Doan’ you mind, Mr. Broussard,” said Kettle, confidentially, “Miss ‘Nita, she’s jes’ cipherin’ on you all the time.  She makes the Kun’l tell her all ’bout them songs you done sing him that night in the mountains, an’ she and Miss Betty laffed fit ter kill when the Kun’l tell ’em he made you sing like the devil to keep him from groanin’ over his ankle.”