ly and
handsome dinners that were given weekly at the Commandant's house
during the season. When the officers were in the smoking-room a
question of the geography of the Philippines came up, and was not
settled. Colonel Fortescue called for a book on the subject, which was
in Anita's room. Anita herself brought it, and hovered for a moment
behind her father's chair; the subject of the Philippines had a magic
power to hold her.

Not even the book gave the desired information and Anita leaned over
and whispered into her father's ear:

"Daddy, I can tell you about it."

"Do," answered the Colonel, smiling, and turning to his guests, "This
young lady will interest us."

Anita, whose air was shy and her violet eyes usually downcast, was the
least shy and the most courageous creature imaginable. She got a map,
and, spreading it out on the table, pointed out the true solution, and
produced books to explain it. The officers, all mature men, listened
with interest and amusement, complimenting Anita, and telling her she
ought to have an officer's commission. Colonel Fortescue beamed with
pride; no other girl at the post had as much solid information as Anita.

When the guests were gone and Anita was lying wide awake in her little
white bed, thinking of Broussard, Colonel Fortescue, in the pride of
his heart, was telling Mrs. Fortescue about it, as he smoked his last
cigar in his office.

"It was great!" said the Colonel. "The child knew her subject
wonderfully. She sat there, talking with men who had served in the
Philippines, and they said she knew as much as they did."

"Broussard is in the Philippines," replied Mrs. Fortescue quietly.

Colonel Fortescue dashed his cigar into the fireplace and remained
silent for five minutes.

"At any rate," he said presently, "The child's love affair hasn't made
a fool of her. She is actually learning something from it. That's
where she is so far ahead of most young things of her age."

"She will be eighteen next spring," said Mrs. Fortescue.

The mention of Anita's age always made the Colonel cross; so nothing
more was said between the father and mother about Anita that night.
But the Colonel yearned over the beloved of his heart, nor did he
classify Anita's silent and passionate remembrance of Broussard with
the idle fancies of a young girl; it was like Anita herself, of strong
fibre.

The winter wore on, and the whirlpool of life surged in the far-distant
post, as