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.

"This was enclosed in a letter to me from Mr. Broussard," said the
Colonel.

[Illustration: "This was enclosed in a letter to me from Mr. Broussard,"
said the Colonel.]

Anita, although eighteen years old that day, acted like a child. She
dropped the corners of her skirt and the flowers fell to the floor. One
moment she stood like a bird poised for flight, and then taking the
letter, tripped out of the room and up the stairs.

Both Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue in the still May afternoon heard her turn
the key in the lock of her little rose-colored room.

Mrs. Fortescue gathered up the blossoms, the Colonel with moody eyes
looking down.

"Oh, the jealousy