much noticed by all who knew him.  The soldiers forgot their grudge against Lawrence for what they called his “uppish airs,” and the soldiers’ wives forewent their objections to Mrs. Lawrence and her aloofness from them, when the boy, Ronald, appeared.  The officers, and their wives, too, had a kind word for the little fellow, so handsome and well-mannered, and especially was he a favorite with Broussard.  It was, indeed, more than friendly favor toward the child; Broussard was conscious of a strong affection for the boy, about whom there was something mysteriously appealing to Broussard, an expression in the frank young eyes, a soft beauty in the boy’s smile, that reminded Broussard of something loved and lost, but he knew not what it was nor whence it came.  Anita, although knowing nothing of the gentleman-ranker and his wife and the handsome boy except that, obviously, they were unlike their neighbors and fellows in the married men’s quarters, yet always observed them with curiosity.  Their unlikeness to their station in life was of itself a mystery, and consequently of interest.  Mrs. Fortescue, the soul of kindness to the soldiers’ wives and children, could make nothing of Mrs. Lawrence, who withdrew into herself at Mrs. Fortescue’s approach, and Mrs. Fortescue, seeing that Mrs. Lawrence wished to hold aloof, respected her wishes, and from sheer pity left her alone.  Mrs. McGillicuddy was not so considerate, and told thrilling tales of rebuffs administered by Mrs. Lawrence to corporals’ wives, and even sergeants’ wives who were willing to notice her and get snubbed for their good intentions.

“Mr. Broussard is the only man Mrs. Lawrence gives a decent word to,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy in Anita’s hearing, “When she meets him anywhere, walkin’ about, she stops and smiles and talks to him as if she was the Colonel’s lady—­that she does, the minx!  And she pretending to be so meek and mild and not looking at any man, except that good-for-nothing, handsome husband of hers!  Just watch her, stoppin’ in the post trader’s to talk with Mr. Broussard, she so haughty-like, and carryin’ her own bundles home, like she was doin’ herself a favor!”

This sank deep into Anita’s mind, as did every word referring to Broussard.  But she could make nothing of it; and Mrs. Lawrence, the soldier’s wife, became at once an object of interest, of mystery, almost of jealousy, to Anita.  The little boy she noticed, as did all who saw him, and like everybody else, she was won by him.

The morning of the great dinner at the Fortescues’, Neroda, the Italian band-master, came to give Anita her violin lesson.  Mrs. Fortescue, listening and delighted with Anita’s progress, came in to the drawing-room as Neroda was shouting bravos in rapture over the way his best pupil caught the soul of music in her delicate hands and made it prisoner.

“Good-morning, Mr. Neroda,” said Mrs. Fortescue in her pretty and affable manner—­Mrs. Fortescue would have been affable with an ogre—­“I must ask you to come this evening and play my daughter’s accompaniments.  We are having a large dinner and I should like Anita to play for us after dinner.”