“It is only a girl’s fancy; she will get over it,” said Mrs. Fortescue to the Colonel.

“She would if she were like most girls, but I tell you, Betty, this child of ours, this devoted, obedient little thing, has more mind, more introspection, than any young creature I ever knew.  There is the making of a dozen tragedies in her.”

“It is you who are too introspective and too tragic about her,” answered Mrs. Fortescue, and the Colonel, recognizing the germ of truth in his wife’s words, remained silent for a moment.  Then he said: 

“It’s the sky and the snow and this altitude, and being shut in from all the world that make everything so tense.  On these far-off, ice-bound plains, life is abnormally vivid.  We are all keyed up too high here.”

Mrs. Fortescue, seeing Anita reading often, and getting many books from the post library, glanced at the literature that crowded the table in Anita’s sunny bed room.  They were of two sorts—­books of passionate poetry and books about the Philippines, their geography, their history, the story of the natives, “the silent, sullen peoples, half savage and half child,” tales of the creeping, crawling, stinging things that make life hideous in the jungles, all these was Anita studying.  Mrs. Fortescue said nothing of this to the Colonel, but recalled that Broussard was in the Philippines, and Anita’s soul was there, although her body was at Fort Blizzard.  In a book of her own, Anita had written her name, in the firm, clear hand that belonged to thirty rather than to seventeen, and these words: 

“This I, who walk and talk and sleep and eat here, is not I. It is but my body; my soul is with the Beloved.”

Mrs. Fortescue said nothing of this to the Colonel, but the trend of Anita’s reading was unexpectedly revealed at one of the stately 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.