It was a flying day, and the hearts of the women at Fort Blizzard had no rest or peace on those days.

Anita could not but see that Mrs.
Lawrence's hands, browned and hardened with work, were small and delicately formed, and, that the poise of the head, the fine contours, were not those of a woman bred to toil.
It was not quite time for the ascent and the officers were not yet on the field, although there were a dozen or two soldiers and civilian employes standing about the sheds in the middle of the plain, and working with the huge machines, dragged from their shelter.

Afar off, the voices of the soldiers, singing a service song, were borne upon the crystal clear air.
They were trolling out the song as if there were no more risks in aviation than in tennis.
We don't know what we're here for, We don't know why we're sent, But we've brought a few unlimbered guns By way of com-pli-ment.
Anita walked quickly out of the entrance, keeping her eyes well away from the flying field.

It was a good half mile along the fir tree walk, and Anita made it twice.

The music was throbbing still in her veins and the thought of playing to Broussard's singing had in it an intoxication for her innocent heart.