The setting sun shone upon Mrs.Lawrence's pale face, revealing a beauty that neither time nor grief nor hardship could wholly destroy.
Involuntarily, Anita's eye travelled around the strange-looking room.
On the mantel was a large photograph; Anita's heart leaped as she recognized it to be Broussard.

It was evidently a fresh photograph, and a very fine one.

Broussard stood in a graceful attitude, his hand on his sword, looking every inch the _beau sabreur_.

Anita became so absorbed that her hand stopped knitting; it was as if Broussard himself had walked into the room.
Presently she felt, rather than saw, a glance fixed upon her.

Mrs.
Lawrence was wide awake, lying back in her chair, her dark eyes bent on Anita, whose hands lay idle in her lap.
The gaze of the two women met, for Anita was a woman grown in matters of the heart.