A look of faint surprise came into her languid eyes as Anita drew a chair to her bed and took her hand.
"My mother sent me," Anita said, gently, "to ask if I could do anything for you." Mrs.Lawrence murmured her thanks, and then hesitated for a moment, the words trembling upon her lips.
"Yes," she said, "you can do something for me.

Something I haven't asked anybody to do.

I tried to ask the chaplain just now--he is a kind man, and tries to help me but for some reason my courage failed; I don't know why, but I didn't ask him.

It is, to write a letter for me." "Certainly I will write a letter for you," said Anita.
"It is to Mr.Broussard," answered Mrs.Lawrence.
The thought of writing to Broussard startled and overwhelmed Anita.
She glanced about her nervously, fearing Mrs.Lawrence's words had been overheard, and stammered and blushed.

But the woman, lying wan and weak in the bed, did not notice this.
"I am not strong enough to dictate it exactly as I want," said Mrs.
Lawrence, "and you will have to write it at your own home.