red afternoon
reception at Angel Island, Lilian had seen nothing of army life and
next to nothing of army beaux, until in all the ardor and innocence of
sweet, winsome, wholesome girlhood--buoyant, beautiful and in exuberant
health and spirits, she was suddenly landed here at this out of the way
station in uttermost Arizona, and brought face to face with love and
destiny.

For two days she had been hoping that mother would suggest that she,
too, might come when they went for the afternoon visits to their
wounded. But, though mother had twice taken her to sit a few minutes by
the side of poor, frenzied Mrs. Bennett, there came no intimation that
she might follow to the bedside of Lieutenant Willett, whose voice the
child was longing to hear again, whose face she craved to see. No woman
of heroic mould, perhaps, was Mrs. Archer. Hers was one of those fond,
clinging natures, capable of any sacrifice for the husband or child she
loved. She had turned her back on the home and the people so dear to
her when unhesitatingly she followed the soldier husband she
rapturously loved, and now, though she yearned to take her daughter to
her heart and kiss away the wistful, pathetic, pleading look in the
fond eyes that never before had appealed to her in vain, something told
her it were best to let her fight it out, even to suffer, alone, than
admit, even to her, the possibility of a growing love for this
brilliant and dangerous young gallant, as to whom she had unwittingly
heard such damning accusation. It had not taken Mrs. Archer long to
learn that Case, nerved by drink, had appeared at Harris's bedside that
Sunday afternoon, asking to speak with him alone, only to be speedily
followed by Willett, and by the altercation she had overheard. Under
the circumstances, as known to her, Mrs. Archer was thankful that,
since he could not leave the post, Lieutenant Willett could not even
leave his room. Not with her knowledge and consent should her gentle
Lilian be again brought within the sphere of his influence.

But Love that laughs at locksmiths was yet to find his way, and that
right soon.

CHAPTER XV.

Harris was up and fuming for action. With his wound unhealed and his
arm utterly useless, he was insistent that he should be permitted to
mount and ride. "What could you do?" asked Bentley. "The post is
surrounded. Every trail and both roads are watched day and night. Your
horse is all that's left you. 'Tonio is gone. 'Tonio