Harris was not well. His convalescence had been interrupted and impaired, as we have seen, and no man thrives bodily when heart and soul are sore within him; and, heart and soul, Harris was sore. He was sitting up, to be sure, but it was plain to be seen he was suffering. Mrs. Stannard, wise woman that she was, believed she knew something of the cause and held her peace. Dr. Bentley, believing also that he knew something of the cause, was not so thoroughly wise. Between Mrs. Bennett, his patients at the hospital, mostly convalescent, and this young knight, the doctor was having a busy time of it. Mrs. Bennett improved not at all, but had at least become less violent in her anguish. At times she seemed almost in a stupor, and Mrs. Stannard was beginning to wonder whether the matron, worn out with her lamentations, had been administering surreptitious opiates. Mrs. Archer's visits had become less frequent, because for long hours she had had to go and sit with Lilian and her crippled hero. But now that hero was up and out on the veranda, basking in the sunshine of love unutterable, though enjoined as yet to avoid the fervor of that of Arizona. Willett had never appeared to better advantage in his life than now, in modestly accepting congratulations, manfully asserting his unworthiness of the blessing that had come to him, and his determination, please God, to live a life of devotion to his new-found delight, this sweet floweret of the desert that so suddenly, so wonderfully, so dominantly had come to gladden, to bless, to inspire his career. Love is a marvellous beautifier, mental, moral and physical. In such pure and exquisite companionship, in the radiance of her presence, in the ecstasy of her sweet, shy, still half-timid caress, in the undoubted honesty of his resolution to be all her fondest wishes would have him, and in no easily shaken conviction that, even as he stood, he was a remarkably fine fellow, well calculated to make any girl happy, it was not difficult for Willett to rise superior to his past--to forget it, in fact, and to fancy himself for all times the high-minded, love-guided gentleman he stood to-day. Why should he not to the full rejoice in her delicious homage?--indulge her sweet rhapsodies?--encourage her fond day dreams? It was so easy now to be all deference and tenderness to the gentle mother he was soon to rob of her one darling, to be all respect and attention to the gallant old soldier father, to be everything that was exquisitely tender, fond, impassioned to this innocent and lovely girl, who trembled with delight at his kiss and clung in speechless rapture to his side. Life for him, even here at desolate Almy, had suddenly become a veritable heaven. Small wonder then that he quite forgot the purpose of his coming, the sordid events that preceded that most fortunate catastrophe, the fire,--forgot or thrust aside all consideration of the episode at the store, the