Harris was awake, and in highly nervous condition, and begging that he might be allowed to see and question these couriers, but both doctors, regular and contract, said no, not this night. And so, toward midnight, the couriers were permitted to go to bed. The doubled sentries were cautioned to observe the utmost vigilance. The lights were extinguished at the store, by way of telling everybody that neither game nor glass was to be had before the morrow. The general was urged by his devoted adherents, Bonner, Bucketts and Strong, to get such sleep as was possible, and the post was committed to the charge of Lieutenant Briggs, officer of the day. The lights were still burning low at the hospital and in the doctor's quarters and Strong's, as, with a look about the moonlit valley and a word to his sergeant, Bonner rejoined his comrades at the quartermaster's veranda. "Odd," said he, with a tilt of his head toward the quarters next beyond, "of all our little fighting force, so far the only casualties are with our two casuals." That was at one o'clock in the morning. At three, by which time all but the guard were presumably in bed, Mrs. Archer, lying anxious and wakeful, listening for the sound of sigh or sob from Lilian's little room and praying that sorrow might be averted from that beloved child, felt sure at last that she heard a footstep, and, stealing softly across the narrow hallway, found Lilian kneeling at the curtained window and gazing out upon the brilliant night. There was no reproach in the mother's murmured words. Well she knew what it portended that her daughter should be at this hour sleepless and striving, perhaps, to see the light from the window where her young hero lay prostrate and suffering. Not one word had they yet exchanged about him, but many a woman, even with mother love brimming over in her heart, would have upbraided, and many another would have "nagged." What other word have we for that feminine method, the resort of so very many, the remedy of so very few? But Mrs. Archer simply circled a loving arm about the slender form. "We're all on guard to-night, aren't we, daughter?" she murmured, fondly kissing the tear-wet cheek. "It was so long before your father dropped to sleep. Have you--heard anything?" Burying her face in the dear refuge of years, with her arms thrown instantly about her mother's neck, Lilian's sole answer was a shake of the bonny head. It was as much as saying, "You know that isn't the matter; yet, thank you for trying to think so--thank you for not asking me what is." "Well, _I_ did," murmured Mrs. Archer, slowly rising to her feet, and drawing Lilian with her. "I'm sure I heard low voices down there on the flat toward the ford. The sentries are more than usually watchful and taking note of everything. You know it was right out there Number Five heard the crying in the willows only last night." And all the time she was quietly leading her child back to the little white bed.