A FOREST HEARTH

 [Illustration: Publishers symbol]

 [Illustration: "HE PRODUCED A SMALL GOLD WATCH WITH THE WORD 'RITA' ENGRAVED UPON THE CASE. "]

 A Forest Hearth

 A ROMANCE OF INDIANA IN THE THIRTIES

 BY

 CHARLES MAJOR

 AUTHOR OF "DOROTHY VERNON OF HADDON HALL, " "THE BEARS OF BLUE RIVER, " "WHEN KNIGHTHOOD WAS IN FLOWER, " ETC. 

 _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CLYDE O. DELAND_

 New York

 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

 LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO. , LTD. 

 1903

 _All rights reserved_

 COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 

 Set up, electrotyped, and published October, 1903. 

 Norwood Press

 J. S. Cushing & Co. --Berwick & Smith Co. 

 Norwood, Mass. , U. S. A. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

 PAGE

 I. ON THE HEART OF THE HEARTH 11

 II. THE BACHELOR HEART 27

 III. THE SYCAMORE DIVAN 45

 IV. THE DEBUTANTE 61

 V. UNDER THE ELM CANOPY 87

 VI. THE FIGHT BY THE RIVER SIDE 107

 VII. THE TRIAL 133

 VIII. A CHRISTMAS HEARTH LOG 153

 IX. DIC LENDS MONEY GRATIS 179

 X. THE TOURNAMENT 203

 XI. A KISS AND A DUEL 225

 XII. THE LOVE POWDER 259

 XIII. THE DIMPLER 281

 XIV. WISE MISS TOUSY 303

 XV. THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 329

ILLUSTRATIONS

 PAGE

 "He produced a small gold watch with the word 'Rita' engraved upon the case" _Frontispiece_

 "She changed it many times" 31

 "She flung at the worthy shepherd the opprobrious words, 'You fool'" 81

 "'I've come to get my kiss, ' said Doug" 121

 "Covering her face with her hands, she began to weep" 191

 "'Kill him, Dic; kill him as you would a wolf'" 255

 "Miss Tousy softly kissed her and said, . .. 'There, don't cry, sweet one'" 315

 "'Here, ' replied the girl" 349

ON THE HEART OF THE HEARTH

A Forest Hearth

CHAPTER I

ON THE HEART OF THE HEARTH

A strenuous sense of justice is the most disturbing of all virtues, andthose persons in whom it predominates are usually as disagreeable asthey are good. Any one who assumes the high plane of "justice to all, and confusion to sinners, " may easily gain a reputation for goodnesssimply by doing nothing bad. Look wise and heavenward, frown severelybut regretfully upon others' faults, and the world will whisper, "Ah, how good he is!" And you will be good--as the sinless, prickly pear. Ifthe virtues of omission constitute saintship, and from a study of thecalendar one might so conclude, seek your corona by the way of justice. For myself, I would rather be a layman with a few active virtues and asmall sin or two, than a sternly just saint without a fault. Breedvirtue in others by giving them something to forgive. Conceive, if youcan, the unutterable horror of life in this world without a few blessedhuman faults. He who sins not at all, cannot easily find reason toforgive; and to forgive those who trespass against us, is one of thesweetest benedictions of life. I have known many persons who built theirmoral structure upon the single rock of justice; but they all bredwretchedness among those who loved them, and made life harder becausethey did not die young. 

One woman of that sort, I knew, --Mrs. Margarita Bays. To her face, or inthe presence of those who might repeat my words, I of course called her"Mrs. Bays"; but when I felt safe in so doing, I called her the "ChiefJustice"--a title conferred by my friend, Billy Little. Later happeningsin her life caused Little to christen her "my Lady Jeffreys, " asobriquet bestowed upon her because of the manner in which she treatedher daughter, whose name was also Margarita. 

The daughter, because she was as sweet as the wild rose, and as gentleas the soft spring sun, received from her friends the affectionatediminutive of Rita. And so I shall name her in this history. 

Had not Rita been so gentle, yielding, and submissive, or had herfather, Tom Bays, --husband to the Chief Justice, --been more combativeand less amenable to the corroding influences of henpeck, I doubt ifMadam Bays would ever have attained a dignity beyond that of "AssociateJustice. " That strong sense of domineering virtue which belongs to thetruly just must be fed, and it waxes fat on an easy-going husband and aloving, tender daughter. 

In the Bays home, the mother's righteous sense of justice and duty, which applied itself relentlessly upon husband and daughter, became theweakest sort of indulgence when dealing with the only son and heir. Without being vicious, Tom, Jr. , was what the negroes called "jes' cleantriflin', " and dominated his mother with an inherited club of inbornselfishness. Before Tom's selfishness, Justice threw away her scales andbecame maudlin sentiment. 

I have been intimately acquainted with the Bays family ever since theycame to Blue River settlement from North Carolina, and I am going totell you the story of the sweetest, gentlest nature God has ever givenme to know--Rita Bays. I warn you there will be no heroics in thishistory, no palaces, no grand people--nothing but human nature, theforests, and a few very simple country folk indeed. 

Rita was a babe in arms when her father, her mother, and hersix-year-old brother Tom moved from North Carolina in two great"schooner" wagons, and in the year '20 or '21 settled upon Blue River, near the centre of a wilderness that had just been christened "Indiana. "

The father of Tom Bays had been a North Carolina planter of considerablewealth and culture; but when the old gentleman died there were eightsons and two daughters among whom his estate was to be divided, and someof them had to choose between moving west and facing the terrors ofbattle with nature in the wilderness, and remaining in North Carolina tobecome "poor white trash. " Tom Bays, Sr. , had married Margarita, daughter of a pompous North Carolinian, Judge Anselm Fisher. Whether hewas a real judge, or simply a "Kentucky judge, " I cannot say; but he wasa man of good standing, and his daughter was not the woman to endure theloss of caste at home. If compelled to step down from the socialposition into which she had been born, the step must be taken amongstrangers, that part at least of her humiliation might be avoided. 

With a heart full of sorrow and determination, Madam Bays, who even thenhad begun to manifest rare genius for leadership, loaded two "schooners"with her household goods, her husband, her son, and her daughter, andstarted northwest with the laudable purpose of losing herself in thewilderness. They carried with them their inheritance, a small bag of gold, and with it they purchased from the government a quarter-section--onehundred and sixty acres--of land, at five shillings per acre. The landon Blue was as rich and fertile as any the world could furnish; but formiles upon miles it was covered with black forests, almost impenetrable toman, and was infested by wild beasts and Indians. Here madam and herhusband began their long battle with the hardest of foes--nature; andthat battle, the terrors of which no one can know who has not fought it, doubtless did much to harden the small portion of human tenderness withwhich God had originally endowed her. They built their log-cabin on theeast bank of Blue River, one mile north of the town of the same name. The river was spoken of simply as Blue. 

Artistic beauty is not usually considered an attribute of log-cabins;but I can testify to the beauty of many that stood upon the banks ofBlue, --among them the house of Bays. The main building consisted of twoground-floor rooms, each with a front door and a half-story room above. A clapboard-covered porch extended across the entire front of the house, which faced westward toward Blue. Back of the main building was aone-story kitchen, and adjoining each ground-floor room was a hugechimney, built of small logs four to six inches in diameter. Thesechimneys, thickly plastered on the inside with clay, were built with alarge opening at the top, and widened downward to the fireplace, whichwas eight or ten feet square, and nearly as high as the low ceiling ofthe room. The purpose of these generous dimensions was to prevent thewooden chimney from burning. The fire, while the chimney was new, wasbuilt in the centre of the enormous hearth that the flames might nottouch the walls, but after a time the heat burnt the clay to thehardness of brick, and the fire was then built against the back wall. Bypointing up the cracks, and adding a coat of clay now and then, thewalls soon became entirely fireproof, and a fire might safely be kindledthat would defy Boreas in his bitterest zero mood. An open wood fire isalways cheering; so our humble folk of the wilderness, having littleelse to cheer them during the long winter evenings, were mindful to beprodigal in the matter of fuel, and often burned a cord of wood betweencandle-light and bedtime on one of their enormous hearths. A cord ofwood is better than a play for cheerfulness, and a six-foot back-logwill make more mirth than Dan Rice himself ever created. Economy did notenter into the question, for wood was nature's chief weapon against herenemies, the settlers; and the question was not how to save, but how toburn it. 

To this place Rita first opened the eyes of her mind. The girl'searliest memories were of the cozy log-cabin upon the banks of thelimpid, gurgling creek. Green in her memory, in each sense of the word, was the soft blue-grass lawn, that sloped gently a hundred yards fromthe cabin, built upon a little rise in the bottom land, down to thewater's edge. Often when she was a child, and I a man well toward middlelife, did I play with the enchanting little elf upon the blue-grasslawn, and drink the waters of perennial youth at the fountain of hersweet babyhood. Vividly I remember the white-skinned sycamores, thegracefully drooping elms, and the sweet-scented honey-locust that grewabout the cabin and embowered it in leafy glory. Even at this longdistance of time, when June is abroad, if I catch the odor of locustblossoms, my mind and heart travel back on the wings of a moment, and Ihear the buzzing of the wild bees, the song of the meadow-lark, thewhistle of bob-white, and the gurgling of the creek--all blended intoone sweet refrain like the mingling tones of a perfect orchestra by thesoft-voiced babble of my wee girl-baby friend. I close my eyes, and seethe house amid the hollyhocks and trees, a thin line of blue smokecurling lazily from the kitchen chimney and floating away over the deep, black forest to the north and east. I see the maples languidly turningthe white side of their leaves to catch the south wind's balmy breath, and I see by my side a fate-charged, tiny tot, dabbling in the water, mocking the songs of the birds, and ever turning her face, with itsgreat brown wistful eyes, to catch the breath of destiny and to hear thesad dread hum of the future. But my old chum Billy Little was thechild's especial friend. 

In those good times there was another child, a boy, Diccon Bright, whooften came down from his cabin home a mile up river to play with Rita onthe blue-grass lawn in summer, or to sit with her on the hearth log inwinter. In cold weather the hearth log was kept on one side of thehearth, well within the fireplace itself, ready for use when needed. Itgloried in three names, all of which were redolent of home. It wascalled the "hearth log" because it was kept upon the hearth; the"waiting log" because it was waiting to take the place of the log thatwas burning, and the "ciphering log" because the children sat upon it inthe evening firelight to do their "ciphering"--a general term used todesignate any sort of preparation for the morrow's lesson. In thosetimes arithmetic was the chief study, and from it the acquisition of allbranches of knowledge took the name of ciphering. 

Diccon--where on earth his parents got the name, I cannot tell--was fouror five years older than Rita. He was a manly boy, and when my littlefriend could hardly lisp his name she would run to him with the unerringinstinct of childhood and nestle in his arms or cling to his helpfulfinger. The little fellow was so sturdy, strong, and brave, and his darkgray eyes were so steadfast and true, that she feared no evil from him, though ordinarily she was a timid child. She would sit by him on theciphering log during the long winter evenings, and the boy, the girl, and the fire were the best of friends, and had glorious times togetheron the heart of the cheery hearth. The north wind might blow, the snowmight snow, and the cold might freeze, Rita, Dic, and the fire cared nota straw. 

"I want no better mirror, my little sweetheart, " he would say, "thanyour brown eyes; no prettier color than your rosy cheeks and glossyblack hair, and no truer friend than your loving little heart. " And thefire crackled its entire approval. 

"Very well, Dic, " she would reply, laughing with delight, "if you reallywant them, you may have them; they are all yours. " And the fire smiledrosily, beaming its benediction. 

"But what will your father and mother say and Tom?" asked Dic. 

"We'll not tell them, " replied this tiny piece of Eve; and the firealmost choked itself with spluttering laughter. So, with the fire as awitness, the compact was made and remade many times, until she thoughtshe belonged to Dic and gloried in her little heart because of it. 

Diccon and Rita's brother, Tom, even during their early childhood, whenthey were hardly half so tall as the guns they carried, were companionknights in the great wars waged by the settlers against the wild beastsof the forests, and many a bear, wolf, wildcat, and deer fell before theprowess of small Sir Diccon la Valorous and little Sir Thomas deTriflin'. Out of their slaughter grew friendship, and for many years SirThomas was a frequent guest upon the ciphering log of Sir Diccon, andSir Diccon spent many winter evenings on the hearth at Castle Bays. 

As the long years of childhood passed, Dic began to visit the Bays homemore frequently than Tom visited the Brights'. I do not know whetherthis change was owing to the increasing age of the boys, or--but Ritawas growing older and prettier every day, and you know that may have hadsomething to do with Dic's visits. 

Dic had another boy friend--an old boy, of thirty-five or more--whosename was William Little. He was known generally as Billy Little, and itpleased the little fellow to be so called, "Because, " said he, "personsgive the diminutive to fools and those whom they love; and I know I amnot a fool. " The sweetest words in the German language are their homediminutives. It is difficult to love a man whom one _must_ call Thomas. Tom, Jack, and Billy are the chaps who come near to us. 

Billy was an old bachelor and an Englishman. His family had intended himfor the church, and he was educated at Trinity with that end in view. Although not an irreligious man, he had views on religion that were farfrom orthodox. 

"I found it impossible, " he once remarked, "to induce the church tochange its views, and equally impossible to change my own; so the churchand I, each being unreasonably stubborn, agreed to disagree, and I threwover the whole affair, quarrelled with my family, was in turn thrownover by them, and here I am, in the wilderness, very much pleased. "

He lived in the little town of Blue River, and was justice of the peace, postmaster, storekeeper, and occasionally school-teacher. He was smallin stature, with a tendency to become rotund as he grew older. He tookpride in his dress and was as cleanly as an Englishman. He wasreasonably willing to do the duty that confronted him, and loved butthree forms of recreation, --to be with his two most intimate friends, Rita and Dic, to wander in the trackless forests, and to play upon hispiano. His piano was his sweetheart, and often in the warm summerevenings, when his neighbors were in bed, would the strains of his musiclull them to sleep, and float out into the surrounding forests, awakening the whippoorwill to heart-rending cries of anguish that wouldgive a man the "blues" for a month. I believe many ignorant personsthought that Billy was not exactly "right in the top, " as they put it, because he would often wander through the forests, night or day, singingto himself, talking to the trees and birds, and clasping to his soulfair nature in her virgin strength and sweetness. He often communedwith himself after this fashion: "I am a fortunate man in the things Ilove, for I have them to my heart's content. Rita and Dic are children. I give them knowledge. They give me youth. I touch my piano. It fills mysoul with peace. If it gives me a discordant note, the fault is mine. Igo to the forest, and sweet Nature takes me in her arms and lulls me toecstasy. "

Billy Little and I had been college chums, and had emigrated on the sameship. I studied law, entered the practice, married, and have a family. While my wife and family did not mar the friendship between Little andmyself, it prevented frequency of intercourse, for a wife and family aregreat absorbents. However, he and I remained friends, and from him Ihave most of the facts constituting this story. 

This friend of Dic's was a great help to the boy intellectually, and atfourteen or fifteen years of age, when other boys considered theireducation complete if they could spell phthisis and Constantinople, ourhero was reading Virgil and Shakespeare, and was learning to think forhimself. The knowledge obtained from Billy Little the boy tried toimpart to Rita. Tom held learning and books to be effeminate andwasteful of time; but Rita drank in Dic's teaching, with now and then ahelpful draught from Billy Little, and the result soon began to showupon the girl. 

Thus it was that Dic often went to see Tom, but talked to Tom's sister. Many an evening, long after Tom had unceremoniously climbed the rudestairway to bed, would the brown-eyed maid, with her quaint, wistfultouch of womanhood, sit beside Dic on the ciphering log inside thefireplace, listening to him read from one of Billy Little's books, watching him trace continents, rivers, and mountains on a map, orhelping him to cipher a complicated problem in arithmetic. The girl byno means understood all that Dic read, but she tried, and even thoughshe failed, she would clasp her hands and say, "Isn't it grand, Dic?"And it was grand to her because Dic read it. 

Lamps were unknown to our simple folk, so the light of the fireplace wasall they had to read by. It was, therefore, no uncommon sight in thoseearly cabin homes to see the whole family sitting upon the broad hearth, shading their eyes with their hands, while some one--frequently thelocal school-teacher--sat upon the hearth log and read by the fire thatfurnished both light and heat. This reading was frequently Dic's task inthe Bays home. 

One who has seen a large family thus gathered upon the spacious hearthwill easily understand the love for it that ages ago sprang up in thehearts of men and crickets. At no place in all the earth, and at no timein all its history, has the hearth done more in moulding human characterthan it did in the wilderness on the north side of the lower Ohio whenthe men who felled the forest and conquered nature offered their humbledevotions on its homely altar. 

So it came to pass that Dic and Rita grew up together on the heart ofthe hearth; and what wonder that their own hearts were welded by thewarmth and light of its cheery god. Thus the boy grew to manhood and thegirl to maidenhood, then to young womanhood, at which time, of course, her troubles began. 

Chief among the earlier troubles of our little maid was a growingtenderness for Dic. Of that trouble she was not for many months aware. She was unable to distinguish between the affection she had always givenhim and the warming tenderness she was beginning to feel, save in herdisinclination to make it manifest. When with him she was under aconstraint as inexplicable to her as it was annoying. It brought griefto her tender heart, since it led her into little acts of rudeness orneglect, which in turn always led to tears. She often blamed Dic for thealtered condition, though it was all owing to the change in herself. There was no change in him. He sought the girl's society as frankly aswhen they were children, though at the time of which I write he had madeno effort to "keep company" with her. She, at fifteen, believing herselfto be a young lady, really wished for the advances she feared. SukeyYates, who was only fourteen, had "company" every Sunday evening, andwent to all the social frolics for miles around. Polly Kaster, notsixteen, was soon to be married to Bantam Rhodes. Many young men hadlooked longingly upon Rita, who was the most beautiful girl on Blue; butthe Chief Justice, with her daughter's hearty approval, drove allsuitors away. The girl was wholly satisfied with Dic, who was "less thankin, " but very much "more than kind. " He came to see the family, herselfincluded; but when he went out to social functions, church socials, corn-huskings, and dances he took Sukey Yates, or some other girl, andupon such evenings our own little maiden went to bed dissatisfied withthe world at large, and herself in particular. Of course, she would nothave gone to dances, even with Dic. She had regard for the salvation ofher soul, and the Chief Justice, in whom the girl had unquestioningfaith, held dancing to be the devil's chief instrument of damnation. Even the church socials were not suitable for young girls, as you willagree if you read farther; and Mrs. Margarita, with a sense of proprietyinherited from better days, tried to hold her daughter aloof from thecountry society, which entertained honest but questionable views on manysubjects. 

Dic paid his informal visit to the Bays household in the evenings, andat the time of the girl's growing inclination she would gaze longinglyup the river watching for him; while the sun, regretful to leave theland, wherein her hero dwelt, sank slowly westward to shine upon thosepoor waste places that knew no Diccon. When she would see him comingshe would run away for fear of herself, and seek her room in the loft, where she would scrub her face and hands in a hopeless effort to removethe sun-brown. Then she would scan her face in a mirror, for which Dichad paid two beautiful bearskins, hoping to convince herself that shewas not altogether hideous. 

"If I could only be half as pretty as Sukey Yates, " she often thought, little dreaming that Sukey, although a very pretty girl, was plaincompared with her own winsome self. 

After the scrubbing she would take from a little box the solitary pieceof grandeur she possessed, --a ribbon of fiery red, --and with this aroundher neck or woven through the waving floods of her black hair, she feltshe was bedecked like a veritable queen of hearts. But the ribbon couldnot remove all doubts of herself, and with tears ready to start from hereyes she would stamp her foot and cry out: "I hate myself. I am an uglyfool. " Then she would slowly climb down the rude stairway, and, as wehumble folk would say, "take out her spite" against herself on poor Dic. She was not rude to him, but, despite her inclination, she failed torepay his friendliness in kind as of yore. 

Tom took great pleasure in teasing her, and chuckled with delight whenhis indulgent mother would tell her visiting friends that he was a greattease. 

One evening when Rita had encountered more trouble than usual with thesun-brown, and was more than ever before convinced that she was a frightand a fool, she went downstairs, wearing her ribbon, to greet Dic, whowas sitting on the porch with father, mother, and Tom. When she emergedfrom the front door, Tom, the teaser, said:--

"Oh, just look at her! She's put on her ribbon for Dic. " Then, turningto Dic, "She run to her room and spruced up when she saw you coming. "

Dic laughed because it pleased him to think, at least to hope, that Tomhad spoken the truth. Poor Rita in the midst of her confusionmisunderstood Dic's laughter; and, smarting from the truth of Tom'swords, quickly retorted:--

"You're a fool to say such a thing, and if--if--if--Mr. --Mr. Brightbelieves it, he is as great a fool as you. "

"Mr. Bright!" cried de Triflin'. "My, but she's getting stylish!"

Rita looked at Dic after she spoke, and the pain he felt was so easilydiscernible on his face that she would have given anything, even theribbon, to have had her words back, or to have been able to cry out, "Ididn't mean it, Dic; I didn't mean it. "

But the words she had spoken would not come back, and those she wantedto speak would not come forward, so tears came instead, and she ran toher loft, to do penance in sobs greatly disproportionate to her sin. 

Soon Dic left, and as he started up the forest path she tried by gazingat him from her window to make him know the remorse she felt. She wantedto call to him, but she dared not; then she thought to escape unseenfrom the house and run after him. But darkness was rapidly falling, andshe feared the black, terrible forest. 

We talk a great deal about the real things of after life; but the realthings of life, the keen joys and the keenest pains, come to a manbefore his first vote, and to a woman before the days of her maturewomanhood. 

THE BACHELOR HEART

CHAPTER II

THE BACHELOR HEART

Rita's first great pain kept her sleepless through many hours. Sheresolved that when Dic should come again she would throw off therestraint that so hurt and provoked her, and would show him, at whatevercost, that she had not intended her hard words for him. 

The next day seemed an age. She sought all kinds of work to make thetime pass quickly. Churning, usually irksome, was a luxury. She sweptevery nook and corner of the house, and longed to sweep the whole farm. 

That evening she did not wait till Dic was in sight to put on herribbon. She changed it many times from her throat to her hair and backagain, long before the sun had even thought of going down. 

Her new attitude toward Dic had at least one good effect: it took fromher the irritation she had so often felt against herself. Losing part ofher self-consciousness in the whirl of a new, strong motive, wrought agreat change, not only in her appearance, but also in her way of lookingat things--herself included. She was almost satisfied with the image hermirror reflected. She might well have been entirely satisfied. There wasneither guile nor vanity in the girl's heart, nor a trace of deceit inher face; only gentleness, truth, and beauty. She had not hitherto givenmuch thought to her face; but with the change in her way of seeing Dic, her eyes were opened to the value of personal beauty. Then she began towonder. Regret for her hard words to Dic deepened her longing forbeauty, in the hope that she might be admired by him and more easilyforgiven. Billy Little, who had seen much of the world, once said thatthere was a gentleness and beauty about Rita at this time which hebelieved no other woman ever possessed. She was child and woman then, and that combination is hard to beat, even in a plain girl. Poor oldBilly Little! He was more than thirty years her senior, but I believethere is no period in the life of a bachelor, however case-hardened hemay be, when his heart is entirely safe from the enemy. That eveningRita sat on the porch watching for Dic. But the sun and her heart wentdown, and Dic did not come. 

The plaintive rain cry of a whippoorwill from the branches of a deadtree across the river, and the whispering "peep, peep, peep, " of thesleepy robins in the foliage near the house, helped to deepen herfeeling of disappointment, and she was thoroughly miserable. She triedto peer through the gloaming, and feared her father and mother wouldmark her troubled eagerness and guess its cause. But her dread of theircomments was neutralized by the fear that Dic would not come. 

Opportunity is the touchstone of fate, save with women. With them it isfate itself. Had Dic appeared late that evening, there would have been ademonstration on Rita's part, regardless of who might have seen, and theyoung man would have discovered an interesting truth. Rita, deeplytroubled, discovered it for herself, and thought surely it was plainenough for every one else to see. 

When darkness had fallen, she became reckless of concealment, and walkeda short way up the river in the hope of meeting Dic. The hooting of anowl frightened her, but she did not retreat till she heard the howlingof a wolf. Then she ran home at full speed and went to bed full of themost healthful suffering a heart can know--that which it feels becauseof the pain it has given another. 

[Illustration: "SHE CHANGED IT MANY TIMES. "]

Thus Dic missed both opportunity and demonstration. The next evening hemissed another opportunity, and by the morning of the third day ourlittle girl, blushing at the thought, determined to write to him and askhis forgiveness. There was one serious obstacle to writing: she hadneither paper nor ink, nor money with which to buy them. Hitherto shehad found little use for money, but now the need was urgent. Tom alwayshad money, and she thought of begging a few pennies from him. No! Tomwould laugh, and refuse. If she should ask her mother, a string ofquestions would ensue, with "No" for a snapper. Her father wouldprobably give her money, if she asked for it; but her mother would askquestions later. She would ride to town, one mile south on Blue, and askcredit of her old friend, Billy Little, to the extent of a sheet ofpaper and a small pot of ink. For a pen she would catch a goose, pluck aquill, and ask Billy to cut it. Billy could cut the best pen of any oneon Blue. 

Dinner over, she caught the goose after an exciting chase, plucked thequill, saddled her horse, and was slipping away from the back yard whenher mother's voice halted her. 

"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Margarita. 

"I'm--I'm--going--going to see Sukey Yates, " answered the girl. 

She had not intended going to Sukey's, but after her mother's peremptorydemand for information, she formed the _ex post facto_ resolution to doso, that her answer might not be a lie. 

"Now, what on earth do you want there?" asked the Chief Justice. 

"I--I only want to sit awhile with her, " answered Rita. "May I go? Thework is all done. "

"No, you shan't go, " responded the kind old lady. You see, one of themaxims of this class of good persons is to avoid as many smallpleasures as possible--in others. That they apply the rule tothemselves, doesn't help to make it endurable. 

Rita--with whom to hear was to obey--sprang from her horse; but justthen her father came upon the scene. His soft words and soothingsuggestions mollified Justice, and Rita started forth upon her visit toSukey. She had told her mother she was going to see Sukey Yates; andwhen she thought upon the situation, she became convinced that her _expost facto_ resolution, even though honestly acted upon, would not availher in avoiding a lie, unless it were carried out to the letter and inthe spirit. There was not a lie in this honest girl--not a fractionalpart of a lie--from her toes to her head. She went straight to seeSukey, and did not go to town, though she might easily have done so. Shedid not fear discovery. She feared the act of secret disobedience, andabove all she dreaded the lie. A strong motive might induce her todisobey, but the disobedience in that case would be open. She would goto Sukey's to-day. To-morrow she would go to town in open rebellion, ifneed be. The thought of rebellion caused her to tremble; but let thepowers at home also tremble. Like many of us, she was brave forto-morrow's battle, since to-morrow never comes. 

Rita was not in the humor to listen to Sukey's good-natured prattle, soher visit was brief, and she soon rode home, her heart full of troubleand rebellion. But the reward for virtue, which frequently fails to makeits appearance, waited upon our heroine. When she was about to dismountat the home gate, her father called to her:--

"While you're on your horse, Rita, you might ride to town and ask BillyLittle if there's a letter. The mail came in three days ago. "

The monster, Rebellion, at once disappeared, and the girl, conscience-smitten, resolved never, never to entertain him again. Sherode down the river path through the forest, happy after many days ofwretchedness. 

Billy Little's store building consisted of two log-built rooms. The longfront room was occupied by the store and post-office. The back room, asBilly said, was occupied by his piano and himself. When he saw Rita, clothed in dainty calico and smiles, gallop up to the hitching-post, hisheart was filled with joy, his face beamed with pleasure, and his scalpwas suffused by a rosy hue. Billy's smooth-shaven face was pale, theblood never mounting to his cheeks, so he made amends as best he couldand blushed with the top of his head. 

"Good evening to you, Rita, " he said, as he lifted her to the ground andhitched her horse. "I am delighted to see you. You come like the rosysun after a rainy day. "

"The sun doesn't come after the day, Billy Little, " retorted thelaughing girl. "You probably mean the pale moon, or a poor dim littlestar. "

"I know what I mean, " answered the little old fellow in tones of mockindignation, "and I'll not allow a chit of a girl to correct myastronomy. I'm your schoolmaster, and if I say the sun comes after theday, why after the day it comes. Now, there!" he continued, as theyentered the store. "Turn your face to the wall and do penance. Suchinsolence!"

The girl faced the wall, and after a moment she looked laughingly overher shoulder at him. "If you'll let me turn around, I'll admit that thesun comes at midnight, if you say it does, Billy Little. "

"Midnight it is, " said Billy, sternly. "Take your seat. "

She ran laughing to Billy, and clasping his arm affectionately, saidwith a touch of seriousness:--

"It comes whenever you say it does, Billy Little. I'd believe you beforeI'd believe myself. "

Poor old bachelor heart! Look to your breastworks; the enemy is at hand. 

"Now I've noticed, " said cynical Billy, "that whenever the feminineheart wants something, it grows tender. What do you want?"

"I want a letter, Billy Little. Father sent me down to fetch it, ifthere is one. "

"Yes, there's one here, " he answered, going back of the glass-coveredpigeon-holes. "There's one here from Indianapolis. It's from your UncleJim Fisher. I suppose he's after your father again to sell his farm andinvest the proceeds in the Indianapolis store. Precious fool he'll be ifhe does. "

"Indeed, he would not be a fool, " retorted the girl. "I'm just wild forfather to move to Indianapolis. I don't want to grow up in the countrylike a ragweed or mullein stalk, and I--" ("Like a sweetbrier or agolden-rod, " interrupted Billy) "and I don't want you to advise him notto go, " she continued, unmindful of Billy's flowers of poesy. 

"Well, here's the letter. Do you want anything else?"

"N-o-o-no. "

"Then, for once, I've found a disinterested female in a coaxing mood, "replied this modern Diogenes. He came from behind the counter, pretending to believe her, and started toward the door. 

"How's Dic?" he asked. "I haven't seen him for a fortnight. I've beenwondering what has become of him. " The girl's face turned red--painfullyso to Billy--as she replied:--

"I--I haven't seen him either for--for a very long time--three days. "She stopped talking and Billy remained silent. After a long pause shespoke up briskly, as if she had just remembered something. 

"Oh, I almost forgot--there _is_ something I want, and--and after all, you're right. I want--I want--won't you--will you--I say, Billy Little, won't you let me have a sheet of writing paper and a pot of ink, andwon't you cut this pen for me?"

Billy took the quill and turned to go behind the counter. The girl wasdancing nervously on her toes. "But say, Billy Little, I can't pay youfor them now. Will--will--you trust me?"

Billy did not reply, but went to the letter-paper box. 

"You had better take more than one sheet, Rita, " he said softly. "Ifyou're going to write a love-letter to Dic, you will be sure to spoilthe first sheet, perhaps the second and third. "

Billy's head blushed vividly after he had spoken, for his remark was aprying one. The girl had no thought of writing a love-letter, and sheresented the insinuation. She was annoyed because she had betrayed herpurpose in buying the paper. But she loved Billy Little too dearly toshow her resentment, and remained silent. The girl, Billy, and Dicdiffering as much as it is possible for three persons to differ, save intheir common love for books and truth, had been friends ever since herbabyhood, and Billy was the only person to whom she could easily laybare her heart. Upon second thought she concluded to tell him hertrouble. 

"It was this way, Billy Little, " she began, and after stumbling overmany words, she made a good start, and the little story of her troublesfell from her lips like crystal water from a babbling spring. 

After her story was finished--and she found great relief in thetelling--Billy said:--

"Of course I'll trust you. I'd trust you for the whole store if youwanted to buy it. I'd trust you with my soul, " he added after a pause. "There's not a false drop of blood in your veins. "

"Ah, Billy Little, " she answered, as she took his hand caressingly foran instant, and her eyes, with their wonderful capacity for expression, said the rest. 

"So, you see, I _do_ want to write a letter to Dic, " she said, droppinghis hand; "but it is not to be a love-letter. I could not write one if Iwished. I was very wicked. Oh, Billy Little, I honestly think, at times, I'm the worst girl that ever lived. Something terrible will happen to mefor my wickedness, I'm sure. Mother says it will. "

"Yes, something terrible--terrible, I'm sure, " returned Billy, musingly. 

"And I want to apologize to him, " she continued, "and tell him I didn'tmean it. Isn't it right that I should?"

"Oh, yes--yes, " answered Billy, starting out of his revery. "Of course, yes--Maxwelton's braes are bonny--um--um--um--um--um--yes, oh yes. "

When vexed, pleased, or puzzled, Billy was apt to hum the opening lineof "Annie Laurie, " though the first four words were all that receivedthe honor of distinct articulation. The remainder of the stanza heallowed to die away under his breath. Rita was of course familiar withthe habit, but this time she could not tell which motive had promptedthe musical outburst. Billy himself couldn't have told, but perhaps thebachelor heart was at the bottom of it. 

"Thank you, Billy Little, for the paper, " said Rita. "I'll pay you withthe first money I get. " Billy silently helped her to mount her horse. She smiled, "Good-by, " and he walked slowly back to the store mutteringto himself: "Billy Little, Billy Little, your breastworks are weak, andyou are a--Maxwelton's braes--um--um--um--um. --Ah, good evening, Mrs. Carson. Something I can do for you this evening? Sugar? Ah, yes, plenty. Best in town. Best shipment I ever had, " and Billy was once more amerchant. 

When Rita reached home supper was ready, and after the supper work wasfinished it was too dark to write; so the letter was postponed a day, and she took her place on the porch, hoping that Dic would come and thatthe letter might be postponed indefinitely. But he did not come. Nextmorning churning had again become loathsome, sweeping was hard work, anddinner was a barbarous institution. Rita had no appetite, and tosympathize with those who are hungry one must be hungry. 

Innumerable very long minutes had woven themselves into mammoth hourswhen Rita, having no table in her room, found herself lying on the floorwriting her momentous letter. It was not to be a love-letter; simply anappeal for forgiveness to a friend whom she had wantonly injured. 

"Dear old Billy Little, " she said to herself, when she opened thepackage. "What pretty paper--and he has given me six sheets in place ofone--and a little pot of ink--and a sand-box! I wonder if the quill is agood one! Ah, two--three quills! Dear old Billy Little! Here is enoughpaper to last me for years. " In that respect she was mistaken. Sheexperienced difficulty with effort number one, but finished the letterand read it aloud; found it wholly unsatisfactory, and destroyed it. Sheused greater care with the next, but upon reading it over she found shehad said too much of what she wished to leave unsaid, and too little ofwhat she wanted to say. She destroyed number two with great haste andsome irritation, for it was almost a love-letter. The same fate befellnumbers three, four, and five. After all, Billy's liberal supply ofpaper would not last for years. If it proved sufficient for one day, shewould be satisfied. Number six, right or wrong, must go to Dic, so shewrote simply and briefly what was in her heart. 

 "DEAR FRIEND DIC: My words were not intended for you. I was angry with Tom, as I had good reason to be, though he spoke the truth. I did put on my ribbon because I saw you coming, and I have cried every night since then because of what I said to you, and because you do not come to let me tell you how sorry I am. You should have given me a chance. I would have given you one. RITA. "

It was a sweet, straightforward letter, half-womanly, half-childish, andshe had no cause to be ashamed of it; but she feared it was bold, andtears came to her eyes when she read it, because there were no moresheets of paper, and modest or bold it must go to Dic. 

Having written the letter, she had no means of sending it; but she hadentered upon the venture, and was determined to carry it through. Mrs. Bays and her husband had driven to town, and there was no need for _expost facto_ resolutions. When the letter had been properly directed andduly sealed, the girl saddled her horse and started away on anotherjourney to Sukey Yates. This time, however, she went somewhat out of herway, riding up the river path through the forest to Dic Bright's home. When she reached the barnyard gate Dic was hitching the horses to the"big wagon. " He came at Rita's call, overjoyed at the sight of her. Heknew she had come to ask forgiveness. For many months past he had triednot to see that she was unkind to him, but her words on the porch hadconvinced him, and he saw that her coldness had been intentional. Ofcourse he did not know the cause of her altered demeanor, and hadregretfully put it down to an altered sentiment on her part. But when hesaw her at the barnyard gate, he was again in the dark as to her motive. 

When Dic came up to her she handed him the letter over the gate, saying: "Read it alone. Let no one see it. "

Dic had only time to say, "Thank you, " when the girl struck her horseand galloped down the forest path, bound for Sukey. When she had passedout of sight among the trees, Dic went down the river to a secludedspot, known as "The Stepoff, " where he could read the letter withoutfear of detection. He had long suspected that his love for the girl wasnot altogether brotherly, and his recent trouble with her hadcrystallized that suspicion into certainty. But he saw nothing back ofthe letter but friendship and contrition. The girl's love was so great atreasure that he dared not even hope for it, and was more than satisfiedwith the Platonic affection so plainly set forth in her epistle. We whohave looked into Rita's heart know of a thing or two that does notresemble Platonism; but the girl herself did not fully know what shefelt, and Dic was sure she could not, under any circumstances, feel ashe did. His mistake grew partly out of his lack of knowledge thatwoman's flesh and blood is of exactly the same quality that covers thebones and flows in the veins of man, and--well, Rita was Rita, and, inDic's opinion, no other human being was ever of the quality of herflesh, or cast in the mould of her nature. The letter told him that hestill held her warm, tender love as a friend. He was thankful for that, and would neither ask nor expect anything more. 

If upon Rita's former visit to Sukey she had been too sad to enjoy thevivacious little maiden, upon this occasion she was too happy. She satlistening patiently to her chat, without hearing much of it, until Sukeysaid:--

"Dic was over to see me last night. I think he's so handsome, don'tyou?"

Rita was so startled that she did not think anything at the moment, andSukey presently asked:--

"Don't you think he has a fine head? and his eyes are glorious. The grayis so dark, and they look right at you. "

Rita, compelled to answer, said, "I think he is--is all right--strong. "

"Indeed, he is strong, " responded Sukey. "When he takes hold of you, youjust feel like he could crush you. Oh, it's delicious--it'sthrilling--when you feel that a man could just tear you to pieces if hewanted to. "

"Why?" asked Rita; "I don't understand. "

"Oh, just because, " replied Sukey, shrugging her shoulders and laughingsoftly, her red lips parted, her little teeth glistening like wet ivory, and the dimples twinkling mischievously. 

"Just because" explained nothing to Rita, but something in Sukey'slaughter and manner aroused undefined and disagreeable suspicions, soshe said:--

"Well, Sukey, I must be going home. "

"Why, you just came, " returned Sukey, still laughing softly. She hadshot her arrow intentionally and had seen it strike the target's centre. Sukey was younger than Rita, but she knew many times a thing or two;while poor Rita's knowledge of those mystic numbers was represented bythe figure O. 

Why should Dic "take hold" of any one, thought Rita, while riding home, and above all, why should he take hold of Sukey? Sukey was pretty, andSukey's prettiness and Dic's "taking hold" seemed to be related in somemysterious manner. She who saw others through the clear lens of her ownconscience did not doubt Dic and Sukey, but notwithstanding hertrustfulness, a dim suspicion passed through her mind that somethingmight be wrong if Dic had really "taken hold" of Sukey. Where the evilwas, she could not determine; and to connect the straightforward, manlyfellow with anything dishonorable or wicked was impossible to her. Soshe dismissed the subject, and it left no trace upon her mind save aslight irritation against Sukey. 

Rita felt sure that Dic would come to see Tom that evening, and the redribbon was in evidence soon after supper. Dic did come, and there was atleast one happy girl on Blue. 

THE SYCAMORE DIVAN

CHAPTER III

THE SYCAMORE DIVAN

A virgin love in the heart of a young girl is like an effervescentchemical: it may withstand a great shock, but a single drop of anapparently harmless liquid may cause it to evaporate. This risk Dic tookwhen he went that evening to see Tom; and the fact that Rita had writtenher letter, of which she had such grave misgivings, together with thewords of Sukey Yates, made his risk doubly great. Poor Dic needed athorough knowledge of chemistry. He did not know that he possessed it, but he was a pure-minded, manly man, and the knowledge was innate withhim. 

"Good evening, Rita, " said Dic, when, after many efforts, she came outupon the porch where he was sitting with her father, her mother, andTom. 

"Good morning, " answered Rita, confusedly, and her mistake as to thetime of day added to her confusion. 

"Good morning!" cried Tom. "It's evening. My! but she's confused becauseyou're here, Dic. "

Tom was possessed of a simian acuteness that had led him to discoverpoor Rita's secret before she herself was fully aware of its existence. She, however, was rapidly making the interesting discovery, and fearedthat between the ribbon, the letter, and Tom's amiable jokes, Dic woulddiscover it and presume upon the fact. From the mingling of these doubtsand fears grew a feeling of resentment against Dic--a conviction beforethe fact. She wished him to know her regard for him, but she did notwant him to learn it from any act of hers. She desired him to wrest itfrom her by main force, and as little awkwardness as a man may use. HadDic by the smallest word or act shown a disposition to profit by whatRita feared had been excessive frankness in her letter, or had he, inany degree, assumed the attitude of a confident lover, such word or actwould have furnished the needful chemical drop, and Dic's interestswould have suffered. His safety at this time lay in ignorance. He didnot suspect that Rita loved him, and there was no change in his openfriendly demeanor. He was so easy, frank, and happy that evening thatthe girl soon began to feel that nothing unusual had happened, and that, after all, the letter was not bold, but perfectly right, and quiteproper in all respects. Unconsciously to her Dic received the credit forher eased conscience, and she was grateful to him. She was morecomfortable, and the evening seemed more like old times than for manymonths before. 

Soon after Dic's arrival, Tom rode over to see Sukey Yates. As thehollyhock to the bees, so was Sukey to the country beaux--a conspicuous, inviting, easily reached little reservoir of very sweet honey. Later, Mr. And Mrs. Bays drove to town, leaving Dic and Rita to themselves, much to the girl's alarm, though she and Dic had been alone togethermany times before. Thus Dic had further opportunity to make a mistake;but he did not mention the letter, and the girl's confidence came slowlyback to her. 

The evening was balmy, and after a time Dic and Rita walked to the crestof the little slope that fell gently ten or fifteen feet to the water'sedge. A sycamore log answered the purpose of a divan, and a greatdrooping elm furnished a royal canopy. A half-moon hung in the sky, whitening a few small clouds that seemed to be painted on the blue-blackdome. The air, though not oppressive, was warm enough to make allnature languorous, and the soft breath of the south wind was almostnarcotic in its power to soothe. A great forest is never still; even itssilence has a note of its own. The trees seem to whisper to each otherin the rustling of their leaves. The birds, awakened by the wind or bythe breaking of a twig, speak to their neighbors. The peevish catbirdand the blue jay grumble, while the thrush, the dove, and the redbirdpeep caressingly to their mates, and again fall asleep with gurgles ofcontentment in their throats. 

Rita and Dic sat by the river's edge for many minutes in silence. Theever wakeful whippoorwill piped his doleful cry from a tree across thewater, an owl hooted from the blackness of the forest beyond the house, and the turtle-doves cooed plaintively to each other in theirfar-reaching, mournful tones, giving a minor note to the nocturnalconcert. Now and then a fish sprang from the water and fell back with asplash, and the water itself kept up a soft babble like the notes of aliving flute. 

Certainly the time was ripe for a mistake, but Dic did not make one. Awoman's favor comes in waves like the flowing of the sea; and a wiseman, if he fails to catch one flood, will wait for another. Dic wasunconsciously wise, for Rita's favor was at its ebb when she walked downto the river bank. Ebb tide was indicated by the fact that she sat asfar as possible from him on the log. The first evidence of a returningflood-tide would be an unconscious movement on her part toward him. Should the movement come from him there might be no flood-tide. 

During the first half-hour Dic did most of the talking, but he spokeonly of a book he had borrowed from Billy Little. With man's usualtendency to talk a subject threadbare, he clung to the one topic. A fewmonths prior to that time his observations on the book would haveinterested the girl; but recently two or three unusual events hadtouched her life, and her dread that Dic would speak of them, wasrapidly growing into a fear that he would not. By the end of that firsthalf-hour, her feminine vivacity monopolized the conversation with anostentatious display of trivial details on small subjects, and she beganto move toward his end of the log. Still Dic kept his place, allunconscious of his wisdom. 

Geese seemed to be Rita's favorite topic. Most women are clever atperiphrasis, and will go a long way around to reach a desired topic, iffor any reason they do not wish to approach it directly. The topics Ritawished to reach, as she edged toward Dic on the log and talked aboutgeese, were her unkind words and her very kind letter. She wished toexplain that her words were not meant to be unkind, and that the letterwas not meant to be kind, and thought to reach the desired topics by theway of geese. 

"Do you remember, Dic, " she asked, "a long time ago, when Tom and I andthe Yates children spent the afternoon at your house? We were sittingnear the river, as we are sitting now, and a gray wolf ran down from theopposite bank and caught a gander?"

"Yes, I remember it as if it were yesterday, " replied Dic. 

"Geese are such fools when they are frightened, " continued Rita, clinging to her subject. 

"So are people, " answered Dic. "We are all foolish when frightened. Theother day the barn door slammed to with a crash, and I was so frightenedI tried to put the collar in the horse's mouth. " Rita laughed, and Diccontinued, "Once I was in the woods hunting, and a bear rose up--"

"But geese are worse than anybody when disturbed, " interrupted Rita, "worse even than you when the barn door slams. The other day I wanted tocatch a goose to get a--"

"They are not worse than a lot of girls at gabbling, " interrupted Dic, ungallantly retaliating for Rita's humorous thrust. 

"They are not half so dull as a lot of men, " she replied, tossing herhead. "When men get together they hum and hum about politics and crops, till it makes one almost wish there were no government or crops. Butgeese are--the other day I wanted to catch one to get a--"

"All men don't hum and hum, as you say, " returned Dic. "There's BillyLittle--you don't think he hums, do you?"

"No, " answered the girl; "Billy Little always says something when hetalks, but he's always talking. I will put him against any man in theworld for a talking match. But the other day I wanted to catch a gooseto get a quill, and--"

"Oh, that reminds me, " broke in Dic, "my Uncle Joe Bright is coming tovisit us soon. Talk about talkers! He is a Seventh Day Adventistpreacher, and his conversation--no, I'll say his talk, for that's all itis--reminds me of time. "

"How is that?" queried Rita. 

"It's made up of small particles, goes on forever, and is all seconds. He says nothing first hand. His talk is all borrowed. "

Rita laughed and tried again. "Well, I wanted to catch--"

"You just spoke of a talking match, " said Dic. "I have an idea. Let usbring Billy Little and my uncle together for a talking match. "

"Very well, " replied Rita, laughing heartily. "I'll stake my money onBilly Little. But I was saying, the other day I--"

"I'll put mine on Uncle Joe, " cried Dic. "Billy Little is a 'still Bill'compared with him. "

Rita was provoked, and I think with good reason; but after a pause sheconcluded to try once more. 

"The other day I wanted a quill for a pen, and when I tried to catch agoose I thought their noise would alarm the whole settlement. "

"Geese awakened Rome, " said Dic. "If they should awaken Blue River, it, also, might become famous. The geese episode is the best known factconcerning the Eternal City--unless perhaps it is her howling. "

"Rome had a right to howl, " said Rita, anxious to show that sheremembered his teaching. "She was founded by the children of a wolf. "

Dic was pleased and laughingly replied: "That ponderous historicalepigram is good enough to have come from Billy Little himself. When youlearn a fact, it immediately grows luminous. "

The girl looked quickly up to satisfy herself that he was in earnest. Being satisfied, she moved an inch or two nearer him on the log, andbegan again:--

"I wanted to catch the goose--" but she stopped and concluded to try theBilly Little road. "Dear old Billy Little, " she said, "isn't he good?The other day he said he'd trust me for the whole store, if I wanted tobuy it. I had no money and I wanted to buy--"

"Why should he not trust you for all you would buy?" asked Dic. "Heknows he would get his money. "

The Billy Little route also seemed hilly. She concluded to try another, and again made a slight movement toward Dic on the log. 

"I went from your house this afternoon over to Sukey's. " She lookedstealthily at Dic, but he did not flinch. After a pause she continued, with a great show of carelessness and indifference, though this time shemoved away from him as she spoke. "She said you had been over to see herlast night. " And to show that she was not at all interested in hisreply, she hummed the air of a song and carefully scrutinized a starthat was coming dangerously close to the moon. 

"Yes, I went over to borrow their adze. Ours is broken, " returned Dic. 

The song ceased. Star and moon might collide for all the singer cared. She was once again interested in things terrestrial. 

"Now, Dic, " she cried, again moving toward him and unduly emphasizingthe fact that she was merely teasing (she talked to tease, but listenedto learn), "now, Dic, you know the adze was only an excuse. You went tosee Sukey. You know you did. Why didn't you borrow Kaster's adze? Theylive much nearer your house. " She thought she had him in a trap, andlaughed as if she were delighted. 

"I went to Kaster's first. They had none. "

The girl concluded she was on the wrong road. But the side road hadsuddenly become interesting, and she determined to travel it a shortway. Silence ensued on Dic's part, and travel on the side road becameslow. Rita was beginning to want to gallop. If she continued on the sideroad, she feared her motive might grow to look more like a desire tolearn than a desire to tease; but she summoned her boldness, and with alaugh that was intended to be merry, said:--

"Dic, you know you went to see Sukey, and that you spent the eveningwith her. "

"Did she say I did?" he asked, turning sharply upon her. 

"Well--" replied Rita, but she did not continue. The Sukey Yates road_was_ interesting, unusually so. 

Dic paused for an answer, but receiving none, continued with emphasis:--

"I did not go into the house. I wasn't there five minutes, and I didn'tsay ten words to Sukey. "

"You need not get mad about it, " replied the girl. "I don't care howoften you go to see Sukey or any other girl. "

"I know you don't, " he returned. "Of course you don't care. I neverhoped--never even dreamed--that you would, " and his breath came quicklywith his bold, bold words. 

"You might as well begin to dream, " thought the girl, but she laughed, this time nervously, and said, "She told me you were there andtook--took hold of--that is, she said you were so strong that when youtook hold of her she felt that you could crush her. " Then forgettingherself for a moment, she moved quite close to Dic and asked, "_Did_ youtake--take--" but she stopped. 

"Tell me, Rita, " returned Dic, with a sharpness that attracted herattention at once, "did she say I took hold of her, or are you trying totease me? If you are teasing, I think it is in bad taste. If she said--"

"Well, " interrupted the girl, slightly frightened, "she said that whenyou take hold of one--"

"Oh, she did not say herself?" asked Dic. 

"I don't see that she could have meant any one else, " replied Rita. "But, dear me, I don't care how often you take hold of her; you need notget angry at me because you took hold of her. There can be no harm intaking hold of any one, I'm sure, if you choose to do so; but why oneshould do it, I don't know, and I'm sure I don't care. "

No _ex post facto_ resolution could cure that lie, though of course itis a privileged one to a girl. 

Dic made no reply, save to remark: "I'll see Miss Sukey to-morrow. If Iwanted to 'take hold' of her, as she calls it, I would do so, but--butI'll see her to-morrow. "

The answer startled Rita. She did not want to be known as a tale-bearer. Especially did she object in this particular case; therefore shesaid:--

"You may see her if you wish, but you shall not speak to her of what Ihave told you. She would think--"

"Let her think what she chooses, " he replied. "I have never 'taken hold'of her in my life. Lord knows, I might if I wanted to. All the otherboys boast that they take turn about, but--. She would be a fool to tellif it were true, and a story-teller if not. So I'll settle the questionto-morrow, and for all time. "

A deal of trouble might have been saved had Rita permitted him to makethe settlement with Sukey, but she did not. The infinite potency oflittle things is one of the paradoxes of life. 

"No, you shall not speak of this matter to her, " she said, moving closeto him upon the log and putting her hand upon his arm coaxingly. "Promise me you will not. "

He would have promised to stop breathing had she asked it in that mood. It was the first he had ever seen of it, and he was pleased, although, owing to an opaqueness of mind due to his condition, it told him nothingsave that his old-time friend was back again. 

"If you tell her, " continued the girl, "she will be angry with me, and Ihave had so much trouble of late I can't bear any more. "

At last she was on the straight road bowling along like a mail coach. "After I spoke to you as I did the other night--you know, when Tom--Icould not eat or sleep. Oh, I was in so much trouble! You and I hadalways been such real friends, and you have always been so good to me--"a rare little lump was rapidly and alarmingly growing in her throat--"Ihave never had even an unkind look from you, and to speak to you as Idid, --oh, Dic, --" the lump grew too large for easy utterance, and shestopped speaking. Dic was wise in not pursuing the ebb, but he wasfoolish in not catching the flood. But perhaps if he would wait, itmight ingulf him of its own accord, and then, ah, then, the sweetness ofit!

"Never think of it again, " he said soothingly. "Your words hurt me atthe time, but your kind, frank letter cured the pain, and I intendednever to speak of it. But since you have spoken, I--I--"

The girl was frightened, although eager to hear what he would say, soshe remained silent during Dic's long pause, and at length he said, "Ithank you for the letter. "

A sigh of mingled relief and disappointment came from her breast. 

"It gave me great pleasure, for it made me know that you were still myfriend, " said Dic, "and that your words were meant for Tom, and not forme. "

"Indeed, not for you, " said Rita, still struggling with the lump in herthroat. 

"Let us never speak of it again, " said Dic. "I'm glad it happened. Itputs our friendship on a firmer basis than ever before. "

"That would be rather hard, to do, wouldn't it?" asked the girl, laughing contentedly. "We have been such good friends ever since I was ababy--since before I can remember. "

The direct road was becoming too smooth for Rita, and she began to fearshe would not be able to stop. 

"Let us make this bargain, " said Dic. "When you want to say anythingunkind, say it to me. I'll not misunderstand. "

"Very well, " she replied laughingly, "the privilege may be a greatcomfort to me at times. I, of course, dare not scold mother. If I lookcross at Tom, mother scolds me for a week, and I could not speakunkindly to poor father. You see, I have no one to scold, and I'm sureevery one should have somebody to explode upon with impunity now andthen. So I'll accept your offer, and you may expect--" There was a briefpause, after which she continued: "No, I'll not. Never again so long asI live. You, of all others, shall be safe from my ill temper, " and shegave him her hand in confirmation of her words. 

In all the world there was no breast freer from ill temper than hers; noheart more gentle, tender, and trustful. Her nature was like a burningspring. It was pure, cool, and limpid to its greatest depths, thoughthere was fire in it. 

Dic did not consider himself obliged to release Rita's hand at once, andas she evidently thought it would be impolite to withdraw it, there isno telling what mistakes might have happened had not Tom appeared uponthe scene. 

Tom seated himself beside Dic just as that young man dropped Rita'shand, and just as the young lady moved a little way toward her end ofthe log. 

"You are home early, " remarked Rita. 

"Yes, " responded Tom, "Doug Hill was there--the lubberly pumpkin-head. "

No man of honor would remain in a young lady's parlor if at the time ofhis arrival she had another gentleman visitor unless upon the request ofthe young lady, and no insult so deep and deadly could be offered to theman in possession as the proffer of such a request by the young lady tothe intruder. 

After a few minutes of silence Tom remarked: "This night reminds me ofthe night I come from Cincinnati to Brookville on the canal-boat. Everything's so warm and clear like. I set out on top of the boat andseed the hills go by. "

"Did the hills go by?" asked Rita, who had heard the story of Tom'sCincinnati trip many times. 

"Well, they seemed to go by, " answered Tom. "Of course, they didn'tmove. It was the boat. But I jest seed them move as plain as I see thatcloud up yonder. "

That Tom had not profited by Billy Little's training and his mother'smild corrections now and then (for the Chief Justice had never entirelylost the habits of better days), was easily discernible in his speech. Rita's English, like Dic's and Billy Little's, was corrupted in spots byevil communication; but Tom's--well, Tom was no small part of the evilcommunication itself. 

Dic had heard the Cincinnati story many times, and when he saw symptomsof its recurrence, he rose and said:--

"Well, Tom, if you _seed_ the hills go by, you'll _seed_ me go by if youwatch, for I'm going home, " and with a good night he started up theriver path, leaving Rita and her brother Tom seated on the log. 

"So Doug Hill was there?" asked Rita. 

"Yes, " responded Tom; "and how any girl can let him kiss her, I don'tknow. His big yaller face reminds me of the under side of a mud-turtle. "

"I hope Sukey doesn't allow him nor any one else to kiss her, " criedRita, with a touch of indignant remonstrance. Tom laughed as if to saythat he could name at least one who enjoyed that pleasant privilege. 

Rita was at that time only sixteen years old, and had many things tolearn about the doings of her neighbors, which one would wish she mightnever know. The Chief Justice had at least one virtue: she knew how toprotect her daughter. No young man had ever been permitted to "keepcompany" with Rita, and she and her mother wanted none. Dic, of course, had for years been a constant visitor; but he, as you know, was like oneof the family. Aside from the habit of Dic's visits, and growing out ofthem, Madam Bays had dim outlines of a future purpose. Dic's father, whowas dead, had been considered well-to-do among his neighbors. He haddied seized of four "eighties, " all paid for, and two-thirds cleared forcultivation. Eighty acres of cleared bottom land was looked upon as afair farm. One might own a thousand acres of rich soil covered with asfine oak, walnut, and poplar as the world could produce and might stillbe a poor man, though the timber in these latter days would bring afortune. Cleared land was wealth at the time of which I write, and inbuilding their houses the settlers used woods from which nowadaysfurniture is made for royal palaces. Every man on Blue might have saidwith Louis XIV, "I am housed like a king. " Cleared land was wealth, andDic, upon his mother's death, would at least be well able to support awife. The Chief Justice knew but one cause for tenderness--Tom. WhenRita was passing into womanhood, and developing a beauty that could notbe matched on all the River Blue, she began to assume a commercial valuein her mother's eyes that might, Madam B. Thought in a dimly consciousfashion, be turned to Tom's account. Should Rita marry a rich man, therewould be no injustice--justice, you know, was the watchword--in leavingall the Bays estate to the issue male. Therefore, although Mrs. Bays wasnot at all ready for her young daughter to receive attention from anyman, when the proper time should come, Dic might be available if no onebetter offered, and Tom, dear, sweet, Sir Thomas de Triflin', shouldthen have all that his father and mother possessed, as soon as theycould with decent self-respect die and get out of his way. 

As time passed, and Rita's beauty grew apace, Mrs. Bays began to feelthat Dic with his four "eighties" was not a price commensurate with thewinsome girl. But having no one else in mind, she permitted his visitswith a full knowledge of their purpose, and hoped that chance or herconfidential friend, Providence, might bring a nobler prize withinrange of the truly great attractiveness of Tom's sister. 

Mrs. Bays knew that the life she and her neighbors were leading was poorand crude. She also knew that men of wealth and position were eagerlyseeking rare girls of Rita's type. By brooding over better things thanDic could offer, her hope grew into a strong desire, and with Rita'sincreasing beauty this motherly desire took the form of faith. Still, Dic's visits were permitted to continue, and doubtless would bepermitted so long as they should be made ostensibly to the family. 

Tom's remarks upon Sukey and Sukey's observations concerning Dic hadopened Rita's eyes to certain methods prevalent among laddies andlasses, and as a result Sukey, for the time, became _persona non grata_to her old-time friend. Rita was not at the time capable of activejealousy. She knew Sukey was pretty enough, and, she feared, bold enoughto be dangerous in the matter of Dic, but she trusted him. Sukeycertainly was prettily bedecked with the pinkest and whitest of cheeks, twinkling dimples, and sparkling eyes; but for real beauty she was notin Rita's class, and few men would think of her fleshly charms twicewhen they might be thinking of our little heroine. 

Thus Tom and Sukey became fountain-heads of unhallowed knowledge uponsubjects concerning which every young girl, however pure, has aconsuming curiosity. 

Rita had heard of the "kissing games" played by the youngsters, and afew of the oldsters, too, at country frolics, corn-huskings, and churchsocials; but as I have told you, the level-headed old Chief Justice hadwisely kept her daughter away from such gatherings, and Rita knew littleof the kissing, and never telling what was going on about her. Tom andSukey had thrown light upon the subject for her, and she soonunderstood, feared, and abhorred. Would she ever pity and embrace?

THE DEBUTANTE

CHAPTER IV

THE DEBUTANTE

A year after the small happenings I have just related, great eventsbegan to cluster about Dic. They were truly great for him and of coursewere great for Rita. 

Through Billy Little's aid Dic received an offer from an eastern horsebuyer to lead a drove of horses to New York. The task was difficult, andrequired a man of health, strength, judgment, and nerve. The trip goingwould require two months, and the horses must be kept together, fed, cared for, and, above all, protected night and day from horse thieves, until after the Alleghanies were crossed. The horses were driven loosein herds of one hundred or more. Three men constituted a crew. In thisinstance Dic was to be in charge, and two rough horse-boys would be hisassistants. It would have been impossible to _drive_ the horses over thefenceless roads and through the leagues of trackless forest; therefore, they were led. The men would take turns about riding in advance, and theman leading would continually whistle a single shrill note which thehorses soon learned to follow. Should the whistling cease for a moment, the horses would stop and perhaps stampede. This might mean forty-eighthours of constant work in gathering the drove, with perhaps the loss ofone or more. If you will, for one hour, whistle a shrill note loudenough to reach the ears of a herd of trampling, neighing horses, youwill discover that even that task, which is the smallest part of horse"leading, " is an exhausting operation. 

The work was hard, but the pay was good, and Dic was delighted with theopportunity. One of its greatest attractions to him was the fact that hewould see something of the world. Billy Little urged him to accept theoffer. 

"A man, " said he, "estimates his own stature by comparing it with thoseabout him, and the most fatal mistake he can make is to underestimatehis size. Self-conceit is ugly, but it never injured any one. Modestywould have ruined Napoleon himself. The measure of a man, like thelength of a cloth-yard, depends upon the standard. Go away from here, Dic. Find your true standard. Measure yourself and return, if you wish. This place is as good as another, if a man knows himself; if he doesn't, he is apt to be deceived by the littleness of things about him. Yetthere are great things here, too--greater, in some respects, than any tobe found in New York; but the great things here are possibilities. Ofcourse, possibilities are but the raw material. They must bemanufactured--achieved. But achievement, my boy, achievement! that's thewhole thing, after all. What would Cæsar Germanicus and Napoleon havebeen without possibilities? A ready-made opportunity is a good thing inits way, but it is the creation of opportunity out of crudepossibilities that really marks and makes the man and stamps the deed. Any hungry fool would seize the opportunity to eat who might starve ifhe had to make his bread. Go out into the world. You have good eyes. Itwill not take long to open them. When they are opened, come back and youwill see opportunities here that will make you glad you are alive. "

"But, Billy Little, " replied Dic, who was sitting with Rita on thesycamore divan, while their small elderly friend sat upon the grassfacing them, "you certainly have seen the world. Your eyes were openedbefore you came here, and it seems to me your learning and culture areburied here among the possibilities you speak of. "

"No, Dic, " answered Billy, "you see, I--well, I ran away from--from manythings. You see, you and I are cast in different moulds. You are sixfeet tall, physically and temperamentally. " Rita thought Billy was themost acute observer in Christendom, but she did not speak, save with hereyes. Those eyes nowadays were always talking. 

"Six feet don't amount to much, " responded Dic. "There is Doug Hill, whois six feet three, with no more brains than a catfish. It is what's atthe top of the six feet that counts. You have more at the top of yourfive feet four than the tallest man on Blue, and as I said, you seem tobe buried here. Where are the possibilities for you, Billy Little? Andif you can't achieve something great--poor me!"

"There are different possibilities for different men. I think, forexample, I have achieved something in you. What say you, Rita?"

The girl was taken unawares. "Indeed you have, glorious--splendid--thatis, I mean you have achieved something great in all of us whom you havetried to influence. I see your possibilities, Billy Little. I see themstamped upon the entire Blue River settlement. La Salle and Marquette, of whom Dic read to me from your book, had the same sort ofopportunities. Their field was broader, but I doubt if their influencewill be more lasting than yours. "

"Rather more conspicuous, " laughed Billy. 

"Yes, " answered Rita, "your achievements will not be recorded. Theireffect will probably be felt by all of us, and the achievement must beyour only reward. "

"It is all I ask, " returned Billy. Then, after a pause, he spoke inmock reproof to Dic, "Now, hang your head in shame. "

"I suppose it's my turn, " Dic replied. 

"The achievements of picturesque men only should be placarded to theworld, " said Billy. "The less said about a little old knot like me thebetter for--better for the knot. "

"You are not a knot, " cried Rita indignantly. 

"Rita, " said Dic, "you know the walnut knot, while it shows the roughestbark, has the finest grain in the tree. "

"I am going home if you don't stop that sort of talking, " said Billy, pleased to his toes, but pretending to be annoyed. 

A fortnight before Dic's intended departure for New York an opportunitypresented itself of which the young man, after due consideration, determined to take advantage. He walked over one evening to see Tom, but, as usual, found Rita. After a few minutes in which to work hiscourage up, he said:--

"There is to be a church social at Scott's to-morrow night--theBaptists. I wonder if you would like--that is, would want to--would bewilling to go with me?"

"I would be glad to go, " answered the girl; "but mother won't let me. "

"We'll go in and ask her, if you wish, " he replied. 

"There's no use, but we can try. Perhaps if she thinks I don't want togo, she will consent. "

Into the house they went, and Dic made his wants known to the head ofthe family. 

"No, " snapped the good lady, "she can't go. Girls of sixteen andseventeen nowadays think they are young ladies. "

"They are dull, anyway, " said Rita, referring to church socials. "I haveheard they are particularly dull at Scott's--the Baptists are soreligious. Sukey Yates said they did nothing but preach and pray andsing psalms and take up a collection at the last social Scott gave. It's just like church, and I don't want to go anyway. " She had neverbeen to a church social, but from what she had heard she believed themto be bacchanalian scenes of riotous enjoyment, and her remarks wereintended to deceive. 

"You should not speak so disrespectfully of the church, " said the ChiefJustice, sternly. "The Lord will punish you for it, see if He doesn't. Since I think about it, the socials held at Scott's are true, religious, God-fearing gatherings, and you shall go as a punishment for yoursacrilegious sneers. Perhaps if you listen to the Word, it may come backafter many days. " Margarita, Sr. , often got her Biblical metaphorsmixed, but that troubled her little. There was, she thought, virtue inscriptural quotations, even though entirely inapplicable to the case inpoint. 

"Come for her to-morrow evening, Dic, " said Mrs. B. "She shall beready. " Then turning to Rita: "To speak of the Holy Word in that manner!You shall be punished. "

Dic and Rita went out to the porch. Dic laughed, but the girl sawnothing funny. 

"It seems to me just as if I had told a story, " she said. "One may act astory as easily as tell it. "

"Well, you are to be punished, " laughed Dic. 

"But you know I want to go. I have never been to a social, and it willnot punish me to go. "

"Then you are to be punished by going with me, " returned the stalwartyoung fisherman. She looked up to him with a flash of her eyes--thoseeyes were worse than a loose tongue for tattling--and said:--

"That is true. "

Dic, who was fairly boiling with pleasant anticipations, went to townnext day and boiled over on Billy Little. 

"I'm going to take Rita to Scott's social this evening, " he said. 

"Ah, indeed, " responded Billy; "it's her first time out, isn't it?"

"Yes. "

"I envy her, by George, I do, and I envy you, " said Billy. He did notenvy Dic; but you may remember my remarks concerning bachelor hearts andtheir unprotected condition in this cruel world. There may be pain ofthe sort Billy felt without either envy or jealousy. 

"Dic, I have a mind to send Rita a nice ribbon or two for to-night. Whatdo you think about it?" asked Billy. 

"She would be delighted, " answered Dic. "She would accept them from you, but not from me. "

"There is no flattery in that remark, " answered Billy, with a touch ofsharpness. 

"Why, Billy Little, what do you suppose I meant?" asked Dic. 

"I know you spoke the truth. She would accept a present from the littleold knot, but would refuse it from the straight young tree. "

"Why, Billy Little, I meant nothing of the sort. "

"Now, not another word, " interrupted Billy. "Give these ribbons to herwhen you ride home, and tell her the knot sends them to the sweetbrier. "Then turning his face to the shelves on the wall, and arranging a fewpieces of goods, he hummed under his breath his favorite stanza, "Maxwelton's braes, " and paid no further attention to his guest. 

Rita came out as Dic rode up to the gate. He did not dismount, buthanded her the ribbons across the fence, saying: "Billy Little sends youthese for to-night. He said they were from the knot to the sweetbrier. "

The girl's suppressed delight had been troubling her all day. Her firstparty, her first escort, and that escort Dic! What more could a girldesire? The ribbons were too much. And somebody was almost ready to weepfor joy. She opened the little package and her eyes sparkled. When shefelt that speech was entirely safe, she said:--

"The little package is as prim and neat as Billy Little himself. Dear, sweet, old Billy Little. "

Dic, whose heart was painfully inflamed, was almost jealous of Billy, and said:--

"I suppose you would not have accepted them from me?"

"Why not?" she responded. "Of course I would. " Her eyes grew wide whenshe looked up to him and continued, "Did you get them for me and tell methat Billy Little sent them?"

"No, " answered Dic, regretfully, as he began to see possibilities, evenon Blue. One possibility, at least, he saw clearly--one that he hadlost. 

"It was more than a possibility, " he said to himself, as he rodehomeward. "It was a ready-made opportunity, and I did not see it. Thesooner I go to New York or some place else and get my eyes opened, thebetter it will be for me. "

 * * * * *

The church social opened with a long, sonorous prayer by the Baptistpreacher, Mr. Wetmore. Then followed a psalm, which in turn was followedby a "few words. " After the few words, Rev. Wetmore said in soft, conciliatory tones, "Now, brethren, if Deacon Moore will be so kind asto pass the hat, we will receive the offering. "

Wetmore was not an ordained minister, nor was he recognized by thechurch to which he claimed to belong. He was one of the many itinerantvagabonds who foisted themselves upon isolated communities solely forthe sake of the "offering. "

Deacon Moore passed his hat, and when he handed it to Wetmore thatworthy soul counted out two large copper pennies. There were also in thehat two brass buttons which Tom, much to Sukey's amusement, had tornfrom his clothing for the purpose of an offering. Sukey laughed soinordinately at Tom's extravagant philanthropy that she convinced DeTriflin' he was a very funny fellow indeed; but she brought upon herpretty flaxen head a reprimand from Wetmore. 

"Undue levity, " said he, "ill becomes even frivolous youth at thismoment. Later you will have ample opportunity to indulge your mirth; butfor the present, the Lord's business--" at the word "business" hereceived the hat from Deacon Moore, and looked eagerly into it for theoffering. Disappointment, quite naturally, spread itself over his sallowface, and he continued: "Buttons do not constitute an acceptableoffering to the Lord. He can have no use for them. I think that duringthe course of my life work in the vineyard I have received a millionbuttons of which I--I mean the Lord--can have no possible use. If thesebuttons had been dollars or shillings, or even pennies, think of theblessings they would have brought from above. "

The reverend man spoke several times with excusable asperity of"buttons, " and after another psalm and a sounding benediction thereligious exercises were finished, and the real business of the evening, the spelling-bee and the kissing games, began. 

At these socials many of the old folks took part in the spelling-bee, after which they usually went home--an event eagerly awaited by theyoung people. 

There was but one incident in the spelling-bee that touched our friends, and I shall pass briefly over that part of the entertainment precedingit. The class, ranging in years from those who lisped in youth to thosewho lisped in age, stood in line against the wall, and Wetmore, spelling-book in hand, stood in front of them to "give out" the words. It was not considered fair to give out a word not in the spelling-bookuntil the spelling and "syllabling" of sentences was commenced. Allwords were syllabled, but to spell and syllable a sentence was not aneasy task, and by the time sentences were reached the class usually haddwindled down to three or four of the best spellers. Of course, one whomissed a word left the class. Our friends--Billy Little, Dic, Rita, andSukey Yates--were in the contest. 

The first word given out was metropolitan, and it fell to Douglas of theHill. He began: "M-e-t--there's your met; r-o--there's your ro; there'syour metro; p-o-l--there's your pol; there's your ro-pol; there's yourmet-ro-pol; i--there's your i; there's your pol-i; there's yourro-pol-i; there's your met-ro-pol-i; t-e-n--there's your--" "t-a-n, "cried the girl next to him, who happened to be Sukey Yates, and Douglasstepped down and out. 

A score or more of words were then spelled without an error, untilConstantinople fell to the lot of an elderly man who stood by Rita. Hebegan: "C-o-n--there's your Con; s-t-a-n--there's your stan; there'syour Con-stan; t-i--there's your ti; there's your stan-ti; there's yourCon-stan-ti; n-o--there's your no; there's your ti-no; there's yourstan-ti-no; there's your Con-stan-ti-no; p-e-l--there's your pell;there's your no--"--"p-l-e--there's your pell" (so pronounced); "there'syour Con-stan-ti-no-ple, " chimed Rita, and her elderly neighbor took achair. Others of the class dropped out, leaving only our fouracquaintances, --Dic, Billy, Sukey, and Rita. Dic went out on "a" inplace of "i" in collectible, Sukey turning him down. Rita had hoped hewould win the contest and had determined, should it narrow down toherself and him, to miss intentionally, if need be. After Dic had takena chair, judgment fell to and upon Sukey. She began "j-u-d-g-e--there'syour judge;" whereupon Billy Little said, "Sink the e, " and Sukey sank, leaving Billy Little and Rita standing against the wall, as if they wereabout to be married. Billy, of course, was only awaiting a goodopportunity to fail in order that the laurels of victory might rest uponRita's brow. 

"We will now spell and syllable a few sentences, " said Wetmore. "Mr. Little, I give you the sentence, 'An abominable bumblebee with his tailcut off. '"

It must be remembered that in spelling these words and sentences eachsyllable was pronounced separately and roundly. B-o-m was a full grown, sonorous bom. B-u-m was a rolling bum, and b-l-e was pronounced bellwith a strong, full, ringing, liquid sound. The following italics showthe emphasis. Billy slowly repeated the sentence and began:--

"A-n--there's your an; a--there's your a; there's your an-a;b-o-m--there's your _bom_; there's your _a_-bom; there's your_an_-a-_bom_; i--there's your i; there's your _bom_-i; there's your_a_-bom-i; there's your _an_-a-bom-i; n-a--there's your na; there's your_i_-na; there's your _bom_-i-na; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_; there'syour _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_; b-l-e--there's your bell; there's your_na_-bell; there's your _i_-na-bell; there's your _bom_-i-_na_-bell;there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_-bell; there's your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell;b-u-m--there's your bum; there's your _bell_-bum; there's your_na_-bell-bum; there's your _i_-na-_bell_-bum; there's your_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_-_bell_-_bum_;there's your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_; b-l-e--there's your bell;there's your _bum_-bell; there's your _bell_-bum-_bell_; there's your_na_-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your _i_-na-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your_a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your_an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell; b-e-e--there's your bee; there'syour _bell_-bee; there's your _bum_-bell-bee; there's your_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee; there's your _na_-bell-_bum_-_bell_-bee; there'syour _i_-na-bell-_bum_-bell-bee; there's your_bom_-i-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-bee; there's your_a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee; there's your_an_-a-bom-i-_na_bell-_bum_-_bell_-bee; w-i-t-h--h-i-s--there's your with-his; there'syour _bee_-with-his; there's your _bell_-bee-with-his; there's your_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your _bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his;there's your _na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your_i_-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-_bee_-with-his; there's your_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your_a_-_bom_-i-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your_an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; t-a-l-e--there'syour--" But Rita chimed in at once: "T-a-i-l--there's your tail; there'syour _with_-his-tail; there's your _bee_-with-his-tail; there's your_bell_-bee-with-his-_tail_; there's your _bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail;there's your _bell_-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's your_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's your_i_-na-_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail; there's your_bom_-i-na-_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail; there's your_a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's your_an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail; c-u-t--there'syour cut; there's your _tail_-cut; there's your _with_-his-tail-cut;there's your _bee_-with-his-tail-cut; there's your_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your_bum_-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your_i_-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-_tail_-cut; there's your_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-_bee_-with-his -_tail_-cut; there's your_a_-bom-i-_na_-_bell_-bum -_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-_cut_; there's your_an_-a-_bom_ -i-_na_-bell-_bum_-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut;o-f-f--there's your off; there's your _cut_-off; there's your_tail_-cut-off; there's your _with_-_his_-tail-cut-off; there's your_bee_-with -his-tail-cut-off; there's your_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your_bum_-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your_i_-na-_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your_a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your_an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with his-tail-cut-_off_, " andRita took her seat, filled with triumph, save for the one regret thatDic had not won. 

Many of the old folks, including Billy Little, departed when the beeclosed, and a general clamor went up for the kissing games to begin. 

Rita declined to take part in the kissing games, and sat against thewall with several other young ladies who had no partners. To Dic shegave the candid reason that she did not want to play, and he was glad. 

Doug Hill, who, in common with every other young man on the premises, ardently desired Rita's presence in the game, said:--

"Oh, come in, Rita. Don't be so stuck up. It won't hurt you to bekissed. " Doug was a bold, devil-may-care youth, who spoke his mindfreely upon all occasions. He was of enormous size, and gloried in thefact that he was the neighborhood bully and very, very "tough. " Dougwould have you know that Doug would drink; Doug would gamble; Doug wouldfight. He tried to create the impression that he was very bad indeed, and succeeded. He would go to town Saturdays, "fill up, " as he calledgetting drunk, and would ride furiously miles out of his way going homethat he might pass the houses of his many lady-loves, and show them byyells and oaths what a rollicking blade he was. The reputation thusacquired won him many a smile; for, deplore the fact as we may, there'sa drop of savage blood still alive in the feminine heart that does notdespise depravity in man as it really should. 

"Come into the game, " cried Doug, taking Rita by the arm, and draggingher toward the centre of the room. 

"I don't want to play, " cried the girl. "Please let loose of my arms;you hurt me, " but Doug continued to drag her toward the ring of playersthat was forming, and she continued to resist. Doug persisted, and aftera moment of struggling she called out, "Dic, Dic!" She had beenaccustomed since childhood to call upon that name in time of trouble, and had always found help. Dic would not have interfered had not Ritacalled, but when she did he responded at once. 

"Let her alone, Hill, " said Dic, as pleasantly as possible under thecircumstances. "If she doesn't want to play, she doesn't have to. "

"You go to--" cried Doug. "Maybe you think you can run over me, youstuck-up Mr. Proper. "

"I don't want to do anything of the sort, " answered Dic; "but if youdon't let loose of Rita's arm, I'll--"

"What will you do?" asked Doug, laughing uproariously. 

For a moment Dic allowed himself to grow angry, and said, "I'll knockthat pumpkin off your shoulders, " but at once regretted his words. 

Doug thought Dic's remark very funny, and intimated as much. Then hebowed his head in front of our hero and said, "Here is the pumpkin; hitit if you dare. "

Dic restrained an ardent desire, and Doug still with bowed headcontinued, "I'll give you a shillin' if you'll hit it, and if you don't, I'll break your stuck-up face. "

Dic did not accept the shilling, which was not actually tendered inlawful coin, but stepped back from Doug that he might be prepared forthe attack he expected. After waiting what he considered to be areasonable time for Dic to accept his offer, Doug started toward ourhero, looking very ugly and savage. Dic was strong and brave, but heseemed small beside his bulky antagonist, and Rita, frightened out ofall sense of propriety, ran to her champion, and placing her backagainst his breast, faced Doug with fear and trembling. The girl was nottall enough by many inches to protect Dic's face from the breaking Doughad threatened; but what she lacked in height she made up in terror, and she looked so "skeert, " as Doug afterwards said, that he turned uponhis heel with the remark:--

"That's all right. I was only joking. We don't want no fight at a churchsocial, do we, Dic?"

"I don't particularly want to fight any place, " replied Dic, glad thatthe ugly situation had taken a pleasant turn. 

"Reckon you don't, " returned Doug, uproariously, and the game proceeded. 

Partly from disinclination, and partly because he wanted to talk toRita, Dic did not at first enter the game, but during an intermissionSukey whispered to him:--

"We are going to play Drop the Handkerchief, and if you'll come in I'lldrop it behind you every time, and--" here the whispers became very lowand soft, "I'll let you catch me, too. We'll make pumpkin-head sick. "

The game of skill known as "Drop the Handkerchief" was played in thisfashion: a circle of boys and girls was formed in the centre of theroom, each person facing the centre. One of the number was chosen "It. ""It's" function was to walk or run around the circle and drop thehandkerchief behind the chosen one. If "It" happened to be a young man, the chosen one, of course, was a young woman who immediately started inpursuit. If she caught the young man before he could run around thecircle to the place she had vacated, he must deposit a forfeit, to beredeemed later in the evening. In any case she became the next "It. " Ayoung lady "It" of course dropped the handkerchief behind a young man, and equally, of course, started with a scream of frightened modestyaround the circle of players, endeavoring to reach, if possible, theplace of sanctuary left vacant by the young man. He started in pursuit, and if he caught her--there we draw the veil. If the young lady wereanxious to escape, it was often possible for her to do so. But thanks toProvidence, all hearts were not so obdurate as Rita's. I would say, however, in palliation of the infrequency of escapes, that it was lookedupon as a serious affront for a young lady to run too rapidly. In caseshe were caught and refused to pay the forfeit, her act was one ofdeadly insult gratuitously offered in full view of friends andacquaintances. 

Dic hesitated to accept Sukey's invitation, though, in truth, it wouldhave been inviting to any man of spirit. Please do not understand me tosay that Dic was a second Joseph, nor that he was one who would run awayfrom a game of any sort because a pretty Miss Potiphar or two happenedto be of the charmed and charming circle. 

He had often been in the games, and no one had ever impugned his spiritof gallantry by accusing him of unseemly neglect of the beautiful MissesP. His absence from this particular game was largely due to the factthat the right Miss Potiphar was sitting against the wall. 

A flush came to Rita's cheek, and she moved uneasily when she saw Sukeywhispering to Dic; but he did not suspect that Rita cared a straw whatSukey said. Neither did it occur to him that Rita would wish him toremain out of the game. He could, if he entered the game, make Doug Hill"sick, " as Sukey had suggested, and that was a consummation devoutly tobe wished. He did not wish to subject himself to the charge ofungallantry; and Sukey was, as you already know, fair to look upon, andher offer was as generous as she could make under the circumstances. Sohe chose a young lady, left Rita by the wall, and entered the game. 

Doug Hill happened to be "It" and dropped the handkerchief behind Sukey, whereupon that young lady walked leisurely around the circle, making noeffort to capture the Redoubtable. Such apathy was not only aninfringement of the etiquette of the game, but might, if the injuredparty were one of high spirits, be looked upon as an insult. 

Sukey then became "It, " and, dropping the handkerchief behind Dic, deliberately waited for him to catch her; when, of course, a catastropheensued. Meantime, the wall was growing uncomfortable to Rita. She hadknown in a dimly conscious way that certain things always happened atcountry frolics, but to _see_ them startled her, and she began to feelvery miserable. Her tender heart fluttered piteously with a hundredlongings, chief among which was the desire to prevent furthercatastrophes between Dic and Sukey. 

Compared to Sukey, there was no girl in the circle at all entitled to beranked in the Potiphar class of beauty. So, when Dic succeeded Sukey as"It, " he dropped the handkerchief behind her. Then she again chose Dic, and in turn became the central figure in a catastrophe that was painfulto the girl by the wall. If Rita had been in ignorance of her realsentiments for Dic, that ignorance had, within the last few minutes, given place to a knowledge so luminous that it was almost blinding. Theroom seemed to become intensely warm. Meantime the play went on, and theprocess of making Doug "sick" continued with marked success. Sukeyalways favored Dic, and he returned in kind. This alternation, which wasbeyond all precedent, soon aroused a storm of protests. 

"If you want to play by yourselves, " cried Tom, "why don't you go off byyourselves?"

"Yes, " cried the others; "if you can't play fair, get out of the game. "

The order of events was immediately changed, but occasionally Sukeybroke away from time-honored precedent and repeated her favors to Dic. Doug was rapidly growing as "sick" as his most inveterate enemy couldhave desired. There was another person in the room who was also verywretched--one whom Dic would not have pained for all the SukeyPotiphars in Egypt. The other person was not only pained, she wasgrieved, confused, frightened, desperate. She feared that she would cryout and ask Dic not to favor Sukey. She did not know what to do, norwhat she might be led to do, if matters continued on their presentcourse. 

Soon after Tom's reprimand, Sukey found the duty of dropping thehandkerchief again devolving upon her pretty self. She longed with allher heart to drop it behind Dic; but, fearing the wrath of her friends, she concluded to choose the man least apt to arouse antagonism in Dic'sbreast. She would choose one whom he knew she despised, and would trustto luck and her swift little feet to take her around the circle beforethe dropee could catch her. 

Wetmore had been an active member, though a passive participant, in thegame, since its beginning. When a young lady "It" walked back of him, hewould eagerly watch her approach, and when she passed him, as all did, he would turn his face after her and hope for better things from thenext. Repeated disappointments had lulled his vigil, and when Sukey, thegirl of all others for whom he had not hoped, dropped the sacred linenbehind his reverend form, he was so startled that he did not seize theprecious moment. He was standing beside Doug Hill, and the handkerchieffell almost between the two. It was clearly intended for his reverence;but when he failed instantly to meet the requirements of the situation, the Douglas, most alert of men, resolved to appropriate the opportunityto himself. At the same moment Brother W. Also determined to embrace it, and, if possible, "It. " Each stooped at the same instant, and theirheads collided. 

"Let it alone, parson, it's for me, " cried the Douglas. 

Parson did not answer, but reached out his hand for the coveted prize. Thereupon Douglas pushed him backward, causing him to be seated withgreat violence upon the floor. At that unfortunate moment Sukey, who hadtaken speed from eagerness, completed her trip around the circle, andbeing unable to stop, fell headlong over the figure of the self-madeparson. She had not seen Doug's part in the transaction, and being muchdisturbed in mind and dress, turned upon poor Wetmore and flung at theworthy shepherd the opprobrious words, "You fool. "

When we consider the buttons in the offering, together with Sukey'sunjust and biting words, we cannot help believing that Wetmore had beenborn under an unlucky star. 

One's partner in this game was supposed to favor one now and then, whenopportunity presented; but Wetmore's partner, Miss Tompkinson, havingwaited in vain for favors from that gentleman, quitted the game whenSukey called him, "You fool. " Wetmore thought, of course, he also wouldbe compelled to drop out; but, wonder of wonders, Rita, the mostbeautiful girl in the room, rose to her feet and said:--

"I'll take your place, Miss Tompkinson. " She knew that if she were inthe game, Sukey's reign would end, and she had reached the point ofperturbation where she was willing to do anything to prevent therecurrence of certain painful happenings. She knew that she should nottake part in the game, --it was not for such as her, --but she wasconfused, desperate, and "didn't care. " She modestly knew her ownattractions. Every young man in the circle was a friend of Tom's, andhad at some time manifested a desire to be a friend to Tom's sister. Tomwas fairly popular for his own sake, but his exceeding radiance wasborrowed. The game could not be very wicked, thought Rita, since it wasencouraged by the church; but even if it were wicked, she determined totake possession of her own in the person of Dic. Out of these severalimpulses and against her will came the words, "I'll take your place, Miss Tompkinson, " and almost before she was aware of what she had doneshe was standing with fiercely throbbing pulse, a member of theforbidden circle. 

[Illustration: "SHE FLUNG AT THE WORTHY SHEPHERD THE OPPROBRIOUS WORDS, 'YOU FOOL. '"]

As Rita had expected, the handkerchief soon fell behind her, and withoutthe least trouble she caught the young fellow who had dropped it, forthe man did not live who could run from her. The pledge, a pocket-knife, was deposited, and Rita became a trembling, terrified "It. " What to dowith the handkerchief she did not know, but she started desperatelyaround the circle. After the fourth or fifth trip the players began tolaugh. Dic's heart was doing a tremendous business, and he felt thatlife would be worthless if the handkerchief should fall from Rita's handbehind any one but him. Meanwhile the frightened girl walked round andround the circle, growing more confused with every trip. 

"Drop it, Rita, " cried Doug Hill, "or you'll drop. "

"She's getting tired, " said another. 

"See how warm she is, " remarked gentle Tom. 

"Somebody fan her, " whispered Sukey. 

"I don't believe I want to play, " said Rita, whose cheeks were burning. A chorus of protests came from all save Dic; so she took up her burdenagain and of course must drop it. After another long weary walk aninspiration came to her; she would drop the handkerchief behind Tom. Shedid so. Tom laughed, and all agreed with one accord that it was againstthe rules of the game to drop the handkerchief behind a brother orsister. Then Rita again took up her burden, which by that time was aheavy one indeed. She had always taken her burdens to Dic, so she tookthis one to him and dropped it. 

"I knew she would, " screamed every one, and Rita started in dreadfulearnest on her last fatal trip around the circle. A moment before thecircle had been too small, but now it seemed interminable, and poorRita found herself in Dic's strong arms before she was halfway home. Shealmost hated him for catching her. She did not take into considerationthe facts that she had invited him and that it would have been ungallanthad he permitted her to escape, but above all, she did not know thedesire in his heart. She had surprised and disappointed him by enteringthe game; but since it was permitted, he would profit by the surpriseand snatch a joyful moment from his disappointment. But another surpriseawaited him. When a young lady was caught a certain degree ofresistance, purely for form's sake, was expected, but usually the younglady would feel aggrieved, or would laugh at the young man were theresistance taken seriously. When Dic caught Rita there was one case, atleast, where the resistance was frantically real. She covered her facewith her hands and supposed he would make no effort to remove them. Shewas mistaken, he acted upon the accepted theories of the game. She was ababy in strength compared with Dic, and he easily held her hands whilehe bent her head backward till her upturned face was within easy reach. 

"Don't kiss me, " she cried. 

There was no sham in her words, and Dic, recognizing the fact, releasedher at once and she walked sullenly to a chair. According to the rudeetiquette of the time, she had insulted him. 

There had been so many upheavals in the game that the trouble betweenDic and Rita brought it to a close. 

Dic was wounded, and poor Rita felt that now she had driven him from herforever. Her eyes followed him about the room with wistful longing, andalthough they were eloquent enough to have told their piteous littlestory to one who knew anything about the language of great tender eyes, they spoke nothing but reproachfulness to Dic. He did not go near her, but after a time she went to him and said:--

"I believe I will go home; but I am not afraid to go alone, and you neednot go with me--that is, if you don't want to. "

"I do want to go with you, " he responded. "I would not let you ride byyourself. Even should nothing harm you, the howling of a wolf wouldfrighten you almost to death. "

She had no intention of riding home alone. She knew she would die fromfright before she had ridden a hundred yards into the black forest, soshe said demurely:--

"Of course, if you will go with me after--"

"I would go with you after anything, " he answered, but she thought hespoke with a touch of anger. 

Had Dic ever hoped to gain more than a warm friendship from the girlthat hope had been shattered for all time, and never, never, never wouldhe obtrude his love upon her again. As a matter of fact, he had notobtruded it upon her even once, but he had thought of doing it so manytimes that he felt as if he had long been an importunate suitor. 

UNDER THE ELM CANOPY

CHAPTER V

UNDER THE ELM CANOPY

Dic and Rita rode home through the forest in silence. His anger soonevaporated, and he was glad she had refused to pay the forfeit. He wouldbe content with the friendship that had been his since childhood, andwould never again risk losing it. What right had he, a great, uncouth"clodhopper, " to expect even friendship from so beautiful and perfect acreature as the girl who rode beside him; and, taking it all in all, thefault, thought he, lay entirely at his door. In this sombre mood heresolved that he would remain unmarried all his life, and would becontent with the incompleted sweet of loving. He would put a guard uponhimself, his acts, his words, his passion. The latter was truly as nobleand pure as man ever felt for woman, but it should not be allowed toestrange his friend. She should never know it; no, never, never, never. 

Rita's cogitations were also along the wrong track. During her silentride homeward the girl was thinking with an earnestness and a rapiditythat had never before been developed in her brain. She was, at times, almost unconscious that Dic was riding beside her, but she was vividlyconscious of the fact that she would soon be home and that he also wouldbe there. She determined to do something before parting from him to makeamends for her conduct at the social. But what should she do? Hence theearnest and rapid intellection within the drooping head. She did notregret having refused to kiss Dic. She would, under like circumstances, again act in the same manner. She regretted the circumstances. To her, akiss should be a holy, sacred thing, and in her heart she longed for thetime when it would be her duty and her privilege to give her lips to theone man. But kissing games seemed to her little less than open andpublic shame. 

She could not, for obvious reasons, tell Dic she was sorry she hadrefused him, and she certainly would not mend matters by telling him shewas glad. Still less could she permit him to leave her in his presentstate of mind. All together it was a terrible dilemma. If she could foronly one moment have a man's privilege to speak, she thought, it wouldall be very simple. But she could not speak. She could do little morethan look, and although she could do that well, she knew from experiencethat the language of her eyes was a foreign tongue to Dic. 

When they reached home, Dic lifted Rita from her saddle and stabled herhorse. When he came from the barn she was holding his horse and waitingfor him. He took the rein from her hands, saying:--

"It seems almost a pity to waste such a night as this in the house. Ibelieve one might read by the light of the moon. "

"Yes, " murmured the girl, hanging her head, while she meditativelysmoothed the grass with her foot. 

"It's neither warm nor cold--just pleasant, " continued Dic. 

"No, " she responded very softly. 

"But we must sleep, " he ventured to assert. 

She would not contradict the statement. She was silent. 

"If the days could be like this night, work would be a pleasure, "observed Dic, desperately. 

"No, " came the reply, hardly louder than a breath. She was not thinkingof the weather, but Dic stuck faithfully to the blessed topic. 

"It may rain soon, " he remarked confusedly. There was not a cloud insight. 

"Yes, " breathed the pretty figure, smoothing the grass with her foot. 

"But--but, I rather think it will not, " he said. 

The girl was silent. She didn't care if it snowed. She longed for him todrop the subject of the weather and to say something that would give heran opportunity to speak. Her manner, however, was most unassuring, andconvinced Dic that he had offended beyond forgiveness, while hisdistant, respectful formality and persistency in the matter of theweather almost convinced the girl that he was lost to her forever. Thusthey stood before each other, as many others have done, a pair ofhelpless fools within easy reach of paradise. Dic's straightforwardhabits of thought and action came to his aid, however, and he determinedto make at least one more effort to regain the girl's friendly regard. He abandoned the weather and said somewhat abruptly:--

"Rita, if I offended you to-night, I am sorry. I cannot tell you all thepain I feel. When you dropped the handkerchief behind me, I thought--Iknow I was wrong and should have known better at the time--but Ithought--"

"Oh, Dic, " she softly interrupted, still smoothing the grass with herfoot, "I am not offended; it is you. "

Had the serene yellow moon burst into a thousand blazing suns, Dic couldnot have been more surprised. 

"Rita, do you mean it? Do you really mean it?" he asked. 

"Yes, " she whispered. 

"And were you afraid I was offended?"

"Yes, " again very softly. 

"And did you care?"

"Yes, " with an emphatic nod of the head. 

"And do you--" he paused, and she hesitatingly whispered:--

"Yes. " She did not know what his question would have been; but whateverhe wished to ask, "Yes" would be her answer, so she gave it, and Diccontinued:--

"Do you wish me to remain for a few minutes?"

This time the "Yes" was given by a pronounced drooping of the head, butshe took his hand for an instant that she might not possibly bemisunderstood. 

Dic hitched his horse to the fence, and, turning to Rita, said:--

"Shall we go over to the log by the river?"

"Yes. " Ah, how many yeses she had for him that night, and yes is a sweetword. 

When they were seated on the log the girl waited a reasonable time forDic to begin the conversation. He remained silent, and soon sheconcluded to take the matter temporarily in her own hands. He had beguna moment before, but had stopped; perhaps with a little help he wouldbegin again. 

"I was sure you were angry, " she said, "and I thought you would notforgive me this time. I have so often given you cause to dislike me. "

"Oh, Rita, I don't believe you know that you could not make me dislikeyou. When I thought that--that you did not care for me, I was so grievedthat life seemed almost worthless, but I love you so dearly, Rita--" butthat was just what he had determined never, never to tell her. Hestopped midway in his unintentional confession, surprised that the girldid not indignantly leave him. Her heart beat wofully. Breathingsuddenly became harder work than churning. She sat demurely by his sideon the log, only too willing to listen, with a dictionary full of"Yeses" on the end of her tongue, and he sat beside her, unable for themoment to think. After a long pause she determined to give him a freshstart. 

"I was in the wrong, Dic, and if you wish I'll apologize to you beforeall who saw me. But I was frightened. I should not have gone into thegame. It may be right for other girls--I would not say that it is notright--but for me, I know it would be a sin--a real sin. I am not wise, but, Dic, something tells me that certain things cannot occupy a middleground. They must be holy and sacred, or they are sinful, and I--I didnot want it to--to happen then, because--because--" there she stoppedspeaking. She had unintentionally used the word "then, " with slightemphasis; but slight as it was, it sent Dic's soul soaring heavenward, buoyant with ecstasy. 

"Why, Rita, why did you not want it to happen--" he feared to say"then, " and it would seem from the new position of his arm, he alsofeared she might fall backward off the log. 

"Because--because, " came in soft whispers. The beautiful head wasdrooped, and the face was hidden from even the birds and the moon, whileDic's disengaged hand, out of an abundance of caution lest she mightfall, clasped hers. 

"Because--why, Rita?" he pleaded. 

Softly came the response, "Because I wanted to be alone with--with--youwhen it--it happened. " It happened before she had finished her sentence, but when it was finished the head lay upon his shoulder, and the birds, should they awaken, or the moon, or any one else, might see for aughtshe cared. It was holy and sacred now, and she felt no shame: she wasproud. The transfer of herself had been made. She belonged to him, andhe, of course, must do with his own property as he saw fit. It was nolonger any affair of hers. 

The victory of complete surrender is sometimes all-conquering; at anyrate, Dic was subjugated for life. His situation was one that would behard to improve upon in the way of mere earthly bliss. Heaven mayfurnish something better, and if it does, the wicked certainly have noconception of what they are going to miss. Tom, for example, would neverhave put buttons in the offering. Doug would not gamble and drink. Poor, painted Nanon would starve rather than sin. Old man Jones, in the amencorner, would not swindle his neighbor; nor would Wetmore, the Baptist, practise the holy calling of shepherd, having in his breast the heart ofa wolf. We all, saving a woman here and there, have our sins, little andgreat, and many times in the day we put in jeopardy that future bliss. But I console myself with the hope that there is as much forgiveness inheaven as there is sin on earth, save for the hypocrite. There may beforgiveness even for him, but I trust not. 

I have done this bit of philosophizing that I might give Dic and Rita amoment to themselves on the sycamore divan. You may have known the timein your life when you were thankful for the sight of a dear friend'sback. 

There was little said between our happy couple for many minutes afterthe explosion; but like a certain lady, who long ago resided for a timein a beautiful garden, the girl soon began to tempt the man: not to eatapples, for Rita was one of the "women here and there" spoken of above. She was pure and sinless as the light of a star. Her tempting was ofanother sort. Had Rita been Eve, there would have been no fall. 

After several efforts to speak, she said, "Now you will not go to NewYork, will you?"

"Why, Rita, " he responded confidently, "of course I'll go. There is morereason now for my going than ever before. "

"Why more now than ever before?" asked the girl. 

"Because I want money that I may support you, " he responded. "I'll tellyou a great secret, Rita, but you must promise you will never tell it toany one. "

"I promise--cross my heart, " she answered, and Dic knew that wild horsescould not tear the secret from her girlish breast. 

"I'm studying law, " continued Dic. "Billy Little has been buying lawbooks for me. They are too expensive for me to buy. He bought me'Blackstone's Commentaries'--four large volumes. " The big words tastedgood in his mouth, and were laden with sweetness and wisdom for herears. 

"I have read them twice, " continued Dic. "He is going to buy 'Kent, ' andafter that I'll take up works on pleading and special subjects. He hasconsulted Mr. Switzer, and if I can save enough money to keep you and mefor two or three years in idleness, I am to go into Mr. Switzer's officeto learn the practice. It is a great and beautiful study. "

"Oh, it must be, Dic, " cried the girl, delightedly. "To think that youwill be a lawyer. I have always known that you would some day be a greatman. Maybe you will be a judge, or a governor, or go to Congress. "

"That is hardly possible, " responded Dic, laughing. 

"Indeed it is possible, " she responded very seriously. "Anything ispossible for you--even the presidency, and I'll help you. I will not bea millstone, Dic. I'll help you. We'll work together--and you'll seeI'll help you. "

Accordingly, she began to help him at once by putting her arm coaxinglyover his shoulder, and saying:--

"But if you are going to do all this you should not waste your timeleading horses to New York. "

"But you see, Rita, " he responded, "I can make a lot of money by going, and I shall see something of the world, as you heard Billy Little say. "

"Oh, you would rather see the world than me?" queried the girl, drawingaway from him with an injured air, whereupon Dic, of course, vowed thathe would rather see her face than a thousand worlds. 

"Then why don't you stay where you can see it?" she asked poutingly. 

"Because, as I told you, I want to make money so that when I go into Mr. Switzer's office I can support you--and the others--" He stopped, surprised by his words. 

"The others? What others?" asked the girl. That was a hard question toanswer, and he undertook it very lamely. 

"You see, Rita, " he stammered, "there will be--there might--there maybe--don't you know, Rita?"

"No, I don't know, Dic. Why are you so mysterious? Whatothers--who--oh!" And she hid her face upon his breast, while her armsstole gently about his neck. 

"You see, " remarked Dic, speaking softly to the black waves of lustroushair, "I must take Iago's advice and put money in my purse. I havealways hoped to be something more than I am. Billy Little, who has beenalmost a father to me, has burned the ambition into me. But with all myyearning, life has never held a real purpose compared with that I nowhave in you. The desire for fame, Rita, the throbbing of ambition, thelust for gold and dominion, are considered by the world to be the greatmotives of human action. But, Rita, they are all simply means to oneend. There is but one great purpose in life, and that is furnished to aman by the woman he loves. Billy Little gave me the thought. It is notmine. How he knew it, being an old bachelor, I cannot tell. "

"Perhaps Billy Little has had the--the purpose and lost it, " said Rita, being quite naturally in a sentimental mood. 

"I wonder?" mused Dic. 

"Poor, dear old Billy Little, " mused Rita. "But you will not go to NewYork?" continued Miss Persistency. 

Dic had resolved, upon hearing Rita's first petition concerning the NewYork trip, that he would be adamant. His resolution to go was built uponthe rock of expediency. It was best for him, best for Rita, that heshould go, and he had no respect for a poor, weak man who would permit awoman to coax him from a clearly proper course. She should never coaxhim out of doing that which was best for them both. 

"We'll discuss it at another time, " he answered evasively, as he triedto turn her face up toward him. But her face would not be turned, andwhile she hid it on his breast she pushed his away, and said:--

"No, we'll discuss it now. You must promise me that you will not go. Ifyou do not, I shall not like you, and you shall not--" She did notfinish the sentence, and Dic asked gently:--

"I shall not--what, Rita?"

"Anything, " came the enlightening response from the face hidden on hisbreast. "Besides, you will break my heart, and if you go, I'll know youdon't care for me. I'll know you have been deceiving me. " Then the facecame up, and the great brown eyes looked pleadingly into his. "Dic, I'veleaned on you so long--ever since I was a child--that I have no strengthof my own; but now that I have given myself up to you, I--I cannot standalone, even for a day. If you go away from me now, it will break myheart. I tell you it will. "

Dic felt her tears upon his hand, and soon he heard soft sobs and felttheir gentle convulsions within her breast. Of course the result wasinevitable; the combatants were so unevenly matched. Woman's tears arethe most potent resolvent know to chemistry. They will dissolve rocks ofresolution, and Dic's resolutions, while big with intent, were small inflintiness, though he had thought well of them at the time they wereformed. He could not endure the pain inflicted by Rita's tears. He hadnot learned how easy and useful tears are to women. They burned him. 

"Please, Rita, please don't cry, " he pleaded. 

The tears, while they came readily and without pain, were honest; at anyrate, the girl being so young, they were not deliberately intended to beuseful. They were a part of her instinct of self-preservation. 

"Don't cry, please, Rita. Your tears hurt me. "

"Then promise me you won't go to New York. " I fear there is no gettingaway entirely from the theory of utility. With evident intent to crowdthe battle upon a wavering foe, the tears came fast and furious. 

"Promise me, " sobbed Rita; and I know you will love Dic better when Itell you that he promised. Then the girl's face came up, and, I grieveto say, the tears, having served their purpose, ceased at once. 

Next morning Dic went to see Billy Little and told him he had come tohave a talk. Billy locked the store door and the friends repaired to theriver. There they found a shady resting-place, and Billy, lighting hispipe, said:--

"Blaze away. "

"I know you will despise me, " the young man began. 

"No, I won't, " interrupted Billy. "You are human. I don't look forunmixed good. If I did, I should not find it except once in a while in awoman. What have you been doing? Go on. " Billy leaned forward on hiselbows, placed the points of his fingers together, and, while waitingfor Dic to begin, hummed his favorite stanza concerning the braes ofMaxwelton. 

"Well, " responded Dic, "I've concluded not to go to New York. "

Billy's face turned a shade paler as he took his pipe from his lips andlooked sadly at Dic. After a moment of scrutiny he said:--

"I had hoped to get you off before it happened. It's _all_ off now. Youmight as well throw Blackstone into Blue. "

"What do you mean?" queried Dic. "Before what happened?"

"Before Rita happened, " responded Billy. 

"Rita?" cried Dic in astonishment. "How did you know?"

"How do I know that spring follows winter?" asked Billy. "I had hopedthat winter would hold a little longer, and that I might get you off toNew York before spring's arrival. "

"Billy Little, you are talking in riddles, " said Dic, pretending not tounderstand. "Drop your metaphor and tell me what you mean. "

"You know well enough what I mean, but I'll tell you. I hoped that youwould go to New York before Rita came to you. There would have beenoceans of time after your return. She is very young, not much oversixteen. "

"But you see, Billy Little, it was this way. "

"Oh, I know all about how it was. She cried and said you didn't care forher, that you were breaking her heart, and wouldn't let you kiss hertill you gave her your promise. Oh, bless your soul, I know exactly howit came about. Maxwelton's braes are um, um, um, um, yes, yes. "

"Have you seen Rita?" asked Dic, who could not believe that she wouldtell even Billy of the scene on the log. 

"Of course I have not seen her. How could I? It all happened last nightafter the social, and it is now only seven A. M. "

"Billy Little, I believe you are a mind reader, " said Dic, musingly. 

"No, I'm not, " replied Billy, with asperity. "Let's go back to thestore. You've told me all I want to know; but I don't blame you muchafter all. You couldn't help it. No man could. But you'll die plowingcorn. Perhaps you'll be happier in a corn field than in a broader one. Doubtless the best thing one can do is to drift. With all due reverence, I am almost ready to believe that Providence made a mistake when itpermitted our race to progress beyond the pastoral age. Stick to yourploughing, Dic. It's good, wholesome exercise, and Rita will furnisheverything else needful to your happiness. "

They walked silently back to the store. Dic, uninvited, entered and satdown on a box. Billy distributed the morning mail and hummed MaxweltonBraes. Then he arranged goods on the counter. Dic followed the littleold fellow with his eyes, but neither spoke. The younger man was waitingfor his friend to speak, and the friend was silent because he did notfeel like talking. He loved Dic and Rita with passionate tenderness. Hehad almost brought them up from infancy, and all that was best in thembore the stamp of his personality. Between him and Dic there was afeeling near akin to that of father and son, but unfortunately Rita wasnot a boy. Still more unfortunately the last year had added to heralready great beauty a magnetism that was almost mesmeric in its effect. There had also been a ripening in the sweet tenderness of her gentlemanner, and if you will remember the bachelor heart of which I havespoken, you will understand that poor Billy Little couldn't help it atall, at all. God knows he would have helped it. The fault lay in thegirl's winsomeness; and if Billy's desire to send Dic off to New Yorkwas not an unmixed motive, you must not blame Billy too severely. Neither must you laugh at him; for he had the heart of a boy, and themost boyish act in the world is to fall in love. Billy had nevermisunderstood Rita's tenderness and love for him. There was no designingcoquetry in the girl. She had always since babyhood loved him, perhapsbetter even than she loved her parents, and she delighted to show himher affection. Billy had never been deceived by her preference, and ofcourse was careful that she should not observe the real quality of hisown regard for her. But the girl's love, such as she gave, was sweet tohim--oh, so sweet, this love of this perfect girl--and he, even he, oldand gray though he was, could not help longing for that which he knewwas as far beyond his reach as the bending rainbow is beyond the hand ofa longing child. He was more than fifty in years, but his heart wasyoung, and we, of course, all agree that he was very foolishindeed--which truth he knew quite as well as we. 

So this disclosure of Dic's was a shock to Billy, although it was thething of all others he most desired should come to pass. 

"Are you angry, Billy Little?" asked Dic, feeling somewhat inclined tolaugh, though standing slightly in fear of his little friend. 

"Certainly not, " returned Billy. "Why should I be angry? It's no affairof mine. "

"No affair of yours, Billy Little?" asked Dic, with a touch of distressin his voice, though he knew that it was an affair very dear to Billy'sheart. "Do you really mean it?"

"No, of course I don't mean it, " returned Billy; "but I wish youwouldn't bother me. Don't you see I'm at work?"

Billy's conduct puzzled Dic, as well it might, and the young man turnedhis face toward the door, determined to wait till an explanation shouldcome unsought. 

Billy's bachelor apartment--or apartments, as he called his singleroom--was back of the store. There were his bed, --a huge, mahoganyfour-poster, --his library, his bath-tub, a half-dozen good pictures inoil and copper-plate, a pair of old fencing foils, --relics of hisuniversity days, --a piano, and a score of pipes. Under the bed was aflat leather trunk, and on the floor a rich, though worn, velvet carpet. Three or four miniatures on ivory rested on the rude mantel-shelf, andin the middle of the room stood a mahogany table covered with_Blackwood's Magazines_, pamphlets, letters, and books. In the midst ofthis confusion on the table stood a pair of magnificent goldcandlesticks, each holding a half-burned candle, and over all was amantle of dust that would have driven a woman mad. Certainly thecontents of Billy's "apartments" was an incongruous collection to findin a log-cabin of the wilderness. 

At the end of half an hour Billy called to Dic, saying:--

"I wish you would watch the store for me. I'm going to my apartments fora bit. If Mrs. Hawkins comes in, give her this bottle of calomel andthis bundle of goods. The calomel is a fippenny bit; the goods is fourshillin', but I don't suppose she'll want to pay for them. Don't takecoonskins. I won't have coonskins. If I can't sell my goods for cash, I'll keep 'em. Butter and eggs will answer once in a while, if thecustomer is poor and has no money, but I draw the line on coonskins. TheHawkinses always have coonskins. I believe they breed coons, but theycan't trade their odoriferous pelts to me. If she has them, tell her totake them to Hackett's. He'll trade for fishing worms, if she has any, and then perhaps get more than his shoddy goods are worth. Well, here'sthe calomel and the goods. Get the cash or charge them. There's a letterin the C box for Seal Coble. Give it to Mrs. Hawkins, and tell her tohand it to Seal as she drives past his house. Tell her to read it to theold man. He doesn't know _a_ from _x_. I doubt if Mrs. Hawkins does. Butyou can tell her to read it--it will flatter her. I'll return when I'mready. Meantime, I don't want to be disturbed by any one. Understand?"

"Yes, " answered Dic, and the worthy merchant disappeared, locking thedoor behind him. 

Billy sat down in the arm-chair, leaned his head backward, and looked atthe ceiling for a few minutes; then, resting his elbows on his knees, heburied his face in his hands. There he sat without moving for an hour. At the end of that time he arose, drew the trunk from under the bed, unlocked it, and raised the lid. A woman's scarf, several bundles ofletters, two teakwood boxes, ten or twelve inches square and three orfour inches deep, beautifully mounted in gold, and a dozen books neatlywrapped in tissue paper, made up the contents. These articles seemed totell of a woman back somewhere in Billy's life; and if they spoke thetruth, there must have been grief along with her for Billy. For althoughhe was created capable of great joy, by the same token he could alsosuffer the deepest grief. 

Out of the trunk came one of the gold-mounted boxes, and out of the boxcame a package of letters neatly tied with a faded ribbon. Billy liftedthe package to his face and inhaled the faint odor of lavender givenforth; then he--yes, even he, Billy Little, quaint old cynic, pressedthe dainty bundle to his lips and breathed a sigh of mingled sorrow andrelief. 

"Ah, I knew they would help me, " he said. "They always do. Whatever mytroubles, they always help me. "

He opened the package, and, after carefully reading the letters, boundthem again with the ribbon, and took from the box a small ivory jewelcase, an inch cube in size. From the ivory box he took a heavy plaingold ring and went over to the chair, where he sat in bachelormeditation, though far from fancy free. 

Suddenly he sprang from the chair, exclaiming: "I'll do it. I'll do it. She would wish me to--I will, I will. "

He then went back to the storeroom, loitered behind the letter-boxes afew minutes, called Dic back to him, and said:--

"You are going to have one of the sweetest, best girls in all the worldfor your wife, " said he. "You are lucky, Dic, but she is luckier. Whenyou first told me of--of what happened last night, I was disappointedbecause I saw your career simply knocked end over end. No man, having assweet a wife as Rita, ever amounted to anything, unless she happened tobe ambitious, and Rita has no more ambition than a spring violet. Such awoman, unless she is ambitious, takes all the ambition out of a man. Shebecomes sufficient for him. She absorbs his aspirations, and gives himin exchange nothing but contentment. Of course, if she is ambitious andsighs for a crown for him, she is apt to lead him to it. But Rita knowshow to do but one thing well--first conjugation, present infinitive, _amare_. She knows all about that, and she will bring you merehappiness--nothing else. By Jove, I'm sorry for you. You'll only behappy. "

"But, Billy Little, " cried Dic, "you have it wrong. Don't you see thatshe will be an inspiration? She will fire me. I will work and achievegreater things for her sake than I could possibly accomplish withouther. "

"That's why you're going to New York, is it?" asked Dic's cynicalfriend. 

"Well, you know, that was her first request, and--and, you mustunderstand--"

"Yes, I understand. I know she will coax you out of leaving her sidelong enough to plow a corn row if you are not careful. There'll be happytimes for the weeds. Women of Rita's sort are like fire and water, Dic;they are useful and delightful, but dangerous. No man, however wise, knows their power. Egad! One of them would coax the face off of ye ifshe wanted it, before you knew you had a face. It's their God-givenprivilege to coax; but bless your soul, Dic, what a poor world thiswould be without their coaxing. God pity the man who lacks it! Eh, Dic?"Billy was thinking of his own loneliness. 

"Rita certainly knows how to coax, " replied Dic. "And--and it is verypleasant. "

"Have you an engagement ring for her?" asked Billy. 

"No, " responded Dic, "I can't afford one now, and Rita doesn't expectit. After I'm established in the law, I'll buy her a beautiful ring. "

"After you're established in the law! If the poor girl waits forthat--but she shan't wait. I have one here, " said Billy, drawing forththe ivory box. "I value it above all my possessions. " His voice brokepiteously. "It is more precious to me . .. Than words can . .. Tell or . .. Money can buy. It brought me . .. My first great joy . .. My first greatgrief. I give it to you, Dic, that you may give it to Rita. Egad! Ibelieve I've taken a cold from the way my eyes water. There, there, don't thank me, or I'll take it back. Now, I want to be alone. Damme, Isay, don't thank me. Get out of here, you young scoundrel; to come inhere and take my ring away from me! Jove! I'll have the law on you, thelaw! Good-by. "

"I fear I should not have given them the ring, " mused Billy when Dic hadgone. .. . "It might prove unlucky. .. . It came back to me because she wasforced to marry another. .. . I wonder if it will come back to Dic?Nonsense! It is impossible. .. . Nothing can come between them. .. . But itwas a fatal ring for me. .. . I am almost sorry . .. But it can bring notrouble to Dic and Rita . .. Impossible. But I am almost sorry . .. Gooff, Billy Little; you are growing soft and superstitious . .. But itwould break her heart. I wonder . .. Ah! nonsense. Maxwelton's braes arebonny, um, um, um, um, um, um. " And Billy first tried to sing his griefaway, then sought relief from his beloved piano. 

THE FIGHT BY THE RIVER SIDE

CHAPTER VI

THE FIGHT BY THE RIVER SIDE

Deep in the forest on the home path, Dic looked at the ring, and quiteforgot Billy Little, while he anticipated the pleasure he would take ingiving the golden token to Rita. He did not intend to be selfish, butselfishness was a part of his condition. A great love is, and should be, narrowing. 

That evening Dic walked down the river path to Bays's and, as usual, saton the porch with the family. Twenty-four hours earlier sitting on theporch with the family would have seemed a delightful privilege, and themoments would have been pleasure-winged. But now Mrs. Bays's profoundand frequently religious philosophizing was dull compared to what mightbe said on the log down by the river bank. 

Tom, of course, talked a good deal. Among other things he remarked toDic:--

"I 'lowed you'd never come back here again after the way Rita treatedyou last night. " Of course he did not know how exceedingly well Rita hadtreated Dic last night. 

"Oh, that was nothing, " returned Dic. "Rita was right. I hope she willalways--always--" The sentence was hard to finish. 

"You hope she'll always treat you that-a-way?" asked Tom, derisively. "Ibet if you had her alone she wouldn't be so hard to manage--would you, Rita?" Tom thought himself a rare wit, and a mistake of that sort makesone very disagreeable. Rita's face burned scarlet at Tom's witticism, and Mrs. Bays promptly demanded of her daughter:--

"What on earth are you talking about?" Poor Rita had not been talking atall, and therefore made no answer. The demand was then made of Tom, butin a much softer tone of voice:--

"Tell me, Tom, " his mother asked. 

"I'll not tell you. Rita and Dic may, but I'll not. I'm no tell-tale. "No, not he!

The Chief Justice turned upon Rita, looked sternly over her glasses, andagain insisted:--

"What have you been doing, girl? Tell me at once. I command you by theduty you owe your mother. "

"I can't tell you, mother. Please don't ask, " replied Rita, hanging herhead. 

"You can tell me, and you shall, " cried the fond mother. 

"I can't tell you, mother, and I won't. Please don't ask. "

"Do my ears deceive me? You refuse to obey your parents? 'Obey thyfather and thy mother that thy days may be long'--"

Tom interrupted her: "Oh, mother, for goodness' sake, quit firing thatquotation at Rita. I'm sick of it. If it's true, I ought to have diedlong ago. I don't mind you. Never did. Never will. "

"Yes, you do, Tom, " answered his mother, meekly. "And this disobedientgirl shall mind me, too. " Rita had never in all her life disobeyed acommand from either father or mother. She was obedient from habit andinclination, and in her guileless, affectionate heart believed that aterrific natural cataclysm of some sort would surely occur should sheeven think of disobeying. 

With ostentatious deliberation Mrs. Bays folded her knitting and placedit on the floor beside her; took off her spectacles, put them in thecase, and put the case in her pocket. Rita knew her mother was clearingthe decks for action and that Justice was coldly arranging to have itsown. So great was the girl's love and fear for this hard woman that shetrembled as if in peril. 

"Now, Margarita Fisher Bays, " the Chief Justice began, glaring at thetrembling girl. When on the bench she addressed her daughter by her fullname in long-drawn syllables, and Rita's full name upon her mother'slips meant trouble. But at the moment Mrs. Bays began her address fromthe bench Billy Little came around the corner of the house and stoppedin front of the porch. 

Tom said, "Hello, Billy Little, " Mr. Bays said, "Howdy, " and Mrs. Bayssaid majestically: "Good evening, Mr. Little. You have come just in timeto see the ungratefullest creature the world can produce--a disobedientdaughter. "

"I can't believe that you have one, " smiled Billy. 

Rita's eyes flashed a look of gratitude upon her friend. Dic might notbe able to understand the language of those eyes, but Billy knew theirvocabulary from the smallest to the greatest word. 

"I wouldn't believe it either, " said Mrs. Bays, "if I had not just heardher say it with my own ears. "

"Did she say it with your own ears?" interrupted Tom. 

"Now, Tom, please don't interrupt, my son, " said Mrs. Bays. "She said toher own mother, Mr. Little, 'I won't;' said it to her own mother who hastoiled and suffered and endured for her sake all her life long; to herown mother who has nursed her and watched over her and tried to do herduty according to the poor light that God has vouchsafed--and--and I'vebeen troubled with my heart all day. "

Rita, poor girl, had been troubled with her heart many days. 

"Yes, with my heart, " continued the dutiful mother. "Dr. Kennedy says Imay drop any moment. " (Billy secretly wished that Kennedy had fixed themoment. ) "And when I asked her to tell me what she did last night at thesocial, she answered, 'I can't and won't. ' I should have known betterthan to let her go. She hasn't sense enough to be let out of my sight. She lied to me about the social, too. She pretended that she did notwant to go, and she did want to go. " That was the real cause of Mrs. Margarita's anger. She suspected she had been duped into consenting, andthe thought had rankled in her heart all day. 

"You did want to go, didn't you?" snapped out the old woman. 

"Yes, mother, I did want to go, " replied Rita. 

"There, you hear for yourself, Mr. Little. She lied to me, and now isbrazen enough to own up to it. "

Tom thought the scene very funny and laughed boisterously. Had Tom beenscolded, Rita would have wept. 

"Go it, mother, " said Tom. "This is better than a jury trial. "

"Oh, Tom, be still, son!" said Mrs. Bays, and then turning to Rita: "Nowyou've got to tell me what happened at Scott's social. Out with it!"

Rita and Dic were sitting near each other on the edge of the porch. Mr. Bays and Tom occupied rocking-chairs, and Billy Little was standing onthe ground, hat in hand. 

"Tell me this instant, " cried Mrs. Bays, rising from her chair and goingover to the girl, who shrank from her in fear. "Tell me, orI'll--I'll--"

"I can't, mother, " the girl answered tremblingly. "I can't tell youbefore all these--these folks. I'll tell you in the house. "

"You went into the kissing game. That's what you did, " cried Mrs. Bays, "and your punishment shall be to confess it before Mr. Little. " Ritabegan to weep, and answered gently:--

"Yes, mother, I did, but I did not--did not--" A just and injured wrathgathered on the face of Justice. 

"Didn't I command you not?"

"I'll tell you all about it, Mrs. Bays, " interrupted Dic. "I coaxed herto go in. " (Rita's heart thanked him for the lie. ) "The others allinsisted. One of the boys dragged her to the centre of the room and shejust had to go into the game. She only remained a short time, and whatTom referred to is this: she would not allow any one to--to kiss her, and she quit the game when she--she refused me. "

"She quit the game when it quit, I 'low. Isn't that right?" asked theinquisitor. 

"The game stopped when she went out--"

"I thought as much, " replied Mrs. Bays, straightening up for the purposeof delivering judgment. "Now go to bed at once, you disobedient, indecent girl! I'm ashamed of you, and blush that Mr. Little should knowyour wickedness. "

"Oh, please let me stay, " sobbed Rita, but Mrs. Bays pointed to the doorand Rita rose, gave one glance to Dic, and went weeping to her room. Mr. Bays said mildly:--

"Margarita, you should not have been so hard on the girl. "

"Now, Tom Bays, " responded the strenuous spouse, "I'll thank you not tomeddle with my children. I know my duty, and I'll do it. Lord knows Iwish I could shirk it as some people do, but I can't. I must do my dutywhen the Lord is good enough to point it out, or my conscience willsmite me. There's many a person with my heart would sit by and let herchild just grow up in the wilderness like underbrush; but I _must_ domy duty, Mr. Little, in the humble sphere in which Providence has placedme. Give every man his just dues, and do my duty. That's all I know, Mr. Little. 'Justice to all and punishment for sinners;' that's my motto andmy husband will tell you I live up to it. " She looked for confirmationto her spouse, who said regretfully:--

"Yes, I must say that's true. "

"There, " cried triumphant Justice. "You see, I don't boast. I despiseboasting. " She took up her knitting, put on her glasses, closed herlips, and thus announced that court was also closed. 

Poor Rita, meantime, was sobbing, upstairs at her window. 

After a long, awkward silence, Billy Little addressed Dic. "I came up tospend the night with you, and if you are going home, I'll walk and leadmy horse. I suppose you walked down?"

"Yes, " answered Dic; "I'll go with you. "

"I'm sorry to carry off your company, Mrs. Bays, " said Billy, "but Iwant to--"

"Oh, Dic's no company; he's always here. I don't know where he findstime to work. I'd think he'd go to see the girls sometimes. "

"Rita's a girl, isn't she?" asked Billy, glancing toward Dic. 

"Rita's only a child, and a disobedient one at that, " replied Mrs. Bays, but Billy's words put a new thought into her head that was almost sureto cause trouble for Rita. 

When Billy and Dic went around the house to fetch Billy's horse, Ritawas sitting at the window upstairs. She smiled through her tears andtossed a note to Dic, which he deciphered by the light of the moon. Itwas brief, "Please meet me to-morrow at the step-off--three o'clock. "

The step-off was a deep hole in the river halfway between Bays's andBright's. 

Dic and Billy walked up the river path a little time in silence. Billywas first to speak. 

"I consider, " said he, "that profane swearing is vulgar, but I must saydamn that woman. What an inquisitor she would make. I hope Kennedy isright about her heart. Think of her as your mother-in-law!"

"When Rita is my wife, " replied Dic, "I'll protect her, if I haveto--to--"

"What will you do, Dic?" asked Billy. "Such a woman is utterlyunmanageable. You see, the trouble is, that she believes in herself andis honest by a species of artificial sincerity. Show me a stern, hardwoman who is bent on doing her duty, her whole duty, and nothing but herduty, and I'll show you a misery breeder. Did you give Rita the ring?"

"I haven't had the chance, " answered Dic. "I'll do it to-morrow. BillyLittle, I want to thank you--you must let me tell you what I think, orI'll burst. "

"Burst, then, " returned Billy. "I'd rather be kicked than thanked. Iknew how Rita and you would feel, or I should not have given you thering. Do you suppose I would have parted with it because of a smallmotive? Have you told the Chief Justice?"

"No; she will learn when she sees the ring on Rita's finger. "

Silence then ensued, which was broken after a few minutes by BillyLittle humming under his breath, "Maxwelton's braes are bonny. " Dic soonjoined in the sweet refrain, and, each encouraging the other, theyswelled their voices and allowed the tender melody to pour forth. I canalmost see them as they walked up the river path, now in the blackshadow of the forest, and again near the gurgling water's edge, in theyellow light of the moon. The warm, delicious air was laden with theodor of trees and sweetbrier, and to the song the breath of the southwind played an accompaniment of exquisite cadence upon the leaves. Iseem to hear them singing, --Billy's piping treble, plaintive, quaint, and almost sweet, carrying the tenor to Dic's bass. There was nosoprano. The concert was all tenor and bass, south wind, and rustlingleaves. The song helped Dic to express his happiness, and enabled Billyto throw off the remnants of his heartache. Music is a surer antidote todisappointment, past, present, and future, than the philosophy of allthe Stoics that ever lived; and if all who know the truth of thatstatement were to read these pages, Billy Little would have manymillions of sympathizers. 

Dic did not neglect Rita's note, but read it many times after he hadlighted the candle in the loft where he and Billy were to sleep. Longafter Billy had gone to bed Dic sat up, thinking of Rita, and anonreplenishing his store of ecstasy from the full fountain of her note. After an unreasonable period of waiting Billy said:--

"If you intend to sit there all night, I wish you would smother thecandle. It's filling the room with bugs. Here is a straddle-bug of somesort that's been trying to saw my foot off. "

"In a moment, Billy Little, " answered Dic. The moment stretched intomany minutes, until Billy, growing restive, threw his shoe at the candleand felled it in darkness to the floor. Dic laughed and went to bed, andBilly fell into so great a fit of laughter that he could hardly checkit. Neither slept much, and by sun-up Billy was riding homeward. 

That he might be sure to be on time, Dic was at the step-off byhalf-past two, and five minutes later Rita appeared. The step-off was ata deep bend in the river where the low-hanging water-elm, the redbud, and the dogwood, springing in vast luxuriance from the rich bottomsoil, were covered by a thick foliage of wild grape-vines. 

"The river path, " used only as a "horse road" and by pedestrians, leftthe river at the upper bend, crossing the narrow peninsula formed by thewinding stream, and did not intrude upon the shady nook of raised groundat the point of the peninsula next the water's edge. There was, however, a horse path--wagon roads were few and far apart--on the opposite sideof the river. This path was little used, save by hunters, the west sideof the river being government land, and at that time a vast stretch ofunbroken forest. Rita had chosen the step-off for her trysting-placebecause of its seclusion, and partly, perhaps, for the sake of itsbeauty. She and Dic could be seen only from the opposite side of theriver, and she thought no one would be hunting at that time of the year. The pelts of fur-giving animals taken then were unfit for market. Venison was soft, and pheasants and turkeys were sitting. There would benothing she would wish to conceal in meeting Dic; but the instinct ofall animate nature is to do its love-making in secret. 

"Oh, Dic, " said the girl, after they were seated on a low, rocky benchunder a vine-covered redbud, "oh, Dic, I did so long to speak to youlast night. After what happened night before last--it seems ages ago--Ihave lived in a dream, and I wanted to talk to you and assure myselfthat it is all true and real. "

"It is as real as you and I, Rita, and I have brought you something thatwill always make you know it is real. "

"Isn't it wonderful, Dic?" said the girl, looking up to him with achildish wistfulness of expression that would always remain in her eyes. "Isn't it wonderful that this good fortune has come to me? I can hardlyrealize that it is true. "

"Oh, but I am the one to whom the good fortune has really come, "replied Dic. "You are so generous that you give me yourself, and that isthe richest present on earth. "

"Ah, but you are so generous that you take me. I cannot understand itall yet; I suppose I shall in time. But what have you brought that willmake me know it is all real?"

Dic then brought forth the ivory box and held it behind him. 

"Oh, what is it?" cried the girl, eagerly. 

"Give me your hand, " commanded Dic. The hand was promptly surrendered. 

"Now close your eyes, " he continued. The eyes were closed, very, veryhonestly. Rita knew no other way of doing anything, and never so much asthought of peeping. Then Dic lifted the soft little hand to his lips, and slipped the gold band on the third finger. 

"Oh, I know what it is now, " she cried delightedly, but she would notlook till Dic should say "open. " "Open" was said, and the girlexclaimed:--

"Oh, Dic, where did you get it?"

Bear this fact in mind: If you live among the trees, the wild flowers, and the birds, you will always remain a child. Rita was little more thana child in years, and I know you will love Dic better because within hisman's heart was still the heart of his childhood. The great oak of theforest year by year takes on its encircling layer of wood, but thelayers of a century still enclose the heart of a sprig that burst forthupon a spring morning from its mother acorn. 

For a moment after Rita asked Dic where he got the ring he regretted hehad not bought it, but he said:--

"Billy Little gave it to me that I might give it to you; so it really ishis present. "

A shade of disappointment spread over her face, but it lasted only amoment. 

"But you give it to me, " she said. "It was really yours, and you give itto me. I am almost glad it comes from Billy Little. He has been so muchto me. You are by nature different from other men, but the bestdifference we owe to Billy Little. " The pronoun "we" was significant. Itmeant that she also was Billy Little's debtor for the good he hadbrought to Dic, since now that wonderful young man belonged to her. 

"I wonder where he got it?" asked the girl. 

"I don't know, " replied Dic. "He said he valued it above all else hepossessed, and told me it had brought him his sweetest joy and hisbitterest grief. I think he gave it to a sweetheart long years ago, andshe was compelled to return it and to marry another man. I am onlyguessing. I don't know. "

"Perhaps we had better not keep it, " returned the girl, with a touch ofher forest-life superstition. "It might bring the same fate to us. Icould not bear it, Dic, now. I should die. Before you spoke tome--before that night of Scott's social--it would have been hard enoughfor me to--to--but now, Dic, I couldn't bear to lose you, nor to marryanother. I could not; indeed, I could not. Let us not keep the ring. "

Dic's ardor concerning the ring was dampened, but he said:--

"Nonsense, Rita, you surprise me. Nothing can come between us. "

"I fear others have thought the same way. Perhaps Billy Little and hissweetheart"--she was almost ready for tears. 

"Yes, but what can come between us? Your parents, I hope, won't object. Mine won't, and we don't--do we?" said Dic, argumentatively. 

"Ah, " answered Rita with her lips, but her eyes, whose language Dic wasbeginning to comprehend, said a great deal more than can be expressed inmere words. 

"Then what save death can separate us?" asked Dic. "We would offendBilly Little by returning the ring, and it looks pretty on your finger. Don't you like it, Rita?"

"Y-e-s, " she responded, her head bent doubtingly to one side, as sheglanced down at the ring. 

"You don't feel superstitious about it, do you?" he asked. 

"N-o-o. "

"Then we'll keep it, won't we?"

"Y-e-s. "

He drew the girl toward him and she turned her face upward. 

He would have kissed her had he not been startled by a call from theopposite side of the river. 

"Here, here, stop that. That'll never do. Too fine-haired and modest fora kissing game, but mighty willin' when all alone. We'll come over andget into the game ourselves. "

Dic and Rita looked up quickly and saw the huge figure of Doug Hillstanding on the opposite bank with a gun over his shoulder and a bottleof whiskey in his uplifted hand. By his side was his henchman, PatsyClark. The situation was a trying one for Dic. He could not fight theruffian in Rita's presence, and he had no right to tell him to move on. So he paid no attention to Doug's hail, and in a moment that worthyNimrod passed up the river. Dic and Rita were greatly frightened, andwhen Doug passed out of sight into the forest they started home. Theysoon reached the path and were walking slowly down toward Bays's, whenthey were again startled by the disagreeable voice of the Douglas. Thistime the voice came from immediately back of them, and Dic placedhimself behind Rita. 

"I've come to get my kiss, " said Doug, laughing boisterously. He waswhat he called "full"; not drunk, but "comfortable, " which meantuncomfortable for those who happened to be near him. "I've come for mykiss, " he cried again. 

[Illustration: "'I'VE COME TO GET MY KISS, ' SAID DOUG. "]

"You'll not get it, " answered Rita, who was brave when Dic was betweenher and her foe. Dic, wishing to avoid trouble, simply said, "I guessnot. "

"Oh, you guess not?" said Doug, apparently much amused. "You guess not?Well, we'll see, Mr. Fine-hair; we'll see. " Thereupon, he rested his gunagainst a tree, stepped quickly past Dic, and seized Rita around thewaist. He was drawing her head backward to help himself when Dic knockedhim down. Patsy Clark then sprang upon Dic, and, in imitation of hischief, fell to the ground. Doug and Patsy at once rose to their feet andrushed toward Dic. Rita screamed, as of course any right-minded womanwould have done, and, clasping her hands in terror, looked on fascinatedand almost paralyzed. Patsy came first and again took a fall. This time, from necessity or inclination, --probably the latter, --he did not rise, but left the drunken Douglas to face Dic single-handed and alone. Thoughtall and strong, Dic was by no means the equal of Doug in the matter ofbulk, and in a grappling match Doug could soon have killed him. Dicfully understood this, and, being more active than his huge foe, endeavored to keep him at arm's length. In this he was successful for atime; but at last the grapple came, and both men fell to theground--Doug Hill on top. Poor Rita was in a frenzy of terror. She couldnot even scream. She could only press her hands to her heart and look. When Dic and Doug fell to the ground, Patsy Clark, believing himselfsafe, rose to a sitting posture, and Doug cried out to him:--

"Give me your knife, Patsy, give me your knife. " Patsy at once respondedby placing his hunting-knife in Doug's left hand. Dic saw his imminentdanger and with his right hand clasped Doug's left wrist in a graspthat could not be loosened. After several futile attempts to free hiswrist, Doug tossed the knife over to his right side. It fell a fewinches beyond his reach, and he tried to grasp it. Rita saw that verysoon he would reach the knife, and Dic's peril brought back her presenceof mind. Doug put forth terrific efforts to reach the knife, and, despite Dic's resistance, soon had it in his grasp. In getting theknife, however, Doug gave Dic an opportunity to throw him off, and hedid so, quickly springing to his feet. Doug was on his feet in atwinkling, and rushed upon Dic with uplifted knife. Dic knew that hecould not withstand the rush, and thought his hour had come; but thesharp crack of a rifle broke the forest silence, and the knife fell fromDoug's nerveless hand, his knees shook under him, his form quiveredspasmodically for a moment, and he plunged forward on his face. Dicturned and saw Rita standing back of him, holding Doug's rifle to hershoulder, a tiny curl of blue smoke issuing from the barrel. The girl'sface turned pale, the gun fell from her hands, her eyes closed, and shewould have fallen had not Dic caught her in his arms. He did not so muchas glance at Doug, but at once carried the unconscious Rita home withall the speed he could make. 

"Now for goodness' sake, what has she been doing?" cried Mrs. Bays, asDic entered the front door with his almost lifeless burden. "That girlwill be the death of me yet. "

"She has fainted, " replied Dic, "and I fear she's dead. "

With a wild scream Mrs. Bays snatched Rita from Dic's arms in a frenzyof grief that bore a touch of jealousy. In health and happiness Rita forher own good must bow beneath the rod; but in sickness or in death Ritawas her child, and no strange hand should minister to her. A blessedphilosopher's stone had for once transmuted her hard, barren sense ofjustice to glowing love. She carried the girl into the house and appliedrestoratives. After a little time Rita breathed a sigh and opened hereyes. Her first word was "Dic!"

"Here I am, Rita, " he softly answered, stepping to her bedside andtaking her hand. Mrs. Bays, after her first inquiry, had asked noquestions, and Dic had given no information. After Rita's return toconsciousness tears began to trickle down her mother's furrowed cheek, and, ashamed of her weakness, she left the room. Dic knelt by Rita's bedand kissed her hands, her eyes, her lips. His caresses were the best ofall restoratives, and when Mrs. Bays returned, Rita was sitting on theedge of the bed, Dic's arm supporting her and her head resting on hisshoulder. Mrs. Bays came slowly toward them. The girl's habitual fear ofher mother returned, and lifting her head she tried to move away fromDic, but he held her. Mrs. Bays reached the bedside and stood facingthem in silence. The court of love had adjourned. The court of justicewas again in session. She snatched up Rita's hand and pointed to thering. 

"What is that?" she asked sternly. 

"That is our engagement ring, " answered Dic. "Rita has promised to be mywife. "

"Never!" cried the old woman, out of the spirit of pure antagonism. "Never!" she repeated, closing her lips in a spasm of supposed duty. Rita's heart sank, and Dic's seemed heavier by many pounds than a fewmoments before, though he did not fear the apostle of justice and dutyas did Rita. He hoped to marry Rita at once with her mother's consent;but if he could not have that, he would wait until the girl waseighteen, when she could legally choose for herself. Out of hisconfidence came calmness, and he asked, "Why shall not Rita be my wife? She shall want for nothing, and I willtry to make her happy. Why do you object?"

"Because--because I do, " returned Mrs. Bays. 

"In so important a matter as this, Mrs. Bays, 'because' is not asufficient reason. "

"I don't have to give you a reason, " she answered sharply. 

"You are a good woman, Mrs. Bays, " continued Dic, with a deliberate andbase intent to flatter. "No man or woman has ever had injustice at yourhands, and I, who am almost your son, ask that justice which you wouldnot refuse to the meanest person on Blue. "

The attack was unfair. Is it ever fair to gain our point by flatteringanother's weakness? Dic's statement of the case was hard to evade, soMrs. Margarita answered:--

"The girl's too young to marry. I'll never consent. I'll have nothing ofthe sort going on, for a while at any rate; give him back the ring. "

Rita slipped the ring from her finger and placed it in Dic's hand. 

"Now tell me, " Mrs. Bays demanded, "how this came about? How came Ritato faint?"

Rita hung her head and began to weep convulsively. 

"Rita and I, " answered Dic, "were walking home down the river path. Wehad been sitting near the step-off. Doug Hill and Patsy Clark came upbehind us, and Doug tried to kiss Rita. I interfered, and we fought. Hewas about to kill me with Patsy's hunting-knife when--when--when I shothim. Then Rita fainted, and I feared she was dead, so I brought her homeand left Doug lying on his face, with Patsy Clark standing over him. "

Rita so far recovered herself as to be able to say:--

"No, mother, I killed him. "

"You, " shrieked Mrs. Bays, "you?"

"Yes, " the girl replied. 

"Yes, " replied Dic to Mrs. Bays's incredulous look, "that was the way ofit, but I was the cause, and I shall take the blame. You had better notspeak of this matter to any one till we have consulted Billy Little. Ican bear the blame much better than Rita can. When the trial comes, youand Rita say nothing. I will plead guilty to having killed Doug Hill, and no questions will be asked. "

"If you will do it, Dic, if you will do it, " wailed Mrs. Bays. 

"I certainly will, " returned Dic. 

"No, you shall not, " said Rita. 

"You must be guided by your mother and me, " replied Dic. "I know what isbest, and if you will do as we direct, all may turn out better than wenow hope. He was about to kill me, and I had a right to kill him. I donot know the law certainly, but I fear you had no right to kill him inmy defence. I have read in the law books that a man may take another'slife in the defence of one whom he is bound to protect. I fear you hadno right to kill Doug Hill for my sake. "

"I had, oh, I had!" sobbed Rita. 

"But you will be guided by your mother and me, will you not, Rita?"Despite fears of her mother, the girl buried her face on Dic's breast, and entwining her arms about his neck whispered:--

"I will be guided by you. "

Dic then arose and said: "It may be that Doug is not dead. I will takeone of your horses, Mrs. Bays, and ride to town for Dr. Kennedy. "

Within ten minutes Dic was with Billy Little, telling him the story. "I'm going for Kennedy, " said Dic. "Saddle your horse quickly and rideup with us. "

Five minutes later, Dic, Kennedy, and Billy Little were gallopingfuriously up the river to the scene of battle. When they reached it, Doug, much to Dic's joy, was seated leaning against a tree. His shirthad been torn away, and Patsy was washing the bullet wound in the breastand back, for the bullet had passed entirely through Doug's body. 

"Well, he's not dead yet, " cried Kennedy. "So far, so good. Now we'llsee if I can keep from killing him. "

While the doctor was at work Dic took Billy to one side. "I told Mrs. Bays and Rita not to speak about this affair, " he said. "I will say uponthe trial that I fired the shot. "

"Why, Dic, that will never do. "

"Yes, it will; it must. You see, I had a good right to kill him, butRita had not. At any rate, don't you know that they might as well killRita at once as to try her? She couldn't live through a trial formurder. It would kill her or drive her insane. I'll plead guilty. Thatwill stop all questioning. "

"Yes, " replied Billy, deep in revery, and stroking his chin; "perhapsyou are right. But how about Hill and Clark? They will testify that Ritadid the shooting. "

"No one will have the chance to testify if I plead guilty, " said Dic. 

"And if Doug should die, you may hang or go to prison for life on a mereunexplained plea of guilty. That shall never happen with my consent. "

"Billy Little, you can't prevent it. I'll make a plea of guilty, "responded Dic, sharply; "and if you try to interfere, I'll never speakyour name again, as God is my help. "

Billy winced. "No wonder she loves you, " he said. "I'll not interfere. But take this advice: say nothing till we have consulted Switzer. Don'tenter a plea of guilty. You must be tried. I believe I have a plan thatmay help us. "

"What is it, Billy Little?" asked Dic, eagerly. 

"I'll not tell you now. Trust me for a time without questions, Dic. I amgood for something, I hope. "

"You are good for everything concerning me, Billy Little, " said Dic. "Iwill trust you and ask no questions. "

"Little, " said Kennedy, "if you will make a stretcher of boughs we willcarry Hill up to Bright's house and take him home in a wagon. I think hemay live. " Accordingly, a rude litter was constructed, and the four mencarried the wounded Douglas to Dic's house, where he was placed upon acouch of hay in a wagon, and taken to his home, two or three mileseastward. 

On the road over, Billy Little asked Dr. Kennedy to lead his horse whilehe talked to Patsy Clark, who was driving in the wagon. 

"How did Dic happen to shoot him?" asked Billy when he was seated besidePatsy. 

"D-Dic d-di-didn't shoot him. Ri-ta did, " stuttered Doug's henchman. 

"No, Patsy, it was Dic, " said Billy Little. 

"I-I re-reckon I or-orter know, " stammered Patsy. "I-I was there ands-saw it. You wasn't. "

"You're wrong, Patsy, " insisted Billy. 

"B-by Ned, I re-reckon I know, " he returned. 

"Now listen to me, Patsy, " said Billy, impressively. "I say you arewrong, and--by the way, Patsy, I want you to do a few little odd jobsabout the store for the next month or so. I'll not need you frequently, but I should like to have you available at any time. If you will comedown to the store, I will pay you twenty dollars wages in advance, andlater on I will give you another twenty. You are a good fellow, and Iwant to help you; but I am sure you are wrong in this case. I know itwas Dic who fired the shot. Now, think for a moment. Wasn't it Dic?"

"We-well, c-come to think a-a-about it, I believe you're right. Damnedif I don't. He t-tuk the gun and jes' b-b-blazed away. "

"I knew that was the way of it, " said Billy, quietly. 

"B-betch yur life it was jes' that-a-way. H-how the h----did you know?"

"Dic told me, " answered Billy. 

"Well, that-a-a-a-way was the way it was, sure as you're alive. "

"You're sure of it now, Patsy, are you?"

"D-dead sure. Wa-wa-wasn't I there and d-d-didn't I see it all? Yes, sir, d-d-dead sure. And the tw-twenty dollars? I'll g-get it to-morrow, you say?"

"Yes. "

"A-and the other t-t-twenty? I'll get it later, eh?"

"You can trust me, can't you, Patsy?" queried Billy. 

"B-betch yur life I can. E-e-e-everybody does. B-but how much later?"

"When it is all over, " answered Billy. 

"A-all right, " responded his stuttering friend. 

"But, " asked Billy, "if Doug recovers, and should think as you did atfirst, that Rita fired the shot?"

"Sa-sa-say, B-Billy Little, you couldn't make it another t-t-twentylater on for that ere job about the st-store, could ye?"

"I think I can, " returned Billy. 

"Well, then, Doug'll g-get it straight--never you f-f-fear. He was crazydrunk and ha-ha-half blind with blood where Dic knocked him, and hedidn't know who f-f-fired the shot. "

"But suppose he should know?"

"B-but he won't know, I-I tell ye. I-I t-trust you; c-can't you trustPatsy? I-I'm not as big a f-fool as I look. I-I let p-people think I'm afool because when p-people think you're a f-fool, it's lots easiert-t-to work 'em. See?"

 * * * * *

Billy left Doug hovering between life and death, and hurried back toDic. "Patsy says you took the gun from where it was leaning against thetree and shot Hill. I suppose he doesn't know exactly how it didhappen. I told him you said that was the way of it, and he assents. Hesays Doug doesn't know who fired the shot. We shall be able to leaveRita entirely out of the case, and you may, with perfect safety, enter aplea of self-defence. "

Dic breathed a sigh of relief and longed to thank Billy, but dared not, and the old friend rode homeward unthanked but highly satisfied. 

On the way home Billy fell into deep thought, and the thoughts grew intomutterings: "Billy Little, you are coming to great things. A briber, asuborner of perjury, a liar. I expect soon to hear of you stealing. Burglary is a profitable and honorable occupation. Go it, BillyLittle. --And for this you came like a wise man out of the East to leaventhe loaf of the West--all for the sake of a girl, a mere child, whom youare foolish enough to--nonsense--and for the sake of the man she is tomarry. " Then the grief of his life seemed to come back to him in aflood, and he continued almost bitterly: "I don't believe I have led anevil life. I don't want to feel like a Pharisee; but I don't recollecthaving injured any man or woman in the whole course of my miserableexistence, yet I have missed all that is best in life. Even when I havenot suffered, my life has been a pale, tasteless blank with nothing buta little poor music and worse philosophy to break the monotony. Thelittle pleasure I have had from any source has been enjoyed alone, andno joy is complete unless one may give at least a part of it to another. If one has a pleasure all to himself, he is apt to hate it at times, andthis is one of the times. Billy Little, you must be suffering for thesins of an ancestor. I wonder what he did, damn him. "

This mood was unusual for Billy. In his youth he had been baptized withthe chrism of sorrow and was safe from the devil of discontent. He wasby nature an apostle of sunshine; but when we consider all the facts, Iknow you will agree with me that he had upon this occasion good rightto be a little cloudy. 

That evening Dic was arrested and held in jail pending Doug Hill'srecovery or death. Should Douglas die, Dic would be held for murder andwould not be entitled to bail. In case of conviction for premeditatedmurder, death or imprisonment for life would be his doom. If Doug shouldrecover, the charge against Dic would be assault and battery, withintent to commit murder, conviction for which would mean imprisonmentfor a term of years. If self-defence could be established--and owing tothe fact that neither Dic nor Rita was to testify, that would bedifficult to accomplish--Dic would go free. These enormous "ifs"complicated the case, and Dic was detained in jail till Doug's fateshould be known. 

THE TRIAL

CHAPTER VII

THE TRIAL

I shall not try to tell you of Rita's suffering. She wept till she couldweep no more, and the nightmare of suspense settled on her heart in theform of dry-eyed suffering. She could not, even for a moment, free hermind from the fact that Dic was in jail and that his life was in perilon account of her act. Billy went every day to encourage her and to keepher silent by telling her that Dic would be cleared. Mrs. Baysprohibited her from visiting the jail; but, despite Rita's fear of hermother, the girl would have gone had not Dic emphatically forbidden. 

Doug recovered, and, court being then in session, Dic's trial forassault and battery, with intent to commit murder, came up at once. Ishall not take you through the tedious details of the trial, but willhasten over such portions as closely touch the fate of our friends. 

Upon the morning of Dic's arraignment he was brought into court and thejury was empanelled. Rita had begged piteously to go to the trial, butfor many reasons that privilege was denied. The bar was filled withlawyers, and the courtroom was crowded with spectators. Mr. Switzerdefended Dic, who sat near him on the right hand of the judge, theState's attorney, with Doug Hill and Patsy Clark, the prosecutingwitnesses, sitting opposite on the judge's left. The jury sat oppositethe judge, and between the State's attorney and Mr. Switzer and thejudge and the jury was an open space fifteen feet square. On a raisedplatform in this vacant space was the witness chair, facing the jury. 

Doug Hill and Patsy Clark were the only witnesses for the State. Thedefendant had summoned no witnesses, and Dic's fate rested in the handsof his enemy and his enemy's henchman. 

Patsy and Doug had each done a great deal of talking, and time and againhad asserted that Dic had deliberately shot Doug Hill after the fightwas over. Mr. Switzer's only hope seemed to be to clear Dic oncross-examination of Doug and Patsy. 

"Not one lie in a hundred can survive a hot cross-examination, " he said. "If a woman is testifying for the man she loves, or for her child, shewill carry the lie through to the end without faltering. Every instinctof her nature comes to her help; but a man sooner or later bungles a lieif you make him angry and keep at him. "

Doug was the first witness called. He testified that after the fight wasover Dic snatched up the gun and said, "I'm going to kill you;" that hethen fired the shot, and that afterward Doug remembered nothing. Thestory, being simple, was easily maintained, and Mr. Switzer'scross-examination failed to weaken the evidence. Should Patsy Clarkcling to the same story as successfully, the future looked dark for Dic. 

When Doug left the stand at noon recess, Billy rode up to see Rita, andin the course of their conversation the girl discovered his fears. Billy's dark forebodings did not affect her as he supposed they would. He had expected tears and grief, but instead he found a strange, unconcerned calmness that surprised and puzzled him. Soon after Billy'sdeparture Rita saddled her horse and rode after him. Mrs. Bays forbadeher going, but for the first time in her life the girl sullenly refusedto answer her mother, and rode away in dire rebellion. 

Court convened at one o'clock, and Patsy Clark was called to the stand. The State's attorney began his examination-in-chief:--

_Question. _--"State your name. "

_Answer by Patsy. _--"Sh-shucks, ye know my name. "

"State your name, " ordered the Court. 

_Answer. _--"Pa-Pa-Patsy C-Clark. "

_Question by State's Attorney. _--"Where do you live?"

_Answer. _--"North of t-t-town, with D-Doug Hill's father. "

_Question. _--"Where were you, Mr. Clark, on fifth day of last month ator near the hour of three o'clock P. M. ?"

_Answer. _--"Don't know the day, b-but if you mean the d-day Doug andD-Dic had their fight, I-I was up on B-Blue about halfway b-between DicBright's house and T-Tom Bays', at the step-off. "

_Question. _--"What, if anything, occurred at that time and place?"

_Answer. _--"A f-fight--damned bad one. "

_Question. _--"Who fought?"

_Answer. _--"D-Doug Hill and D-Dic Bright. "

_Question. _--"Now, Mr. Clark, tell the jury all you heard and saw takeplace, in the presence of the defendant Dic Bright, during that fight. "

The solemnity of the Court had made a deep impression on Patsy, and hetrembled while he spoke. He was angry because the State's attorney, ashe supposed, had pretended not to know his name, whereas that self-sameState's attorney had been familiar with him prior to the election. 

"We'll get the truth out of this fellow on cross-examination, " whisperedMr. Switzer to his client. 

"Be careful not to get too much truth out of him, " returned Dic. 

Patsy began his story. 

"Well, me and D-Doug was a-g-a-goin' up the west b-bank of B-Blue whenwe seed--"

_State's Attorney. _--"Never mind what you saw at that time. Answer myquestion. I asked you to tell all you saw and heard during the fight. "

_Answer. _--"I-I w-will if you'll l-let me. J-jest you keep still aminute and l-l-let me t-talk. I-I c-can't t-t-talk very well anyway. C-can't talk near as well as you. B-but I can say a he-heap more. Whe-whe-when you talk so much, ye-ye-you g-get me to st-st-st-stuttering. S-see? Now listen to that. "

_State's Attorney. _--"Well, go on. "

_Answer. _--"Well, we seed Dic and Rita Bays, p-prettiest girl in theh-h-whole world, on the op-opposite side of the river, and he wa-wa-wasa-kissin' her. "

_State's Attorney. _--"Never mind that, but go ahead. Tell it your ownway. "

"I object, " interposed Mr. Switzer. "The witness must confine himself tothe State's question. "

"Confine your answer to the question, Mr. Clark, " commanded the Court. Patsy was growing angry, confused, and frightened. 

_State's Attorney. _--"Go on. Tell your story, can't you?"

_Answer. _--"Well, Doug, he hollered across the river and said he-hewa-wa-wanted one hisself and would g-g-go over after it. "

_State's Attorney. _--"Did you not understand my question? What did yousee and hear? What occurred during the fight?"

_Answer. _--"Well, g-good L-L-Lord! a-ain't I tryin' to t-tell ye? Whenwe crossed the river and g-got to the step-off, Rita and D-Dic had wentaway and D-Doug and me st-started after 'em down the path towardB-Bays's. When we g-got up t-to 'em D-Doug he says, says 'ee, 'I-I'vecome for my k-kiss, ' says 'ee, jes' that-a-way. 'Ye wo-won't get none, 'says Rita, says she, jes' that-a-way, and D-Dic he p-puts in and says, says 'ee, 'I-I g-guess not, ' says 'ee, jes' that-a-way. Then Doug he-heputs his gun agin' a gum tree and g-grabs Rita about the wa-waist, hugging her up to him ti-tight-like. Then he-he push her head back-like, so's 'ee c-could get at her mouth, and then Dic he-he ups and knocks himd-down. Then D-Doug he-he gets up quick-like and they clinches andfalls, and D-Doug on top. Then Doug he-he says, says 'ee to me, 'G-Giveme your n-knife, Patsy, ' jes' that-a-way, and I ups and gives him myknife, but he d-drops it and some way D-Dic he throws Doug o-off andgets up, and Doug he picks up the knife and st-starts for Dic, lookin'wilder 'en hell. Jes' then Rita she ups with D-Doug's gun and shoots himright through. He-he trembled-like for a minute and his knees shuk andhe shivered all over and turned white about the mouth like he was awfulsick, and then he d-dropped on his face, shot through and through. "

The confusion in the courtroom had been growing since the beginning ofPatsy's story, and by the time he had finished it broke into an uproar. The judge called "Order, " and the sheriff rose to quiet the audience. 

_State's Attorney. _--"Do you mean to say, Mr. Clark, that Rita Baysfired the shot that wounded Douglas Hill?"

Douglas, you remember, had just sworn that Dic fired the shot. 

_Answer. _--"Yes, sir, you betch yur life that's jes' the way w-w-what Imean to say. "

_State's Attorney. _--"Now, Mr. Clark, I'll ask you if you did not tellme and many other citizens of this community that the defendant, DicBright, fired the shot?"

"I object, " cried Mr. Switzer. "The gentleman cannot impeach his ownwitness. "

"You are right, Mr. Switzer, " answered the Court, "unless on the groundof surprise; but I overrule your objection. Proceed, Mr. State'sAttorney. "

"Answer my question, " said that official to Patsy. 

_Answer. _--"Yes, sir, I-I d-did tell you, and lots of other folks, too, that D-Dic shot Doug Hill. "

Question. --"Then, sir, how do you reconcile those statements with theone you have just made?"

Answer. --"Don't try to re-re-re-reconcile 'em. Can't. I-I wa-wa-wastalkin' then. I'm sw-sw-swearin' now. "

Dic sprang to his feet, exclaiming:--

"If the Court please, I wish to enter a plea of guilty to the chargeagainst me. "

"Your plea will not be accepted, " answered the Court. "I am beginning tosee the cause for the defendant's peculiar behavior in this case. Mr. Sheriff, please subpoena Miss Rita Bays. "

Dic broke down, and buried his face in his folded arms on the table. 

The sheriff started to fetch Rita, but met her near the courthouse andreturned with her to the courtroom. She was directed to take the witnessstand, which she did as calmly as if she were taking a seat at herfather's dinner table; and her story, told in soft, clear tones, confirmed Patsy in all essential details. 

Mr. Switzer objected to the questions put to her by the Court on theground that she could not be compelled to give evidence that wouldincriminate herself. The judge admitted the validity of Mr. Switzer'sobjection; but after a moment spent in private consultation with theState's attorney, he said:--

"The State and the Court pledge themselves that no prosecution will beinstituted against Miss Bays in case her answers disclose the fact thatshe shot Doug Hill. "

After Rita had told her story the judge said: "Miss Bays, you did right. You are a strong, noble girl, and the man who gets you for a wife willbe blessed of God. "

Rita blushed and looked toward Dic, as if to say, "You hear what thejudge says?" But Dic had heard, and thought the judge wise and excellentto a degree seldom, if ever, equalled among men. 

The judge then instructed the jury to return a verdict of not guilty, and within five minutes Dic was a free and happy man. Billy Little didnot seem to be happy; for he, beyond a doubt, was crying, though he saidhe had a bad cold and that colds always made his eyes water. He startedto sing Maxwelton's braes in open court, but remembered himself in time, and sang mentally. 

Mrs. Bays had followed Rita; and when the girl and Dic emerged from thecourthouse door, the high court of the Chief Justice seized its daughterand whisked her off without so much as giving her an opportunity to saya word of farewell. Rita looked back to Dic, but she was in the hands ofthe high court, which was a tribunal differing widely from the _nisiprius_ organization she had just left, and by no means to be trifledwith. 

Dic stopped for dinner at the inn with Billy Little, and told him thatMrs. Bays refused her consent. 

"Did you expect anything else?" asked Billy. 

"Yes, I did, " answered Dic. 

"Even Rita will be valued more highly if you encounter difficulties ingetting her, " replied his friend. 

"I certainly value her highly enough as it is, " said Dic, "and Mrs. Bays's opposition surprises me a little. I know quite as well asshe--better, perhaps--that I am not worthy of Rita. No man is. But I amnot lazy. I would be willing to die working for her. I am not very good;neither am I very bad. She will make me good, and I don't see that anyone else around here has anything better to offer her. The truth is, Rita deserves a rich man from the city, who can give her a fine house, servants, and carriages. It is a shame, Billy Little, to hide suchbeauty as Rita's under a log-cabin's roof in the woods. "

"I quite agree with you, " was Billy's unexpected reply. "But I don't seeany chance for her catching that sort of a man unless her father goes inbusiness with Fisher at Indianapolis. Even there the field is not broad. She might, if she lived at Indianapolis, meet a stranger fromCincinnati, St. Louis, or the East, and might marry the house, carriages, and servants. I understand Bays--perhaps I should say Mrs. Bays--contemplates making the move, and probably you had better withdrawyour claim and give the girl a chance. "

Dic looked doubtingly at his little friend and said, "I think I shallnot withdraw. "

"I have not been expecting you would, " answered Billy. "But what are yougoing to do about the Chief Justice?"

"I don't know. What would you do?"

Billy Little paused before answering. "If you knew what mistakes I havemade in such matters, you would not ask advice of me. "

Dic waited, hoping that Billy would amplify upon the subject of hismistakes, but he waited in vain. "Nevertheless, " he said, "I want youradvice. "

"I have none to give, " responded Billy, "unless it is to suggest in ageneral way that in dealing with women boldness has always beenconsidered the proper article. Humility is sweet in a beautiful woman, but it makes a man appear sheepish. The first step toward success withall classes of persons is to gain their respect. Humility in a man won'tgain the respect of a hound pup. Face the world bravely. Egad! St. George's little affair with the fiery dragon grows pale when one thinksof the icy dragoness of duty and justice you must overthrow before youcan rescue Rita. But go at the old woman as if you had fought dragonsall your life. Tell her bluntly that you want Rita; that you must andwill have her, and that it is not in the power of duty and justice tokeep her from you. Be bold, and you will probably get the girl, togetherwith her admiration and gratitude. I guess there is no doubt they likeit--boldness. But Lord bless your soul, Dic, I don't know what theylike. I think the best thing you can do is to go to New York withSampson, the horse-dealer. He sails out of here in a few days, and ifyou will go with him he will pay you five hundred dollars and will allowyou to take a few horses on your own account. You will double your moneyif you take good horses. "

"Do you really think he would pay me five hundred dollars?" asked Dic. 

"Yes, I believe he will. I'll see him about it. "

"I believe I'll go, " said Dic. "That is, I'll go if--"

"If Rita will let you, I suppose you are going to say, " remarked Billy. "We'll name the new firm of horse-buyers Sampson and Sampson; for if youare not mindful this gentle young Delilah will shear you. "

"I promised her I would not go. I cannot break my word. If she willrelease me, I will go, and will thank you with all my heart. BillyLittle, you have done so much for me that I must--I must--"

"There you go. 'Deed if I don't leave you if you keep it up. You havefour or five good horses, and I'll loan you five hundred dollars withwhich you may buy a dozen or fifteen more. You may take twenty head ofhorses on your own account, and should make by the trip fifteen hundredor two thousand dollars, including your wages. Why, Dic, you will berich. Unless I am mistaken, wealth is greater even than boldness withicy dragonesses. "

"Not with Rita. "

"You don't need help of any sort with her, " said Billy. "Poor girl, sheis winged for all time. You may be bold or humble, rich or poor; itwill be all one to her. But you want to get her without a fight. Youdon't know what a fight with a woman like the Chief Justice means. Carnage and destruction to beat Napoleon. I believe if you had twothousand dollars in gold, there would be no fight. Good sinews of warare great peace-makers. "

"I know Rita will release me if I insist, " said Dic. 

"I'm sure she will, " responded his friend. 

"I will go, " cried Dic, heroically determined to break the tendershackles of Rita's welding. 

"Now you are a man again, " said Billy. "You may cause her to cry a bit, but she'll like you none the less for that. If tears caused women tohate men, there would be a sudden stoppage in population. " Billy satcontemplative for a moment with his finger tips together. "Men arebrutes"--another pause--"but they salt the earth while women sweeten it. Personally, I would rather sweeten the earth than salt it; but a sweetman is like a pokeberry--sugarish, nauseating and unhealthful. My lovefor sweetness has made me a failure. "

"You are not a failure, Billy Little. You are certainly of the salt ofthe earth, " insisted Dic. 

"A man fails when he does not utilize his capabilities to their limit, "said Billy, philosophically. "He is a success when he accomplishes allhe can. The measure of the individual is the measure of what shouldconstitute his success. His capabilities may be small or great; if hebut use them all, he is a success. A fishing worm may be a great successas a fishing worm, but a total failure as a mule. Bless me, what asermon I have preached about nothing. I fear I am growing garrulous, "and Billy looked into the fire and hummed Maxwelton's braes. 

That evening Dic went to call on Rita and made no pretence of wishing tosee Tom. That worthy young man had served his purpose, and could neveragain be a factor in Dic's life or courtship. Mrs. Bays received Diccoldly; but Mr. Bays, in a half-timid manner, was very cordial. Dic paidno heed to the coldness, and, after talking on the porch with the familyfor a few minutes, boldly asked Rita to walk across the yard to the logby the river. Rita gave her mother a frightened glance and hurried awaywith Dic before Justice could assert itself, and the happy pair soughtthe beloved sycamore divan by the river bank. 

"In the midst of all my happiness, " began Rita, "I'm very unhappybecause I, in place of Patsy Clark, did not liberate you. I alwaysintended to tell the truth. You must have known that I would. "

"I never even hoped that you would not. I knew that when the time shouldcome you would not obey me, " returned Dic. 

"In all else, Dic, in all else. " There was the sweet, all-conqueringhumility of which Billy had spoken. 

"In all else, Rita? Do you mean what you say?"

"Yes. "

"I will put you to the test at once. For your sake and my own I shouldgo with Sampson to New York, and I want you to release me from mypromise. I would not ask you did I not feel that it is an opportunitysuch as I may never have again. It is now July; I shall be back by themiddle of November, and then, Rita, you will go home with me, won'tyou?" For answer the girl gently put her hand in his. "And you willrelease me from my promise?"

She nodded her head, and after a short silence added: "I fear I have nowill of my own. I borrow all from you. I cannot say 'no' when you wish'yes'; I cannot say 'yes' when you wish 'no. ' I fear you will despiseme, I am so cheap; but I am as I am, and it is your fault that I have somany faults. You have made me what I am. Will it not be wonderful, Dic, if I, who clung to your finger in my babyhood, should be led by yourhand from my cradle to--to my grave? I have never in all my life, Dic, known any real help but yours--and some from Billy Little. So you see mydependence upon you is excusable, and you cannot think less of mebecause I am so weak. " She looked up to him with a tearful smile inwhich the past and the future contributed each its touch of sadness. 

"Rita, come to the house this instant!" called Mrs. Bays (to Dic hervoice sounded like a broken string in Billy Little's piano). 

Dic and Rita went to the house, and Mrs. Bays, pointing majestically toa chair, said to her daughter:--

"Now, you sit there, and if you move, off to bed you go. " The threat wasall-sufficient. 

Dic sat upon the edge of the porch thinking of St. George and thedragon, and tried to work his courage up to the point of attack. Hetalked ramblingly for a while to Mr. Bays; then, believing his couragein proper form, he turned to that gentleman's better nine-tenths andboldly began:--

"I want Rita, Mrs. Bays. I know I am not worthy of her" (here the girlunder discussion flashed a luminous glance of flat contradiction at thespeaker), "and I know I am asking a great deal, but--but--" But theboldness had evaporated along with the remainder of what he had to say, for with Dic's first words Justice dropped her knitting to her lap, tookoff her glasses, and gazed at the unfortunate malefactor with aninjured, fixed, and icy stare. Dic retired in disorder; but he soonrallied his forces and again took up the battle. 

"I'm going to New York in a few days, " he said. "I will not be home tillNovember. I have Rita's promise. I can, if I must, be satisfied withthat; but I should like your consent before I go. " Brave words, those, to the dragoness of Justice. But she did not even look at thepresumptuous St. George. She was, as Justice should be, blind. Likewiseshe appeared to be deaf. 

"May I have your consent, Mr. Bays?" asked Dic, after a long pause, turning to Rita's father. 

"Yes, " he replied, "yes, Dic, I will be glad--" Justice at the momentrecovered sight and hearing, and gazed stonily at its mate. The mate, after a brief pause, continued in a different tone:--

"That is, I don't care. You and mother fix it between you. I don't knowanything about such matters. " Mr. Bays leaned forward with his elbows onhis knees and examined his feet as if he had just discovered them. Aftera close scrutiny he continued:--

"Rita's the best girl that ever lived. I don't care where you look, there's not another like her in all the world. She has never caused me amoment of pain--" Rita moved her chair to her father's side and took hishand--"she has brought me nothing but happiness, and I would--" Heceased speaking, and no one has ever known what Mr. Bays "would, " for atthat interesting point in his remarks his worthy spouse interruptedhim--

"Nothing brings you pain. You shirk it and throw it all on me. Lordknows the girl has brought trouble enough to me. I have toiled andworked and suffered for her. I bear the burdens of this house, and if mydaughter is better than other girls, --I don't say she is, and I don'tsay she isn't, --but if she is better than other girls, I say it isbecause I have done my duty by her. "

Truth compels me to admit that she had done her duty toward the girlwith a strenuous sincerity that often amounted to cruelty, but in themain she had done her best for Rita. 

Dic had unintentionally turned the tide of battle on Mr. Bays, and thatworthy sufferer, long used to the anguish of defeat, and dead to theshame of cowardice, rose from his chair and beat a hasty retreat to hisold-time sanctuary, the barn. Dic did not retreat; single-handed andalone, he took lance in hand and renewed the attack with adroit thrustsof flattery and coaxing. After many bouts a compromise was reached andan armistice declared between the belligerent powers until Dic shouldreturn from New York. This armistice was virtually a surrender of theBays forces, so that evening when Dic started home Rita accompanied himto the gate beneath the dark shadow of a drooping elm, and the gate'sthe place for "a' that and a' that. "

Next morning bright and early Dic went to town to see Sampson, thehorse-dealer. He found him sitting on the inn porch. 

"Well, you're going to take the horses for me, after all?" asked thatworthy descendant of one of the tribes. 

"Billy Little said you would give me five hundred dollars. That is avery large sum. You first offered me only one hundred. "

"Yes, " returned Sampson; "I had a talk with Little. Horses are in greatdemand in New York, and I want an intelligent man who can hurry thedrove through to Harrisburg, where I'll meet them. If we get them to NewYork in advance of the other dealers, we should make a profit of onehundred dollars a head on every good horse. You will have two other menwith you, but I will put you in charge. Don't speak of the five hundreddollars you're to have; the others are to receive only fifty dollarseach. "

The truth is, Billy had contributed four hundred dollars of the sum Dicwas to receive, and four hundred dollars was one-tenth of all Billy'sworldly goods. 

Dic completed his arrangements with Sampson, which included theprivilege of taking twenty horses on his own account, and then, asusual, went to see Billy Little. 

"Well, Billy Little, " said Dic, joyfully, "I'm going. I've closed withSampson. He gives me five hundred dollars, and allows me to take twentyhorses of my own. I ought to get fine young horses at twenty-fivedollars a head. "

"Sure, " answered Billy, "that would amount to--how many have you of yourown?"

"Four, " answered Dic. 

"Then you'll want to buy sixteen--four hundred dollars. Here is themoney, " and he handed him a canvas shot-bag containing the gold. 

"Now, Billy Little, " said Dic, "I want to give you my note for thismoney, bearing the highest rate of interest. "

"All right, " responded our backwoods usurer, "I'll charge you twelve percent. I do love a good interest. There is no Antonio about me. I'll lendno money gratis and bring down the rate of usance. Not I. "

The note signed, Dic looked upon himself as an important factor in thecommercial world, and felt his obligation less because of the high rateof interest he was paying. 

The young man at once began looking for horses, and within three dayshad purchased sixteen "beauties, " as Billy Little called them, which, with his own, made up the number he was to take. His adventurous NewYork trip raised him greatly in the estimation of Mrs. Bays. It broughther to realize that he was a man, and it won, in a degree, her reluctantrespect. The ride over the mountains through rain and mud and countlessdangers was an adventure worthy to inspire respect. The return would beeasier than the eastward journey. Dic would return from New York toPittsburg by canal boat and stage. From Pittsburg, if the river shouldbe open, he would go to Madison by the Ohio boats. From Madison he wouldcome north to Columbus on the mail stage, and at Columbus he would bewithin twenty-five miles of home. 

As I have told you, Mrs. Bays grew to respect Dic; and being willing tosurrender, save for the shame of defeat, she honestly kept the terms ofher armistice. Thus Rita and Dic enjoyed the sycamore divan by theriver's edge without interference. 

On the night before his departure he gave Rita the ring, saying, "Thistime it is for keeps. "

"I hope so, " returned the girl, with a touch of doubt in her hesitatingwords. 

He spoke buoyantly of his trip and of the great things that were sure tocome out of it, and again Rita softly hoped so; but intimated in agentle, complaining tone of voice that something told her trouble wouldcome from the expedition. She felt that she was being treated badly, though, being such a weak, selfish, unworthy person, --so she had beentaught by her mother to believe, --she deserved nothing better. Diclaughed at her fears, and told her she was the one altogether perfecthuman being. Although by insistence he brought her to admit that he wasright in both propositions, he failed to convince her in either, and shespoke little, save in eloquent sighs, during the remainder of theevening. 

After the eventful night of Scott's social, Rita's surrender of self hadgrown in its sweetness hour by hour; and although Dic's love had alsodeepened, as his confidence grew apace he assumed an air of patronagetoward the girl which she noticed, but which she considered quite theproper thing in all respects. 

There was no abatement of his affection this last evening together, butshe was sorry to see him so joyful at leaving her. Their situation wassimply a repetition of the world-wide condition: the man with manymotives and ambitions, the woman with one--love. 

After Dic had, for the twentieth time, said he must be going, the girlwhispered:--

"I fear you will carry away with you the memory of a dull evening, butI could not talk, I could not. Oh, Dic--" Thereupon she began to weep, and Dic, though pained, found a certain selfish joy in comforting her, compared to which the conversation of Madame de Staël herself would havebeen poor and commonplace. Then came the gate, a sweet face wet withtears, and good-by and good-by and good-by. 

Dic went home joyful. Rita went to her room weeping. It pained him toleave her, but it grieved her far more deeply, and she began then to paythe penalty of her great crime in being a woman. 

Do not from the foregoing remark conclude that Dic was selfish in hislack of pain at parting from Rita. He also lacked her fears. Did thefear exist in her and not in him because her love was greater or becauseshe was more timid? Had her abject surrender made him over-confident?When a woman gives as Rita did she should know her man, else she is indanger. If he happens to be a great, noble soul, she makes her heavenand his then and there. If he is a selfish brute, she will find anotherplace of which we all stand in wholesome dread. 

A CHRISTMAS HEARTH LOG

CHAPTER VIII

A CHRISTMAS HEARTH LOG

On the morning of Dic's departure, Billy Little advised him to investthe proceeds of his expedition in goods at New York, and to ship them toMadison. 

"You see, " said Billy, "you will make your profit going and coming, andyou will have a nice lump of gold when you return. Gold means Rita, andRita means happiness and ploughing. "

"Not ploughing, Billy Little, " interrupted Dic. 

"We'll see what we will see, " replied Billy. "Here is a list of goods Iadvise you to buy, and the name of a man who will sell them to you atproper prices. You can trust him. He wouldn't cheat even a friend. Good-by, Dic. Write to me. Of course you will write to Rita?"

"Indeed I shall, " replied Dic in a tone expressive of the fact that hewas a fine, true fellow, and would perform that pleasant duty withsatisfaction to himself and great happiness to the girl. You see, Dic'sgreat New York journey had caused him to feel his importance a bit. 

"I wish you would go up to see her very often, " continued our confidentyoung friend; "if I do say it myself, she will miss me greatly. When Ireturn, she shall go home with me. Mrs. Bays has almost given herconsent. You will go often, won't you, Billy Little? Next to me, Ibelieve she loves you best of all the world. "

Billy watched Dic ride eastward on the Michigan road, and muttered tohimself:--

"'Next to me'; there is no next, you young fool. " Then he went in to hispiano and caressed the keys till they yielded their ineffable sweetnessin the half-sad tones of Handel's "Messiah"; afterward, to lift hisspirits, they gave him a glittering sonata from Mozart. But it is betterto feel than to think. It is sweeter to weep than to laugh. So when hewas tired of the classics, he played over and over again, in weird, minor, improvised variations, his love of loves, "Annie Laurie, " andtears came to his eyes because he was both happy and sad. The keysseemed to whisper to him, so gently did he touch them, and their tonesfell, not upon his ears, but upon his heart, with a soothing pathos likethe sough of an old song or a sweet, forgotten odor of a day that ispast. 

Billy did his best to console Rita, though it was a hopeless task andfull of peril for him. There was but one topic of interest to her. Romeand Greece were dull. What cared she about the Romans? Dic was not aRoman. Conversation upon books wearied her, and subjects that a fewmonths ago held her rapt attention, now threw her into revery. I amsorry to say she was a silly, love-lorn young woman, and not in theleast entitled to the respect of strong-minded persons. I would notadvise you, my dear young girl, to assume Rita's faults; but if youshould do so, many a good, though misguided man will mistake them forvirtues and will fall at your feet. You will not deceive your sisters;but you won't care much for their opinion. 

 * * * * *

Soon after Dic's departure, Jim Fisher, Mrs. Bays's brother, renewed hisoffer to take Mr. Bays as a partner in the Indianapolis store. The offerwas a good one and was honestly made. Fisher needed more capital, and tothat extent his motive was selfish; but the business was prosperous, andhe could easily have found a partner. 

One Saturday evening he came up to talk over the matter with hisbrother-in-law. He took with him to Blue no less a person than RogerWilliams--not the original, redoubtable Roger who discovered RhodeIsland, but a descendant of his family. Williams was a man oftwenty-five. Boston was his home, and he was the son of a fatherWilliams who manufactured ploughs, spades, wagons, and otheragricultural implements. The young man was his father's westernrepresentative, and Fisher sold his goods in the Indianapolis district. He dressed well and was affable with his homespun friends. In truth, hewas a gentleman. He made himself at home in the cabin; but he had brainsenough to respect and not to patronize the good people who dwelttherein. 

Of course it will be useless for me to pretend that this young fellowdid not fall in love with Rita. If I had been responsible for his goingto Blue, you would be justified in saying that I brought him there forthe purpose of furnishing a rival to Dic; but I had nothing to do withhis going or loving, and take this opportunity to proclaim my innocenceof all such responsibility. He came, he stayed till Tuesday, and wasconquered. He came again two weeks later, and again, and still again. Hesaw, but did he conquer? That is the great question this history is toanswer. Meantime Dic was leading a drove of untamed horses all day long, and was sleeping sometimes at a wretched inn, sometimes in the pitilessstorm, and sometimes he was chasing stampeded horses for forty-eighthours at a stretch without sleeping or eating. But when awake he thoughtof Rita, and when he slept he dreamed of her, though in his dreams therewas no handsome city man, possessed of a fine house, servants, andcarriages, sitting by her side. Had that fact been revealed to him in adream, the horses might have stampeded to Jericho for all he would havecared, and he would have stampeded home to look after more importantinterests. 

But to return to Fisher's visits. After supper, Saturday evening, thequestion of the new store came up. 

Fisher said: "If you can raise three thousand dollars, Tom, you may havea half-interest in the business. I have three thousand dollars nowinvested, and have credit for an additional three thousand with Mr. Williams. If we had six thousand dollars, we may have credit for sixthousand more, twelve thousand in all, and we can easily turn our stocktwice a year. Tom, it's the chance of your life. Don't you think it is, Margarita?"

"It looks that way, Jim, " said Mrs. Bays; "but we haven't the threethousand dollars, and we must think it over carefully and prayerfully. "

"Can't you sell the farm or mortgage it?" suggested Fisher. Tom, Jr. , gazed intently into the tree-tops, and, in so doing, led the others toask what he was seeking. There was nothing unusual to be seen among thetrees, and Mrs. Bays inquired:--

"What on earth are you looking for, Tom?"

"I was looking to see if there was anybody roosting up there, waiting tobuy this half-cleared old stump field. "

"Tom's right, " said his father. "I fear a purchaser will be hard tofind, and I don't know any one who would loan me three thousand dollars. If we can find the money, we'll try it. What do you say, Margarita?"Mrs. Bays was still inclined to be careful and prayerful. 

Since Rita had expressed to Billy Little her desire to remove toIndianapolis (on the day she bought the writing paper, which, by theway, she had never paid for) so vast a change had taken place withinherself that she had changed her way of seeing nearly everythingoutside. Especially had she changed the point of view from which she sawthe Indianapolis project, and she was now quite content to grow up "aragweed or a mullein stalk, " if she could grow in Dic's fields, and becared for by his hand. I believe that when a woman loves a strong manand contemplates marriage with him, as she is apt to do, a comfortingsense of his protecting care is no small part of her emotions. She maynot consider the matter of her daily bread and raiment, but she feelsthat in the harbor of his love she will be safe from the manifold stormsand harms that would otherwise beset her. 

Owing to Rita's great change the conversation on the porch was fraughtwith a terrible interest. While the others talked, she, as in dutybound, --girls were to be seen and not heard in those days, --remainedsilent. Fortunately the fact that she was a girl did not precludethinking. That she did plenteously, and all lines of thought led to thesame question, "How will it affect Dic?" She could come to noconclusion. Many times she longed to speak, but dared not; so she shuther lips and her mind and determined to postpone discussing the questionwith herself till she should be in bed where she could think quietly. Meanwhile Williams seated himself beside her on the edge of the porchand rejoiced over this beautiful rose he had found in the wilderness. She being a simple country flower, he hoped to enjoy her fragrance for atime without much trouble in the plucking, and it looked as though histask would be an easy one. At first the girl was somewhat frightened athis grandeur; but his easy, chatty conversation soon dispelled hershyness, and she found him entertaining. He at first sight was charmedby her beauty. He quickly discovered that her nose, chin, lips, forehead, and complexion were faultless, and as for those wonderfuleyes, he could hardly draw his own away from them, even for a moment. But after he had talked with her he was still more surprised to find hernot only bright, but educated, in a rambling way, to a degree littleexpected in a frontier girl. 

Williams was a Harvard man, and when he discovered that the girl by hisside could talk on subjects other than bucolic, and that she couldfurthermore listen to him intelligently, he branched into literature, art, travel, and kindred topics. She enjoyed hearing him talk, anddelighted him now and then with an apt reply. So much did her voicecharm him that he soon preferred it even to his own, and he foundhimself concluding that this was not a wild forest rose at all, but abeautiful domestic flower, worthy of care in the plucking. They hadseveral little tilts in the best of humor that confirmed Williams in thegrowing opinion that the girl's beauty and strength were not allphysical. He talked much about Boston and its culture, and spokepatronizingly of that unfortunate portion of the world's people who didnot enjoy the advantage of living within the sacred walls. Although Ritaknew that his boast was not all vain, and that his city deserved itsreputation, she laughed softly and said in apparent seriousness:--

"It is almost an education even to meet a person from Boston. "

Williams looked up in surprise. He had not suspected that sarcasm couldlurk behind those wonderful eyes, but he was undeceived by her remark, and answered laughingly:--

"That is true, Miss Bays. "

"Boston has much to be proud of, " continued the girl, surprised andsomewhat frightened at the rate she was bowling along. She had neverbefore talked so freely to any one but Billy Little and Dic. "Yes, allgood comes out of Boston. I've been told that if you hear her churchbells toll, your soul is saved. There is a saving grace in their verytones. It came over in the _Mayflower_, as you might transport yeast. Ifyou walk through Harvard, you will be wise; if you stand on Bunker Hill, treason flees your soul forever; and if you once gaze upon the Common, you are safe from the heresy of the Quaker and the sin of witchcraft. "

"I fear you are making a jest of Boston, Miss Bays, " replied Williams, who shared the sensitiveness peculiar to his people. 

"No, " she replied, "I jest only at your boasting. Your city is all youclaim for it; but great virtue needs no herald. "

Williams remained silent for a moment, and then said, "Have you everbeen in Boston?"

"I? Indeed, no, " she answered laughingly. "I've never been any place butto church and once to a Fourth of July picnic. I was once at a churchsocial, but it brought me into great trouble and I shall never go toanother. " Williams was amused and again remained, for a time, in silentmeditation. She did not interrupt him, and at length he spokestammeringly:--

"Pardon me--where did you learn--how comes it--I am speaking abruptly, but one would suppose you had travelled and enjoyed many advantages thatyou certainly could not have here. "

"You greatly overestimate me, Mr. Williams. I have only a poorsmattering of knowledge which I absorbed from two friends who are reallyeducated men, --Mr. Little and Dic--Mr. Bright!"

"Are they old--elderly men?" asked Williams. 

"One is, " responded Rita. 

"Which one?" he asked. 

"Mr. Little. "

"And the other--Mr. Bright--is he young?" asked the inquisitiveBostonian. There was no need for Rita to answer in words. The color inher cheeks and the radiance of her eyes told plainly enough that Mr. Bright _was_ young. But she replied with a poor assumption ofindifference:--

"I think he is nearly five years older than I. " There was anotherbetrayal of an interesting fact. She measured his age by hers. 

"And that would make him--?" queried Williams. 

"Twenty-two--nearly. "

"Are you but seventeen?" he asked. Rita nodded her head and answered:--

"Shamefully young, isn't it? I used to be sensitive about my extremeyouth and am still a little so, but--but it can't be helped. " Williamslaughed, and thought he had never met so charming a girl. 

"Yes, " he answered, "it is more or less a disgrace to be so young, butit is a fault easily overlooked. " He paused for a moment while heinspected the heavens, and continued, still studying astronomy: "I meanit is not easily overlooked in some cases. Sometimes it is 'a monster ofsuch awful mien' that one wishes to jump clear over the enduring and thepitying, and longs to embrace. "

"We often see beautiful sunsets from this porch, " answered Rita, "and Ibelieve one is forming now. " There was not a society lady in Boston whocould have handled the situation more skilfully; and Williams learnedthat if he would flatter this young girl of the wilderness, he mustfirst serve his probation. She did not desire his flattery, and gave himto understand as much at the outset. She found him interesting andadmired him. He was the first man of his type she had ever met. In thematter of education he was probably not far in advance of Dic, andcertainly was very far arrear of Billy Little. But he had a certainpolish which comes only from city life. Billy had that polish, but itwas of the last generation, was very English, and had been somewhatdimmed by friction with the unpolished surfaces about him. Dic's polishwas that of a rare natural wood. 

As a result of these conditions, Rita and Williams walked up the riveron the following afternoon--Sunday. More by accident than design theyhalted at the step-off and rested upon the same rocky knoll where sheand Dic were sitting when Doug Hill hailed them from the opposite bankof the river. The scene was crowded with memories, and the girl's heartwas soon filled with Dic, while her thoughts were busy with the eventsof that terrible day. Nothing that Williams might say could interesther, and while he talked she listened but did not hear, for her mind wasfar away, and she longed to be alone. 

One would suppose that the memory of the day she shot Doug Hill wouldhave been filled with horror for her, but it was not. This gentle girl, who would not willingly have killed a worm, and to whom the sight ofsuffering brought excruciating pain, had not experienced a pang ofregret because of the part she had been called upon to play in thetragedy of the step-off. When Doug was lying between life and death, shehoped he would recover; but no small part of her interest in the resultwas because of its effect upon Dic and herself. Billy Little had onceexpressed surprise at this callousness, but she replied with a touch ofwarmth:--

"I did right, Billy Little. Even mother admits that. I saved Dic's lifeand my own honor. I would do it again. I am sorry I _had_ it to do, butI am glad, oh so glad, that I had strength to do it. God helped me, or Icould never have fired the shot. You may laugh, Billy Little--I knowyour philosophy leads you to believe that God never does things of thatsort--but I know better. You know a great deal more than I abouteverything else, but in this instance I am wiser than you. I know Godgave me strength at the moment when I most needed it. That moment taughtme a lesson that some persons never learn. It taught me that God willalways give me strength at the last moment of my need, if I ask it ofHim, as I asked that day. "

"He gave it to you when you were born, Rita, " said Billy. 

"No, " she replied, "I am weak as a kitten, and always shall be, unless Iget my strength from Him. "

"Well, " said Billy, meaning no irreverence, "if He would not give toyou, He would not give to any one. "

"Ah, Billy Little, " said the girl, pleased by the compliment--you seeher pleasure in a compliment depended on the maker of it--"you thinkevery one admires me as much as you do. " Billy knew that was impossible, but for obvious reasons did not explain the true situation. 

Other small matters served to neutralize the horror Rita might otherwisehave felt. The affair at the step-off had been freely talked about byher friends in her presence, and the thought of it had soon becomefamiliar to her; but the best cure was her meeting with Doug Hill afortnight after the trial. It occurred on the square in the town of BlueRiver. She saw Doug coming toward her, and was so shaken by emotionsthat she feared she could not stand, but she recovered herself when hesaid in his bluff manner:--

"Rita, I don't want to have no more fights with you. You're too quick ontrigger for Doug. But I want to tell you I don't hold no grudge agin'you. You did jes' right. You orter a-killed me, but I'm mighty glad youdidn't. That shot of your'n was the best sermon I ever had preached tome. I hain't tasted a drap of liquor since that day, and I never will. I'm goin' to start to Illinoy to-morrow, and I'm goin' to get marriedand be a man. Better marry me, Rita, and go along. "

"I'm sure you will be a man, Doug, " responded Rita. "I don't believe Iwant to get married, but--but will you shake hands with me?"

"Bet I will, Rita. Mighty glad to. You've the best pluck of any girl onyarth, with all you're so mild and kitten-like, and the purtiest girl, too--yes, by gee, the purtiest girl in all the world. Everybody says so, Rita. " Rita blushed, and began to move away from his honest flattery, soDoug said:--

"Well, good-by. Tell Dic good-by, and tell him I don't hold no grudgeagin' him neither. Hope he don't agin' me. He ortent to. He's got lotsthe best of it--he won the fight and got you. Gee, I'd 'a' been glad tolose the fight if I could 'a' got you. "

Thus it happened that these two, who had last met with death betweenthem, parted as friends. Doug started for Illinois next day; and now hedrops out of this history. 

I have spoken thus concerning Rita's feeling about the shooting of DougHill to show you how easy it was for her, while sitting beside Williamsthat placid Sunday afternoon, to break in upon his interestingconversation with the irrelevant remark:--

"I once shot a man near this spot. "

For a moment or two one might have supposed she had just shot Williams. He sprang to his feet as if he intended to run from her, but at onceresumed his place, saying:--

"Miss Bays, your humor always surprises me. It takes me unawares. Ofcourse you are jesting. "

"Indeed, I am not. I have told you the truth. You will hear it sooner orlater if you remain on Blue. It is the one great piece of neighborhoodhistory since the Indians left. It is nothing to boast of. I simplystate it as a fact, --a lamentable fact, I suppose I should say. But Idon't feel that way about it at all. "

"Did you kill him?" asked the astonished Bostonian. 

"No, I'm glad to say he lived; but that was not my fault. I tried tokill him. He now lives in Illinois. "

Williams looked at her doubtingly, and still feared she was hoaxing him. He could not bring himself to believe there dwelt within the breast ofthe gentle girl beside him a spirit that would give her strength to dosuch a deed under any conditions. Never had he met a woman in whom theadorable feminine weaknesses were more pronounced. She was a coward. Hehad seen her run, screaming in genuine fright, from a ground squirrel. She was meek and unresisting, to the point of weakness. He had seen herendure unprovoked anger and undeserved rebuke from her mother, andintolerable slights from Tom, that would surely have aroused retaliationhad there been a spark of combativeness in her gentle heart. That shewas tender and loving could be seen in every glance of her eyes, inevery feature of her face, in every tone of her soft, musical voice. Surely, thought Williams, the girl could not kill a mouse. Where, then, would she find strength to kill a man? But she told him, in meagreoutline, her story, and he learned that a great, self-controlled, modeststrength nestled side by side with ineffable gentleness in the heart ofthis young girl; and that was the moment of Roger Williams's undoing, and the beginning of Rita's woe. Prior to that moment he had believedhimself her superior; but, much to his surprise, he found that Rogeroccupied second place in his own esteem, while a simple country girl, who had never been anywhere but to church, a Fourth of July picnic, andone church social, with his full consent quietly occupied first. Thisgirl, he discovered, was a living example of what unassisted nature cando when she tries. All this change in Williams had been wrought in aninstant when he learned that the girl had shot a man. She was the onlywoman of his acquaintance who could boast that distinction. 

What was the mental or moral process that had led him to hisconclusions? We all know there is a fascination about those who havelived through a moment of terrible ordeal and have been equal to itsdemands. But do we know by what process their force operates upon us?We are fascinated by a noted duellist who has killed his score of men. We are drawn by a certain charm that lurks in his iron nerve and gleamsfrom his cold eyes. The toreador has his way with the Spanish dons andseñoritas alike. The high-rope dancer and the trapeze girl attract us bya subtle spell. Is it an unlabelled force in nature? I can but ask thequestion. I do not pretend to answer. 

Whatever the force may be, Rita possessed it; and, linked with hergentleness and beauty, its charm was irresistible. 

Here, at last, was the rich man from the city who could give Rita thefine mansion, carriages, and servants she deserved. Now that these greatbenefactions were at her feet, would Dic be as generous as when he toldBilly Little that Rita was not for him, but for one who could give herthese? Would he unselfishly forego his claim to make her great, andperhaps happy? Great love in a great heart has often done as much, permitting the world to know nothing of the sacrifice. I have known acase where even the supposed beneficiary was in ignorance of the realmotive. Perhaps Billy Little could have given us light upon a similarquestion, and perhaps the beneficiary did not benefit by the mistakengenerosity, save in the poor matter of gold and worldly eminence; andperhaps it brought years of dull heartache to both beneficiary andbenefactor, together with hours of longing and conscience-born shameupon two sinless hearts. 

After Rita had told her story, Roger's chatty style of conversationsuddenly ceased. He made greater efforts to please than before, but theeffort seemed to impair his power of pleasing. Rita, longing to bealone, had resolved many times to return to the house, but before actingupon that resolve she heard a voice calling, "Rita!" and a momentafterward a pair of bright blue eyes, a dimpled rosy face, and a plumplittle form constructed upon the partridge model came in sight andsuddenly halted. 

"Oh, excuse me, " said our little wood-nymph friend, Sukey Yates. "I didnot know I was intruding. Your mother said you had come in thisdirection, and I followed. "

"You are not intruding, " replied Rita. "Come and sit by me. Mr. Williams, Miss Yates. "

Miss Yates bowed and blushed, stammered a word or two, and sat by Ritaon the rocky bench. She was silent and shy for a moment, but Williamseasily loosened her tongue and she went off like a magpie. Billy used tosay that Sukey was the modern incarnation of the ancient and immortal"Chatterbox. "

After Sukey's arrival, Rita could be alone, and an hour passed beforeshe returned to the house. 

That evening Billy Little took supper with Mrs. Bays, and Rita, considering Williams her father's guest, spent most of the evening onthe sycamore log with the bachelor heart. 

"Dic gave me the ring again, " she said, holding out her hand forinspection. Billy took the hand and held it while he said:--

"It's pretty there--pretty, pretty. "

"Yes, " she responded, looking at the back of her hand, "it's verypretty. It was good of you--but you need not be frightened; I'm notgoing to thank you. Where do you suppose he is at this moment?"

"I don't know, " answered Billy. "I suppose he's between Pittsburg andNew York. "

"I had a letter from him at Pittsburg two weeks ago, " said Rita; "but Ihave heard nothing since. His work must be very hard. He has no time tothink of me. "

"He probably finds a moment now and then for that purpose, " laughedBilly. 

"Oh, I don't mean that he doesn't think of me! Of course he does thatall the time. I mean that he must have little time for writing. "

"You must feel very sure of him when you say he thinks of you all thetime. How often have you thought of him since he left?" asked Billy. 

"Once, " replied the girl, smiling and blushing. 

"Do you mean all the time?" queried Billy. 

She nodded her head. "Yes, all the time. Oh, Billy Little, you won'tmind if I tell you about it, will you? I must speak--and there is no oneelse. "

"What is it you want to say, Rita?" he asked softly. 

"I hardly know--perhaps it is the great change that has taken placewithin me since the night of Scott's social and the afternoon I shotDoug Hill. I seem to be hundreds of years older. I must have been achild before that night. "

"You are a child now, Rita. "

"Oh, no, " she replied, "trouble matures one. "

"But you are not in trouble?"

"N-o--" she answered hesitatingly, "but--but this is what I want to say. Tell me, Billy Little, do you think anything can come between Dic andme? That is the thought that haunts me all the time and makes meunhappy. "

"Do you feel sure of Dic?" asked Billy. 

"Indeed, I do, " she replied; "I am as sure of him as I am of myself. "

"How about that fellow in there?" asked Billy, pointing toward the housewith his thumb. 

"How? In what way?" inquired the girl. 

"Don't you find him interesting?" asked Billy. 

For reply she laughed softly. The question was not worth answering. Thebachelor heart had felt a strong twinge of jealousy on Williams'saccount, because it knew that with wealth, an attractive person, andfull knowledge of the world, Williams would, in the long run, prove adangerous rival to any man who was not upon the field. The fact thatRita dismissed him with a laugh did not entirely reassure the bachelorheart. It told only what was already known, that she loved Dic with allthe intensity of her nature. But Billy also knew that many a girl withsuch a love in her heart for one man had married another. Rita, hefeared, could not stand against the domineering will of her mother; and, should Williams ply his suit, Billy felt sure he would have a stubborn, potent ally in the hard Chief Justice. There was, of course, an "if, "but it might easily be turned into a terrible "is"--terrible for Billy, Dic, and Rita. Billy had grown used to the thought that Rita would someday become Dic's wife, and after the first spasm of pain the thought hadbrought joy; but any other man than Dic was a different proposition, andBilly's jealousy was easily and painfully aroused. He endured a speciesof vicarious suffering while Dic was not present to suffer for himself. Soon he began to long for Dic's return that he might do his ownsuffering. 

Billy's question concerning Williams had crystallized Rita's feelingthat the "fellow in there" was "making up" to her, and when she returnedto the house that evening, she had few words for Roger. 

Monday Rita was unusually industrious during the day, but the eveningseemed long. She was not uncivil to her father's guest, but she did notsit by him on the edge of the porch as she had done upon the firstevening of his visit. He frequently came to her side, but she asfrequently made an adroit excuse to leave him. She did not dislike him, but she had found him growing too attentive. This girl was honest fromthe top of her head to the tips of her toes, and longed to let Williamsunderstand that she was the property of another man to whom she would betrue in the spirit and in the letter. 

Tuesday morning the guests departed. Mrs. Bays urgently invited Williamsto return, and he, despite Rita's silence, assured his hostess that hewould accept her invitation. The Indianapolis project had been agreedupon, provided Bays could raise the money. If that could be done, thenew firm would begin operations January first. That afternoon Rita wentto the step-off and looked the Indianapolis situation in the face. Itstared back at her without blinking, and she could evolve no plans toevade it. Dic would return in November--centuries off--and she felt surehe would bring help. Until then, Indianapolis, with the figures of hermother and Williams in the background, loomed ominously before hervision. 

Williams's second visit was made ostensibly to Rita's father. The third, two weeks later, was made openly to her father's daughter. It waspreceded by an ominous letter to Rita requesting the privilege of makingthe visit to her. Rita wished to answer at once by telling him that shecould not receive him, but Rita's mother thought differently. 

"Say to him, " commanded Mrs. Bays, "that you will be pleased to see him. He is a fine young man with a true religious nature. I find that he hasbeen brought up by a God-fearing mother. I would not have you receivehim because he is rich, but that fact is nothing against him. I can'tfor the life of me understand what he sees in you, but if he--" shestopped speaking, and her abrupt silence was more emphatic than anywords could have been. Rita saw at once the drift of her mother'sintentions and trembled. 

"But I would not be pleased to see him, mother, " the girl respondedpleadingly; "and if I write to him that I would, I should be telling alie. "

"I tell a lie, " cried the stern old woman in apparent anguish. "Oh, myheart!" She sank to a chair, and gasping between her words, continued, "Oh, that I should have lived to be told by my own child that I'm aliar!" Her head fell backward, and one would have supposed dissolutionnear. Mr. Bays ran to fetch a cup of water, and Rita stood in deeptrouble by her mother's side fanning her. "A liar! a liar!" moaned thedying woman. 

"I did not say that, mother. I said--"

"A liar! yes, I'm a liar. My own daughter that I have loved andcherished in my own bosom, and have toiled and suffered for all my life, says I'm a liar. "

"Mother, I protest, dear mother, hear me, " began Rita, but motherinterrupted her by closing her eyes and supposedly her ears as if shewere on the point of passing over. The only signs of life in the oldwoman were her gasps for breath. The girl, who had no deceit in herheart, could not recognize it in others, least of all was she able tosee it in her own mother, whose transcendent virtues had been dinnedinto her ears ever since she had possessed those useful organs. Out ofher confiding trustfulness came a deadly fear for her mother's life. Shefell on her knees and cried: "Forgive me, mother dear, forgive me. I waswrong. I'll write whatever you wish. "

This surrender, I know, was weak in our heroine; but her words restoredher mother to life and health, and Rita rejoiced that she had seen herduty and had performed it in time. 

Justice was soon again in equilibrium, and Rita, amid a flood of tears, wrote to Williams, "I shall be pleased to see you, " and he came. 

She did not treat him cordially, though she was not uncivil, andWilliams thought her reticence was due to modesty, --a mistake frequentlymade by self-sufficient men. The girl felt that she was bound by herletter, and that she could not in justice mistreat him. It was by herinvitation he had come. He could not know that she had been forced towrite the letter, and she could not blame him for acting upon it. Shewas relieved that he attempted no flattery, and felt that surely herlack of cordiality would prevent another visit. But she was mistaken. Hewas not a man easily rebuffed. 

A fortnight later Mrs. Bays announced to her daughter the receipt of aletter from Mr. Williams, stating that he would be on hand next Saturdayevening. 

"He is trying to induce his father to loan us the money, " said Mrs. Bays, "and your father and I want you to be particularly kind to him. Your father and I have suffered and worked and toiled for you all yourlife. Now you can help us, and you shall do so. "

"Mother, I can't receive him. I can't talk to him. It will be wicked. Itwould not be honest; I can't, I can't, " sobbed poor Rita. "I don't knowmuch, but I know it is wrong for me to receive visits from Mr. Williamswhen there can be nothing between--between--"

"Why can't there be anything between you and Williams, girl? Why?"demanded Mrs. Bays. 

"There are many reasons, mother, " returned the weeping girl, "even if itwere not for Dic--"

"Dic!" screamed the old woman, and an attack of heart trouble at onceensued, when Rita was again called upon to save her mother's life. 

Thus Williams came the third time to visit Rita, and showed hisignorance of womankind by proposing marriage to a girl who was unwillingto listen. He was promptly but politely rejected, and won the girl'scontempt by asking for her friendship if he could not have her love. Thefriendship, of course, was readily granted. She was eager to give thatmuch to all the world. 

"I hope you will not speak of this, even to your father or mother, " saidWilliams. "Let it be hereafter as if I had never spoken. I regret that Idid speak. "

Rita gladly consented to comply with his request, since she was certainheart trouble would ensue, with probably fatal results, should hermother learn that she had refused the young man with the true religiousnature. 

Williams adroitly regained his ground by exciting Rita's ever readysympathy, and hoped to remain in the battle upon the plane of friendshipuntil another and more favorable opportunity should arise for asuccessful attack. His was a tenacious nature that held to a purpose byhook or by crook till victory crowned his efforts or defeat wasabsolute. 

Williams continued to visit Rita, and Dic did not return till Christmas. During the last month of waiting the girl's patient longing was piteousto behold. To see her brought grief to Billy's heart, but it angered theChief Justice. 

Dic had written that he would be home by the middle of November, andRita had counted the days, even the hours, up to that time; but when hedid not arrive as expected, she had not even the poor comfort ofcomputing time, for she did not know when to expect him. Each day oflonging and fear ended in disappointment and tears, until at last, onthe day before Christmas, she heard from the lips of Sukey Yates thatDic was at home. There was a touch of disappointment in receiving thenews from Sukey, but the news was so welcome that she was glad to haveit from any one. 

Sukey had ridden over to see Rita. "Why, haven't you seen him yet?"cried the dimpler, in surprise. "I supposed, of course, he would comehere first--before seeing me. Why, I'm quite proud. "

"No, " returned Rita; "I have not seen him. "

"He'll come this evening, I'm sure, " said Sukey, patronizingly. "I havecompany to-night. He's looking well, though he was sick for three orfour weeks at an inn near Wheeling. His illness caused the delay ingetting home. I just thought he never would come, didn't you?"

Rita was too happy to be disturbed by insinuations of any kind, andalthough she would have liked to be the first person to see Dic, shepaid no heed to Sukey's suggestive remarks. 

"He's as handsome as ever, " continued Sukey, "and has a mustache. Butyou will see him for yourself this evening. Good-by. I must be going. Now come over real soon. "

"I will, " answered Rita, and Sukey left her musing happily upon thehearth log. 

Mr. Bays had been in Indianapolis for several days. He had not raisedthe three thousand dollars, Williams, Sr. , being at that time short ofmoney. Mrs. Bays and Tom had that evening driven to town to meet thenominal head of the house. It was two o'clock when Sukey left Ritagazing into the fire and computing the minutes till evening, when sheknew Dic would be with her. He might possibly come over for supper. 

The weather was cold, and snow had been falling since noon. The sycamorelog was under the snow, and she did not hope to have Dic to herself; butto have him at all would be joy sufficient, and she would dream of himuntil he should come. While dreaming, she turned her face toward thewindow to watch the falling snow. She did not see the snow, but insteadsaw a man. She did not scream with delight, as I suppose she should havedone; she simply rose to her feet and waited in the fireplace till thedoor opened and Dic walked in. She did not go to him, but stoodmotionless till he came to her. 

"Are you not glad to see me, Rita?" he asked. He could not see her eyesin the dark room, or he would have had no need to ask. "Are you notglad?" he repeated. She did not answer, but taking his face between herhands drew it down to hers with infinite tenderness and passion. Then, with her arms about his neck, she spoke the one word, "Glad?" and Dicknew. 

After she had uttered the big word of one syllable, she buried her faceon his breast and began to weep. 

"Don't cry, Rita, " pleaded Dic, "don't cry. I can't bear it. "

"Ah, but let me cry for one little moment, " she begged. "It is betterthan laughing, and it helps me so much. " There was, of course, but oneanswer, and Dic, turning up her tear-stained face, replied eloquently. 

After a chaotic period of several minutes they took their childhood'splace upon the hearth log within the warm, bright fireplace. Dic stirredthe fire, and the girl, nestling beside him, said:--

"Now tell me everything. "

"Where shall I begin?" asked Dic; and after a pause in which to find astarting-point, he said:--

"I have brought you a little present. I wanted to keep it tillto-morrow--Christmas--but I find I cannot. " He produced a small goldwatch with the word "Rita" engraved upon the lid. Rita was delighted;but after a moment or two of admiration she repeated her request. 

Dic rapidly ran over the events of his trip. He had brought hometwenty-six hundred dollars, and the gold was at that moment in BillyLittle's iron-box. Of the wonders he had seen he would tell her atleisure. He had received her three letters, and had them in his pocketin a small leather case purchased expressly to hold them. They had neverleft his person. He had been ill at an inn near Wheeling, and was "outof his head" for three weeks; hence his failure to write during thattime. 

"Yes, Sukey told me you had been ill. I was sorry to learn it. Especially--especially from her, " said the girl, with eyes bent demurelyupon the hearth. 

"Why from her?" asked Dic. 

"Well, from any one, " she replied. "I hoped you would come to see mefirst. You see, I am a very exacting, jealous, disagreeable person, Dic, and I wanted you to see me and tell me everything before you shouldgo to see any one else. "

"Indeed, I would, " he returned. "I have come here first. "

"Did you not go around by Sukey's and see her on your way home?" Ritaasked. 

"I did not, " replied Dic. "She was in town and rode with mother and meas far as the Yates cross-path. She heard me telling mother I had beenill. "

Dic did not tell Rita that Sukey had whispered to him in Billy Little'sstore that she, Sukey, had been going to town every day during the lastfortnight in the hope that she might be the first one to see him, andthat she was so wild with joy at his return that she could easily findit in her heart to kiss him right then and there in full view of a largeand appreciative audience; and that if he would come over Christmasnight when the folks were going to Marion, she would remain at homeand--and would he come? Dic did not mention these small matters, and, infact, had forgotten what Sukey had said, not caring a baw-bee how oftenshe had gone to meet him or any one else, and having no intention toaccept her hospitality Christmas night. Sukey's words had, for a moment, tickled his vanity, --an easy task for a pretty woman with any man, --butthey had gone no deeper than his vanity, which, in Dic's case, was notvery deep. 

DIC LENDS MONEY GRATIS

CHAPTER IX

DIC LENDS MONEY GRATIS

Such an hour as our young friends spent upon the ciphering log wouldamply compensate for the trouble of living a very long life. "Everything, " as Rita had asked, was told volubly, until Dic, perhaps byaccident, clasped Rita's hand. His failure to do so earlier in theafternoon had been an oversight; but after the oversight had beencorrected, comparative silence and watching the fire from the cipheringlog proved a sufficiently pleasant pastime, and amply good enough forthem. Good enough! I hope they have fireplaces and ciphering logs, soft, magnetic hands, and eloquent silence in paradise, else the place willsurely be a failure. 

Snow was falling furiously, and dark winter clouds obscured the sinkingsun, bringing night before its time; and so it happened that Rita didnot see her mother pass the window. The room was dark, save in thefireplace where Rita and Dic were sitting, illumined by the glow ofhickory embers, and occasionally by a flickering flame that splutteredfrom the half-burned back-log. Unexpected and undesired, Mrs. Bays, followed closely by our friend Williams, entered through the front door. Dic sprang to his feet, but he was too slow by several seconds, and thenewcomers had ample opportunity to observe his strict attention to thebusiness in hand. Mrs. Bays bowed stiffly to Dic, and walked to the bed, where she deposited her wraps. 

Williams approached Rita, who was still seated in the fireplace. Sherose and accepted his proffered hand, forgetting in her confusion tointroduce Dic. Roger's self-composure came to his relief. 

"This must be Mr. Bright, " said he, holding out his hand to Dic. "I haveheard a great deal of you from Miss Bays during the last four months. Weheard in town that you had returned. Since Rita will not introduce me, Iwill perform that duty for myself. I am Mr. Williams. "

"How do you do, " said Dic, as he took Roger's hand. 

"I am delighted to meet you, " said Williams, which, as we know, was apolite fiction. Dic had no especial occasion to dispute Williams'sstatement, but for some undefined reason he doubted its truth. He didnot, however, doubt his own feelings, but knew that he was not glad tomeet Williams. The words, "I have heard a great deal of you from MissBays during the last four months, " had so startled him that he couldthink of nothing else. After the narrative of his own adventures, hehad, in imitation of Rita, asked _her_ to tell _him_ "everything"; butthe name of Williams, her four-months' friend, had not been mentioned. Dic could not know that the girl had forgotten Williams's very existencein the moment of her joy. Her forgetfulness was the best evidence thatWilliams was nothing to her; but, I confess, her failure to speak of himhad an ugly appearance. Williams turned to Rita, and, with a feeling ofsatisfaction because Dic was present, handed her a small package, saying:--

"I have brought you a little Christmas gift. "

Rita hesitatingly accepted the package with a whispered "Thank you, " andMrs. Bays stepped to her side, exclaiming:--

"Ah, how kind of you, Mr. Williams. "

Rita, Mrs. Bays, and Williams were facing the fire, and Dic stood backin the shadow of the room. A deep, black shadow it was to Dic. 

Mrs. Bays, taking the package from Rita's hand, opened it; and there, nestling in a bed of blue velvet, was a tiny watch, rich with jewels, and far more beautiful than the one Dic had brought from New York. Encircling the watch were many folds of a massive gold chain. Mrs. Baysheld the watch up to the light of the firelight, and Dic, with an achingsensation in the region of his heart, saw its richness at a glance. Heknew at once that the giver must be a man of wealth; and when Mrs. Baysdelightedly threw the gold chain over Rita's head, and placed the watchin her unresisting hand, he remarked that he must be going. Poor, terrified Rita did not hear Dic's words. Receiving no reply, he took hishat from the floor where he had dropped it on entering the room severalcenturies before, opened the door, and walked out. 

All that I have narrated as taking place after Williams entered upon thescene occurred within the space of two or three minutes, and Rita firstlearned that Dic was going when she heard the door close. 

"Dic!" she cried, and started to follow him, but her mother caught herwrist and said sternly:--

"Stay here, Rita. Don't go to the door. "

"But, mother--"

"Stay here, I command you, " and Rita did not go to the door. Dic met Mr. Bays at the gate, paused for a word of greeting, and plunged into thesnow-covered forest, while the words "during the last four months" rangin his ears with a din that was almost maddening. 

"She might have told me, " he muttered, speaking as if to the storm. "While I have been thinking of her every moment, she has been listeningto him. But her letters were full of love. She surely loved me when Imet her two hours ago. No woman could feign love so perfectly. She mustlove me. I can't believe otherwise. I will see her again to-night andshe will explain all, I am sure. There is no deceit in her. " Hisreturning confidence eased, though it did not cure, his pain. Itsubstituted another after a little time--suspense. It was not in hisnature to brook suspense, and he determined again and again to see Ritathat evening. 

But his suspense was ended without seeing Rita. When he reached home hefound Sukey, blushing and dimpling, before the fire, talking to hismother. 

"Been over to see Rita?" she asked, parting her moist, red lips in asmile, showing a gleam of her little, white teeth, and dimplingexquisitely. 

"Yes, " answered Dic, laconically. 

"Thought maybe you would stay for supper, " she continued. 

"No, " replied Dic. 

"Perhaps the other fellow was there, " remarked Sukey, shrugging herplump shoulders and laughing softly. Dic did not reply, but drew a chairto the hearth. 

"Guess they're to be married soon, " volunteered Sukey. "He has beencoming Saturdays and staying over Sunday ever since you left. Guess hewaited for you to get out of the way. I think he's so handsome. Met himone Sunday afternoon at the step-off. I went over to see Rita, and hermother said she had gone to take a walk with Mr. Williams in thatdirection after dinner. I knew they would be at the step-off; it's sucha lonely place. He lives in Boston, and they say he's enormously rich. "During the long pause that followed Dic found himself entirely relievedof suspense. There was certainty to his heart's content. He did not showhis pain; and much to her joy Sukey concluded that Dic did not careanything about the relations between Williams and Rita. 

"Rita showed me the ring he gave her, " continued Sukey. Dic winced, butcontrolled himself. It was his ring that Sukey had seen on Rita'sfinger, but Dic did not know that. 

"Some folks envy her, " observed the dimpler, staring in revery at thefire. "She'll have a fine house, servants, and carriages"--Dicremembered having used those fatal words himself--"and will live inBoston; but for myself--well, I never intend to marry, but if I do I'lltake one of the boys around here, or I'll die single. The boys here areplenty good enough for me. "

The big, blue eyes, covered by downcast lashes, were carefully examininga pair of plump, little, brown hands resting in her lap, but after apause she flashed a hurried glance upon Dic, which he did not see. 

When a woman cruelly wounds a man as Rita had wounded Dic, the firstremedy that suggests itself to the normal masculine mind is anotherwoman, and the remedy is usually effective. There may not be as goodfish in the sea as the one he wants, but good fish there are, in greatnumbers. Balm of Gilead doubtless has curative qualities; but for asore, jealous, aching, masculine heart I would every time recommend thefish of the sea. 

Sukey, upon Mrs. Bright's invitation, remained for supper, and Dic, ofcourse, was compelled to take her home. Upon arrival at the Yatesmansion, Sukey invited Dic to enter. Dic declined. She drew off hermittens and took his hand. 

"Why, " she said, "your hands are like ice; you must come in and warmthem. Please do, " so Dic hitched his horse under a straw-covered shedand went in with the remedy. One might have travelled far and widebefore finding a more pleasant remedy than Sukey; but Dic's ailmentswere beyond cure, and Sukey's smiles might as well have been wasted uponher brother snowman in the adjacent field. 

Soon after Dic's arrival, all the family, save Sukey, adjourned to thekitchen, leaving the girl and her "company" to themselves, after thedangerous manner of the times. 

If any member of the family should remain in the room where the younglady of the house was entertaining a friend, the visitor would considerhimself _persona non grata_, and would come never again. Of course theBays family had never retired before Dic; but he had always visited Tom, not Rita. 

The most unendurable part of Williams's visits to Rita was the fact thatthey were made to her, and that she was compelled to sit alone with himthrough the long evenings, talking as best she could to one man andlonging for another. When that state of affairs exists, and the womanhappens to be a wife, the time soon comes when she sighs for thepleasures of purgatory; yet we all know some poor woman who meets thewrong man every day and gives him herself and her life because God, inHis inscrutable wisdom, has permitted a terrible mistake. To thisbondage would Rita's mother sell her. 

Dic did not remain long with the tempting little remedy. While his handwas on the latch she detained him with many questions, and danced abouthim in pretty impatience. 

"Why do you go?" she asked poutingly. 

"You said Bob Kaster was coming, " replied Dic. 

"Oh, well, you stay and I'll send him about his business quicklyenough, " she returned. 

"Would you, Sukey?" asked Dic, laughing. 

"Indeed, I will, " she responded, "or any one else, if you will stay. "

She took his hand again, and, leaning against him, smiled pleadinglyinto his face. Her smiles were as sweet and enticing as she or any othergirl could make. There were no redder lips, no whiter teeth, norprettier dimples than Sukey's on all Blue River or any other river, andthere could be no prettier, more tempting picture than this poutinglittle nymph who was pleading with our Joseph not to run away. But Dic, not caring to remain, hurriedly closed the door and went out into thecomforting storm. After he had gone Sukey went to the ciphering log andsat gazing meditatively into the fire. Vexation and disappointmentalternately held possession of her soul; but Dic was more attractive toher because he was unattainable, and she imagined herself greatlyinjured and deeply in love. She may have imagined the truth; but Sukey, though small in herself, had a large, comprehensive heart whereinseveral admirers might be accommodated without overtaxing its capacity, and soon she was comforting herself with Bob Kaster. 

There was little rest for Dic that night. Had he been able to penetratedarkness and log walls, and could he have seen Rita sobbing with herface buried in her pillow, he might have slept soundly. But darkness andlog walls are not to be penetrated by ordinary eyes. 

Riding home from Sukey's, Dic thought he had learned to hate Rita. Heswore mighty oaths that he would never look upon her face again. Butwhen he had rested a little time in bed he recalled her fair face, hergentleness, her honesty, and her thousand perfections. He remembered thesmall hand he had held so tenderly a few hours since. Its magnetictouch, soft as the hand of a duchess, still tingled through his nerves. With these memories came an anguish that beat down his pride, and, likeRita, he clasped his hands over his head, turned his face to his pillow, and alas! that I should say it of a strong man, wept bitter, scaldingtears. 

Do the real griefs of life come with age? If Dic should live till hisyears outnumbered those of Methuselah, no pain could ever come to himworthy of mention compared to this. It awakened him to the quality andquantity of his love. It seemed that he had loved her ever since shelisped his name and clung to his finger in tottering babyhood. He lookedback over the years and failed to see one moment in all the myriads ofmoments when he did not believe himself first in her heart as she hadalways been first in his; and now, after he had waited patiently, andafter she, out of her own full heart, had confessed her woman's love, after she had given him herself in abject, sweet surrender, and hadtaken him for her own, the thought of her perfidy was torture to him. Then came again like a soothing balm the young memory of their lastmeeting. He recalled and weighed every word, act, and look. Surely, hethought, no woman could feign the love she had shown for him. She hadnot even tried to show her love. It had been irrepressible. Why shouldshe wish to feign a love she did not feel? There was nothing she couldgain by deceit. But upon the heels of this slight hope came thatincontestable fact, --Williams. Dic could see her sitting with thestranger as she had sat with himself at the step-off. Williams had beencoming for four months. She might be in his arms at that moment--thehour was still early--before the old familiar fireplace, while thefamily were in the kitchen. He could not endure the picture he hadconjured, so he rose from his bed, dressed, stole softly from the house, and walked through the winter storm down the river to Bays's. Feelinglike a thief, he crept to the window. The night being cold, the fire hadnot been banked, but threw its glow out into the room; and Dic's heartleaped for joy when he saw the room was empty. At that same moment Ritawas in her own room, not twenty feet away from him, sobbing on herpillow and wishing she were dead. 

Dic's discovery of the empty room had no real significance, but itseemed a good omen, and he went home and slept. 

Rita did not sleep. She knew the first step had been taken to separateher from Dic. She feared the separation was really effected. She hadoffended this manly, patient lover so frequently that surely, shethought, he would not forgive her this last and greatest insult. Sheupbraided herself for having, through stupidity and cowardice, allowedhim to leave her. He had belonged to her for years; and the sweetthought that she belonged to him, and that it was her God-givenprivilege to give herself to him and to no other, pressed upon herheart, and she cried out in the darkness: "I will not give him up! Iwill not! If he will forgive me, I will fall upon my knees and beg himto try me once again. "

Christmas was a long, wretched day for Dic. What it was to Rita you mayeasily surmise. Early after supper Dic walked over to see Sukey, and hiscoming filled that young lady's ardent little soul with delight. Hisreasons for going would be hard to define. Perhaps his chief motive wasthe hope of running away from himself, and the possibility of hearinganother budget of unwelcome news concerning Rita and Williams. Hedreaded to hear it; but he longed to know all there was to be known, andhe felt sure Sukey had exhaustive knowledge on the subject, and would beready to impart it upon invitation. 

He had been sitting with Sukey half an hour when Tom Bays walked in. Thomas, of course, could not remain when he found the field occupied;and much to Dic's regret and Sukey's delight he took his departure, after a visit of ten minutes. Dic urged him to remain, saying that hewas going soon, and Sukey added, "Yes, won't you stay?" But she was farfrom enthusiastic, and Thomas went home with disappointment in his heartand profanity on his lips. 

When Tom entered the room where Rita was doing her best to entertainWilliams, she said, "I thought you were going to see Sukey?"

"Dic's there, " answered Tom, and Rita's white face grew whiter. 

Tom started toward the back door on his way to the kitchen, where hisfather and mother were sitting, and Rita said, pleadingly:--

"Don't go, Tom; stay here with us. Please do. " She forgot Williams andcontinued: "Please, brother. I don't ask much of you. This is a littlething to do for me. Please stay here, " but brother laughed and went tothe kitchen without so much as answering her. 

When the door closed on Tom, Rita stood for a moment in front of thefireplace, and, covering her face with her hands, began to weep. Williams approached her, overflowing with consolation, and placed hishand caressingly upon her arm. She sprang from him as if she had beenstung, and cried out:--

"Don't put your hand on me! Don't touch me!" She stepped backward towardthe door leading upstairs to her room. 

"Why, Rita, " said Williams, "I did not intend anything wrong. I wouldnot offend you for all the world. You are nervous, Rita, and--and--"

"Don't call me Rita, " she interrupted, sobbing. "I hate--I hate--" shewas going to say "I hate you, " but said, --"the name. "

He still approached her, though she had been retreating backward step bystep. He had no thought of touching her; but as he came toward her, shelost self-control and almost screamed:--

"Don't touch me, I say! Don't touch me!" She had endured his presencetill she could bear it no longer, and the thought of Dic sitting withSukey had so wrought upon her that her self-control was exhausted. Williams walked back to the fireplace, and Rita, opening the stair door, hurriedly went to her room. 

[Illustration: "COVERING HER FACE WITH HER HANDS, SHE BEGAN TO WEEP. "]

She was not one in whom the baser sort of jealousy could exist; but thethought of Dic, her Dic, sitting with Sukey, while she was compelled toendure the presence of the man she had learned almost to hate, burnedher. Her jealousy did not take the form of hatred toward Sukey, and thepain it brought her was chiefly because it confirmed her in the beliefthat she had lost Dic. She did not doubt that Dic had loved her, and herfaith in that fact quickened her sense of loss. She blamed no one butherself for the fact that he no longer loved her, and was seekinganother. Still, she was jealous, though even that unholy passion couldnot be base in her. 

Sukey smiled and dimpled at Dic for an hour or two with no appreciableeffect. He sat watching the fire, seeing none of her little lovesignals, and went home quite as wretched as he had come. Evidently, Sukey was the wrong remedy, though upon seeing her charms one would havefelt almost justified in warranting her, --no cure, no pay. Perhaps shewas a too-willing remedy: an overdose of even the right drug mayneutralize itself. As for myself, I love Dic better because his ailmentresponded to no remedy. 

Next day, Tom, without at all deserving it, won Rita's gratitude bytaking Williams out shooting. 

After supper Rita said, "My head aches, and if I may be excused, I willgo to my room. "

But her mother vetoed the proposition:--

"Your head does not ache, and you will stay downstairs. Your father andI are going to church, and Mr. Williams will not want to be alone, willyou, Mr. Williams?"

"Indeed, I hope Miss Bays will keep me company, " answered thispersistent, not-to-be-shaken-off suitor. 

So Rita remained downstairs with Williams and listened to his apologiesfor having offended her the night before. She felt contrite, and in turntold him she was the one who should apologize, and said she hoped hewould forgive her. Her gentle heart could not bear to inflict pain evenupon this man who had brought so much suffering to her. 

The next morning took Williams away, and Rita's thoughts were alldevoted to formulating a plan whereby she might see Dic and beg hisforgiveness after a fashion that would have been a revelation toWilliams. 

Several days of furious storm ensued, during which our Rita, for thefirst time in her life, was too ill to go abroad. 

Mr. Bays had gone to Indianapolis with Williams, and returned onThursday's coach, having failed to raise the three thousand dollars. Atthe supper table, on the evening of his return, Tom offered asuggestion. 

"I'll tell you where you can get most of the money, " he said. "Dic hastwenty-six hundred dollars in Billy Little's box. He'll loan it to you. "

"That's just the thing, " cried Mrs. Bays, joyfully. "Tom, you are thesmartest boy on Blue. It took you to help us out. " One would havethought from her praise that Tom, and not Dic, was to furnish the money. Addressing her husband, she continued:--

"You go over and see him this evening. If he won't loan it to us afterall we have done for him, he ought to be horsewhipped. "

"What have we ever done for him?" asked Tom. The Chief Justice soughtfor an answer. Failing to find a better one, she replied:--

"He's had five hundred meals in this house if he's had one. "

"And he's given us five hundred deer and turkeys if he's given us one, "answered Tom. 

"Well, you know, Tom, just as well as I do, that we have always beenhelping him. It is only your generous nature keeps you from saying so, "responded Mrs. Bays. Tom laughed, and Tom, Sr. , said:--

"I'll go over and see him this evening. I wonder where he has been? Ihaven't seen him but once since he came home. "

"Guess Williams scared him off, " suggested Tom. 

Rita tried in vain to think of some plan whereby she might warn Dicagainst loaning the money, or prevent her father from asking it. Aftersupper Tom went to town while his father went up to see Dic. 

When the after-supper work was finished, Mrs. Bays took her knitting andsat before the fire in the front room. Rita, wishing to be alone, remained in the kitchen, watching the fire die down and cuddling hergrief. She had been there but a few minutes when the outer door openedand in walked Dic. 

"I have come to ask you if you have forgotten me?" he said. 

The girl answered with a cry of joy, and ran to him. 

"Ah, Dic, I have forgotten all else. Forgive me. Forgive me, " shereplied, and as the tears came, he drew her to his side. 

"But, Rita--this man Williams?" he asked. 

"I . .. I know, Dic, " she said between sobs, "I . .. I know, but Ican't . .. Can't tell you now. Wait till I can speak. But I love you. I . .. Can tell you that much. I will try to . .. To explain when . .. Ican talk. "

"You need explain nothing, " said Dic, soothingly. "I want only to knowthat you have not forgotten me. I have suffered terribly these last fewdays. "

"I'm so glad, " responded the sobbing girl, unconscious of her apparentselfishness. 

The kitchen fireplace was too small for a hearth log, so Dic and Ritatook chairs before the fire, and the girl, regardless of falling tears, began her explanation. 

"You see, it was this way, Dic, " she sobbed. "He came with Uncle Jim, and then he came again and again. I did not want him--I am sure youknow that I did not--but mother insisted, and I thought you would makeit all right when you returned. You know mother has heart trouble, andany excitement may kill her. She is so--so--her will is so strong, and Ifear her and love her so much. She is my mother, and it is my duty toobey her when--when I can. The time may come when I cannot obey her. Ithas come, several times, and when I disobey her I suffer terribly andalways think how I would feel if she were to die. "

Dic longed to enlighten her concerning the mother heart, but could notfind it in his heart to attack even his arch-enemy through Rita'ssimple, unquestioning faith. That faith was a part of the girl'stranscendent perfection, and a good daughter would surely make a goodwife. 

Rita continued her explanation: "He came many times to see me, and itseems as though he grew to liking me. Then he asked me to marry him, butI refused, Dic; I refused. I should have told him then that I hadpromised to be your wife--" here she gave Dic her hand--"but I wasashamed and--and, oh, I can't explain after all. I can't tell you how itall happened. I thought I could; but I really do not myself understandhow it has all come about. "

"You have not promised him?" asked Dic in alarm. 

"Indeed, I have not, and I never shall. He has tried, with mother'shelp, to force himself upon me, and I have been frightened almost todeath for fear he would succeed. Oh, take me now, Dic. Take me at onceand save me from him. "

"I would, Rita, but you are not yet eighteen, and we must have theconsent of your parents before we can marry. That, you know, your motherwould refuse. When you are eighteen--but that will be almost a year fromnow--I will take you home with me. Do not fear. Give me your love, andtrust to me for the rest. "

"Now I feel safe, " she cried, snatching up Dic's hand. "You are strongerthan mother. I saw that the evening before you left, when we were all onthe porch and you spoke up so bravely to her. You will meet her face toface and beat down her will. I can't do it. I become helpless when sheattacks me. I am miserably weak. I sometimes hate myself and fear Ishould not marry you. I know I shall not be able to make you a goodwife. "

Dic expressed an entire willingness to take the risk. "But why did youaccept a ring from him?"

"I did not, " responded Rita, with wide-open eyes. "He offered me adiamond when he asked me to--to--but I refused it. I gave him back hiswatch, too; but mother does not know I did. She would be angry. Shethinks the watch you gave me is the one he offered. "

"Sukey Yates said you showed her his ring. "

"Dic, " returned Rita, firing up indignantly, "did Sukey tell youthat--that lie? I don't like to use the word, but, Dic, she lied. Sheonce saw your ring upon my finger, before I could hide it from her, butI did not tell her who had given it to me. I told her nothing. I don'tbelieve she intended to tell a story. I am sorry I used the other word. She probably thought that Mr. --Mr. --that man had given it to me. " Aftershe had spoken, a shadowy little cloud came upon her face. "You wereover to see Sukey Christmas night, " she said, looking very straight intothe fire. 

"Yes, " returned Dic. "How did you learn that I was there?"

"Tom told me, " she answered. "And I cried right out before Mr. --Mr. --theBoston man. "

"Ah, did you?" asked Dic, leaning forward and taking her hand. 

"Yes; and when he put his hand on my arm, " she continued, very proud ofthe spirit she had shown, "I just flew at him savagely. Oh, I can befierce when I wish. He will never touch me again, you may depend on it. "She then gave the details of the scene with Williams, dwelling proudlyupon the fact of her successful retreat to bed, and meekly telling ofwhat she called her jealousy and wickedness. She had asked forgivenessof God, and now she would ask it of Dic, evidently believing that if Godand Dic would forgive her wicked jealousy, no one else had any right tocomplain. She was justly proud of the manner in which she hadaccomplished the retreat movement, and really felt that she was becomingdare-devilish to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled by an undutifuldaughter. 

"You don't know how wicked I can be, " she said, in great earnestness. 

"I know how good and beautiful you are, " answered Dic. "I know you arethe one perfect human being in all the world--and it is useless for meto try to tell you how much you are to me. When I am alone, I am betterable to realize what I feel, but I cannot speak it. "

"Oh, Dic, is it really true?" asked the girl. "Neither can I tellhow--how--" but those emotions which cannot be spoken in words, owing tothe poverty of our language, must be expressed otherwise. God or Satantaught the proper method to Adam and Eve, and it has come down to us bypatristic succession, so that we have it to-day in all its pristineglory and expressiveness. Some have spoken against the time-honoredcustom, and claim to mark its decadence. Connecticut forbade it by lawon Sundays, and frowned upon it "Fridays, Saturdays, and all"; but whenit dies, the Lord will whitewash this old earth and let it out as a moonto shine upon happier worlds where the custom still lives. 

Rita and Dic did not disturb Mrs. Bays, and she, unconscious of hispresence, did not disturb them until Mr. Bays returned. 

When Mrs. Bays learned that Dic had been in the kitchen an hour, shefelt that the highest attribute of the human mind had been grosslyoutraged. But her husband was about to ask a favor of Dic, and shelimited her expression of dissent to an exhibition of frigid, virtuousdignity, worthy of the king's bench, or Judge Anselm Fisher himself. 

When Bays came home, Dic and Rita went into the front room and tooktheir old places on the ciphering log. Mr. And Mrs. Bays sat on thehearth before the fire. Mrs. Bays brought a chair and indicated by agesture that Rita should occupy it; but with Dic by her side that younglady was brave and did not observe her mother's mute commands. Amid thepress of other matters in the kitchen, Rita had not remembered to warnDic not to lend her father the money. When that fluttering heart of herswas in great trouble or joy, it was apt to be a forgetful little organ, and regret in this instance followed forgetfulness. The regret cameafter she was seated with Dic on the hearth log, and, being in hermother's presence, dared not speak. 

Mr. Bays was genuinely glad to see Dic, and listened with delight to thenarrative of his trip. When an opportunity arose, Tom, Sr. , said:--

"I have a fine opportunity to go into business with Jim Fisher. I wantto borrow three thousand dollars, and I wonder if you will be willing tolend me your money?"

"Yes, " answered Dic, eagerly, "I am glad to lend it to you. " He welcomedthe proposition as a blind man would welcome light. He was glad to helphis lifelong friend; but over and above that motive Mr. Bays's requestfor money seemed to mean Rita. It certainly could mean nothing else; andif the family moved to Indianapolis, it would mean Rita in the coseylog-cabin up the river at once. Dic and his mother lived together, and, even without Rita, the log house was a delightful home, warm in winterand cool in summer; but the beautiful girl would transmute the log wallsto jasper, the hewed floors to beaten gold, and would create a paradiseon the banks of Blue. The thought almost made him dizzy. He had neverbefore felt so near to possessing her. 

"Indeed I will, " he repeated. 

"I will pay you the highest rate of interest, " said Mr. Bays. 

"I want no interest, and you may repay the loan in one or ten years, asyou choose. "

Rita, unable to repress her desire to speak, exclaimed: "Oh, Dic, pleasedon't, " but Mrs. Bays gazed sternly over her glasses at her daughter andsuppressed the presumptuous, forward girl. The old lady, seeing Dic'seagerness to lend the money, seized the opportunity to lessen herobligation in the transaction and to make it appear that she wasconferring a favor upon Dic. If she and Mr. Bays would condescend toborrow his money, she determined that Dic should fully appreciate thehonor they were doing him. Therefore, after a formulative pause, shespoke to her daughter:--

"Mind your own affairs. Girls should be seen and not heard. Some girlsare seen altogether too much. Your father and Dic will arrange thisaffair between themselves without your help. It is purely an affair ofbusiness. Dic, of course, wishes to invest his money; and if yourfather, after due consideration, is willing to help him, I am sure heshould feel obliged to us, and no doubt he will. He would be anungrateful person indeed if he did not. I am sure your father's note isas good as the bank. He pays his just debts. He is my husband and couldnot do otherwise. No man lives who has not at all times received hisdues from us to the last penny. If a penny is coming to us, we want it. If we owe one, we pay it. My father, Judge Anselm Fisher, was the sameway. His maxim was, 'Justice to all and confusion to sinners. ' He diedbeholden to no man. Neither have I ever been beholden to any one. Dic isfortunate, indeed, in finding so good an investment for his money, atinterest; very fortunate indeed. "

"I don't want interest, " said the too eager Dic. 

"Indeed, that is generous in you, " returned Mrs. Bays, though she wasdetermined that Dic should not succeed in casting the burden of anobligation upon her shoulders. "But of course you know your money willbe safe, and that is a great deal in these days of weak banks androbbers. If I were in Mr. Bays's place, I should pause and consider thematter carefully and prayerfully before assuming responsibility foranybody's money. If it should be stolen from him, he, and not you, wouldlose it. I think it is very kind in him to undertake theresponsibility. "

That phase of the question slightly dimmed its rosiness; but Dic stillhoped that lending the money would make smoother his path to Rita. Atfirst he had not foreseen that he, and not the Bayses, would rest underan obligation. To the girl the lending of this money meant Indianapolis, Williams, and separation from Dic. 

THE TOURNAMENT

CHAPTER X

THE TOURNAMENT

Mr. Bays, rash man that he was, without care or prayer, accepted Dic'sloan and was thankful, despite the good wife's effort to convince him hewas conferring a favor. Her remarks had been much more convincing to Dicthan to her husband. The latter could not entirely throw off the feelingthat Dic was doing him a favor. 

The money was to be delivered and the note executed in ten days, Mrs. Margarita insisting that Dic should be responsible for his own moneyuntil it was needed by her husband. 

"He certainly would not ask us to be responsible for his money till wecan use it, " she observed, in an injured tone, to her daughter. Onewould have supposed from her attitude that an imposition was being putupon her, though she, herself, being accustomed to bear the burdens ofothers, would bow her neck beneath this yoke and accept theresponsibility of Dic's money. She not only convinced herself that suchwas the proper view to take of the transaction, but succeeded fairlywell in impressing even Rita with that belief. Such an achievementrequired generalship of the highest order; but Mrs. Bays possessed thatrare quality to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled. 

The loan was to bear no interest, Dic hoping to heighten the sense ofobligation in Mr. Bays. He succeeded; but of course the important memberof the family still felt that Dic was beholden to her. She could not, however, with either safety or justice, exclude from her house the manwho was to lend the much-needed money. While she realized the greatfavor she was conferring on Dic, and fully understood the nature of theburden she was taking upon herself solely for his sake, she had nothought of shrinking from her duty;--not she. The money had not beendelivered, and Dic, if offended, might change his mind and foolishlyrefuse her sacrifice. It might not be entirely safe to presume toolargely upon his sense of obligation--some persons are devoid ofgratitude--until the money was in hand. For these reasons Dic wastolerated, and during the next ten days spent his evenings with Rita, though mother and father Bays did not migrate to the kitchen, inaccordance with well-established usage on Blue, and as they had donewhen Williams came a-wooing. Dic cared little for the infringement, andfelt that old times had come again. Rita, growing bold, braved hermother's wrath, and continued each evening to give him a moment of hisown. One evening it would be a drink from the well that she wanted. Again, it was a gourdful of shell-barks from the cellar under thekitchen, whence she, of course, was afraid to fetch them alone. The mostguileless heart will grow adroit under certain well-known conditions;and even Rita, the simplest of girls, easily made opportunities to giveDic these little moments from which she came back rosy, while that luckyyoung man was far from discontented. 

Rita paid each evening for Dic's moment when the door closed on him, andcontinued payment during the next day till his return. But sheconsidered the moment a great bargain at the price, continued herpurchases, and paid the bills on demand to incarnate Justice. The billswere heavy, and had not Rita been encased by an armor of trusty steel, wrought from the links of her happiness, her soft, white form wouldhave been pierced through and through by the tough, ashen shafts of hermother's relentless cruelty. 

We are apt to feel pain and suffering comparatively. To one who hasexperienced a great agony, smaller troubles seem trivial. Rita hadexperienced her great agony, and her mother's thrusts were but needlepricks compared with it. 

 * * * * *

Arrangements were quickly made for moving to Indianapolis, and at theend of ten days all was ready for the money to be delivered. Dic againasked for Rita, and Mr. Bays was for delivering the girl at once. Hisnew venture at Indianapolis had stimulated his sense of self-importance, and he insisted, with a temerity never before dared, that Dic, whom hetruly loved, should have the daughter whom they each loved. But theChief Justice would agree to nothing more than an extension of thearmistice, and graciously consented that Dic might visit the _family_ atIndianapolis once in a while. 

After Dic had agreed to lend the money, he at once notified BillyLittle, in whose strong-box it was stored. Dic, in the course of theirconversation, expressed to Billy the sense of obligation he felt to theBayses. 

"I declare, " vowed Billy, "that old woman is truly great. When she goesto heaven, she will convince St. Peter that she is doing him a favor byentering the pearly gates. Neither will she go in unless everythingsuits her. There is not another like her. Archimedes said he could liftthe world with a lever if he had a fulcrum. Undiluted egotism is thefulcrum. But one must actually believe in one's self to be effective. One cannot impose a sham self-faith upon the world. Only the man whobelieves his own lie can lie convincingly. Egad! Dic, it would have beenbeautiful to see that self-sufficient old harridan attempting toconvince you that she was conferring a favor by taking your money. Youwill probably never see a fippenny bit of it again. And withoutinterest! Jove! I say it was beautiful. Had she wanted your liver, Isuppose you would have thanked her for accepting it. She is a wonder. "

These remarks opened Dic's eyes and convinced him that the New York triphad not effaced all traces of unsophistication. 

In those days of weak strong-boxes and numerous box-breakers, menhesitated to assume the responsibility of taking another's gold forsafe-keeping. There could be no profit to Billy Little in Dic's gold. Hetook it to keep for him only because he loved him. The sum total ofBilly's wealth, aside from his stock of goods valued at a thousanddollars, consisted of notes, secured by mortgages, amounting to fourthousand dollars. Of this sum he had lent five hundred dollars to Dic, who had repaid him in gold. The money had been placed in Billy Little'sstrong-box with Dic's twenty-six hundred dollars. Each sum of gold wascontained in a canvas shot-bag. Of course news of Dic's wealth hadspread throughout the town and country, and had furnished many apleasant hour of conversation among persons with whom topics werescarce. 

Late one night Billy Little's slumbers were disturbed by a noise in thestore, and his mind at once turned to the gold. He rose quickly, seizedhis shot-gun, and opened the door leading into the storeroom just intime to see two men climb out through the open window near thepost-office boxes. Billy ran to the window and saw the men a hundredyards away. He climbed out and hurried in pursuit, but the men were soonout of sight, and Billy returned shivering to the store. He could see bythe dim light from the window that the doors of his strong-box werestanding open. There was no need to examine the box. Billy well knew thegold had vanished. He shut the iron doors and went back to his room, poked the fire, seated himself at the piano, and for the next hour ranthrough his favorite repertoire, closing the concert with "AnnieLaurie. " Then he went to bed and slept like an untroubled child tillmorning. 

The safe had been unlocked by means of a false key. There were novisible signs of robbery, and Billy Little determined to tell no one ofhis loss. The first question that confronted him in the morning was, what should be done about the loss of Dic's gold? That proposition hequickly settled. He went across the road to the inn, got his breakfast, returned to his room, donned his broadcloth coat, made thirty yearsbefore in London, took from his strong-box notes to the amount oftwenty-six hundred dollars, and left for Indianapolis by the noon stage. At Indianapolis he sold the notes and brought back Dic's gold. This hekept in his iron box during the day and under his pillow at night. 

 * * * * *

The household effects of the Bays family were placed in two wagons to betaken to Indianapolis. Dic had offered to drive one team, and Tom was todrive the other. Mr. Bays had preceded the family by a day or two; butbefore leaving he and Dic had gone to Billy Little's store for themoney. Dic, of course, knew nothing of the robbery. Billy had privatelyadvised his young friend to lend the money payable on demand. 

"You should buy a farm when a good opportunity offers, " said he. "Landhereabouts will increase in value a hundred per cent in ten years. Youshould not tie up your money for a long time. "

Billy made the same representation to Bays, and that gentleman, eager toget the money on any terms, agreed with him. Little's real, thoughunspoken, reason was this: he felt that if Dic held a debt against Bays, collectible upon demand, it would be a protection against Mrs. Margarita's too keen sense of justice, and might prove an effective helpin winning Rita from the icy dragoness. Therefore, the note was drawnpayable on demand. When Mrs. Bays learned that fact, she named over toher spouse succinctly the various species of fool of which he was thecomposite representative. The satisfaction she felt in unbosomingherself was her only reward, for the note remained collectible ondemand. 

The weather was very cold, and the snow-covered road would be rough. Soit had been determined that Rita and her mother should travel toIndianapolis by the stage coach. But when the wagons were ready tostart, at sun-up, Mrs. Bays being in bed, Rita basely deserted thatvirtuous woman and climbed over the front wheel to the seat beside Dic. She left a note for her mother, saying that she would go with the wagonto save the seven shilling stage fare. She knew she was making a heavypurchase of "moments, " and was sure she would be called upon for instantpayment that night when she should meet her mother. She was willing topay the price, whatever it might be, for the chariot of Phoebus wouldhave been a poor, tame conveyance compared with the golden car whereonshe rode. 

The sun was barely above the horizon, and the crisp, cold air was filledwith glittering frost dust when the wagons crossed Blue on the ice atthe ford below Bays's barn. The horses' breath came from their nostrilslike steam from kettle-spouts, and the tires, screaming on the frozensnow, seemed to laugh for joy. It would have been a sad moment for Ritahad she not been with Dic; but with him by her side she did not so muchas turn her head for one backward look upon the home she was leaving. 

Dic wore a coat made from mink pelts which he had taken in the hunt, andhe so wrapped and enveloped Rita in a pair of soft bearskin robes thatthe cold could not come near her. He covered her head, mouth, nose, andcheeks with a great fur cap of his own; but he left her eyes exposed, saying, "I must be able to see them, you know. " As he fastened thecurtains of the cap under her chin, he received a flashing answer fromthe eyes that would have warmed him had he been clothed in gossamer andthe mercury freezing in the bulb. 

If I were to tell you all the plans that were formulated upon that wagonwhile it jolted and bumped over the frozen ruts of the Michigan road; ifI were to write down here all the words of hope and confidence in thefickle future; if I were to tell you of the glances, touches, and wordsof love that were given and spoken between sun-up and sun-down upon thischariot of the gods--I will say of the blind god--I should never finishwriting, nor would you ever finish reading. 

It was:--

"You will write to me every day?"

"Yes, every day. "

"You will think of me every day and night?"

"Yes, Dic, every moment, and--"

"You will come back to me soon--very soon?"

"Yes, Dic, whenever you choose to take me. "

"And you will be brave against your mother?"

"Yes, brave as I can be, for your sake, Dic. But you must not forgetthat I cannot be very brave long at a time without help from you! Oh, Dic, how can I bear to be so far away from you? I shall see you only onSundays; a whole week apart! You have never been from me so long since Ican remember till you went to New York. I told you trouble would comefrom that trip; but you will come to me Sundays--by Saturday night'sstage?"

"Yes, every Sunday. "

"Surely? You will never fail me? I shall die of disappointment if youfail me once. All week I shall live on the hope of Sunday. "

"I'll come, Rita. You need not fear. "

"And Dic, you will not go often to see Sukey Yates, will you?"

"I'll not speak to her, if you wish. She is nothing to me. I'll not gonear her. "

"No, I don't ask that. I fear I am very selfish. You will be lonely whenI am gone and--and you may go to see Sukey--and--and the other girlsonce in a while. But you won't go too often to see Sukey and--and youwon't grow to caring for her--one bit, will you?"

"I will not go at all. "

"Oh, but you must; I command you. You would think I do not trust you ifI would not let you go at all. I don't entirely trust her, though I amsure I am wrong and wicked to doubt her; but I trust you, and wouldtrust you with any one. "

"I, too, trust you, Rita. It will be impossible for you to mistreatWilliams, associated as he is with your father. For the sake of peace, treat him well, but--"

"He shall never touch my hand, Dic; that I swear! I can't keep him fromcoming to our house, but it will be torture when I shall be wanting you. Oh, Dic--" and tears came before she could take her hands from under thebearskins to cover her face. But as I said, I cannot tell you all theplans and castles they built, nor shall I try. 

The wise man buildeth many castles, but he abideth not therein, lestthey crumble about his ears and crush him. Castles built of air oftenfall of stone. Therefore, only the foolish man keeps revel in the greathall or slumbers in the donjon-keep. 

 * * * * *

Early upon the second Sunday after the Bayses' advent to Indianapolis, Dic, disdaining the stage, rode a-horseback and covered the distancebefore noon. Mr. Bays and Tom received him with open arms. Rita wouldhave done likewise in a more literal sense could she have had him alonefor a moment. But you can see her smiles and hear her gentle heartbeats, even as Dic saw and heard them. A bunch of cold, bony fingers wasgiven to Dic by Mother Justice. When he arrived Williams was presentawaiting dinner, and after Mrs. Bays had given the cold fingers, shesaid:--

"I suppose we'll have to try to crowd another plate on the table. Wedidn't expect an extra guest. "

Rita endured without complaint her mother's thrusts when she alonereceived them, but rebelled when Dic was attacked. In the kitchen shetold her mother that she would insult Williams if Mrs. Bays againinsulted Dic. The girl was so frightened by her own boldness that shetrembled, and although the mother's heart showed signs of weakness, there was not time, owing to the scorching turkey, for a total collapse. There was, however, time for a few random biblical quotations, and theywere almost as effective as heart failure in subduing the insolent, disobedient, ungrateful, sacrilegious, wicked daughter for whom the fondmother had toiled and suffered and endured, lo! these many years. 

When Rita and her mother returned to the front room to invite the gueststo dinner, Dic thanked Mrs. Bays, and said he would go to the tavern. Rita's face at once became a picture of woe, but she was proud of Dic'sspirit, and gloried in his exhibition of self-respect. When Mrs. Bayssaw that Dic resented her insult, she insisted that he should remain. She said there was plenty for all, and that there was more room at thetable than she had supposed. But Dic took his hat and started toward thedoor. Tom tried to take the hat from his hand, saying:--

"Nonsense, Dic, you will stay. You must, " and Mr. Bays said:--

"Come, come, boy, don't be foolish. It has been a long time since youtook a meal with us. It will seem like old times again. Put down yourhat. "

Dic refused emphatically, and Tom, taking up his own hat, said:--

"If Dic goes to the inn, I go with him. Mother's a damned old fool. " Iwish I might have heard the undutiful son speak those blessed words!

Williams was delighted when Rita did not insist upon Dic's remaining, but his delight died ignominiously when the girl with tears in her eyestook Dic's hand before them all and said:--

"Come back to me soon, Dic. I will be waiting for you. "

Our little girl is growing brave, but she trembles when she thinks ofthe wrath to come. 

Dinner was a failure. Mrs. Bays thought only of the note payable ondemand, and feared that her offensive conduct to Dic might cause itsinstant maturity. If the note had been in her own hands under similarcircumstances, and if she had been in Dic's place, she well knew thatserious results would have followed. She judged Dic by herself, andfeared she had made a mistake. 

There were but two modes of living in peace with this woman--even insemi-peace. Domineer her coldly, selfishly, and cruelly as did Tom, andshe would be a worm; or submit to her domineering, be a worm yourself, and she would be a tyrant. Those who insist on domineering othersusually have their way. The world is too good-natured and too lazy tocombat them. Fight them with their own weapons, and they become an easyprey. Tom was his mother's own son. He domineered her, his father, andRita; but, like his mother, his domineering was inflicted only uponthose whose love for him made them unresisting. 

But I have wandered from the dinner. Rita sat by Williams, but she didnot eat, and vouchsafed to him only such words as were absolutelynecessary to answer direct questions. 

Williams was a handsome fellow, and many girls would have been glad toanswer his questions volubly. He, like Mrs. Bays, was of a domineeringnature, and clung to a purpose once formed with the combative tenacityof a bull-dog or the cringing persistency of a hound. Success in all hisundertakings was his object, and he cared little about the means todesired ends. Such a man usually attains his end; among otherconsummations, he is apt to marry a rare, beautiful girl who hates him. 

"Dic is like a brother to Rita, " said Mrs. Bays, in explanation of herdaughter's conduct. "Her actions may seem peculiar to a stranger, butshe could only feel for him the affection she might give to a brother. "

"Brother!" exclaimed Rita, in accent of contempt, though she did notlook up from her plate. The young lady was growing rebellious. Wait forthe reckoning, girl! Rita's red flag of rebellion silenced Mrs. Bays forthe time being, and she attempted no further explanations. 

Poor father Bays could think of nothing but Dic eating dinner at thetavern. Rita trembled in rebellion, and was silent. After a time thegeneral chilliness penetrated even Williams's coat of polish, and onlythe clinking of the knives and forks broke the uncomfortable stillness. Dic was well avenged. 

Soon after dinner Tom and Dic returned. Tom went to the kitchen, and hismother said:--

"Tom, my son, your words grieved me, and I--"

"Oh, shut up, " answered De Triflin'. "Your heart'll bust if you talk toomuch. Do you want to make Dic sue us for the money we owe him, and throwus out of business? Don't you know we would have to go back to Blue ifDic asked for his money? If you hain't got any sense, you ought to keepyour mouth shut. "

"Tom, you should be ashamed, " said Rita, looking reproachfully at herbrother. 

"You shut up too, " answered Tom. "Go in and talk to your two beaux. God!but you're popular. How are you going to manage them to-night?"

That question had presented itself before, and Rita had not been able toanswer it. 

After Mrs. Bays had gone from the kitchen, Tom repeated his question:--

"How will you manage them to-night, Sis?"

"I don't know, " answered Rita, almost weeping. "I suppose Dic will goaway. He has more pride than--than the other. I suppose Mr. Williamswill stay. Tom, if you find an opportunity, I want you to tell Dic tostay--tell him I want him to stay. He must stay with me until Williamsgoes, even if it is all night. Please do this for me, brother, and I'lldo anything for you that you ask--I always do. "

But Tom laughed, and said, "No, I'll not mix in. I like Dic; but, Sis, you're a fool if you don't take Williams. The Tousy girls would jump athim. They were at the tavern, and laughed at Dic's country ways. "

Tom lied about the Tousy girls. They were splendid girls, and theirlaughter had not been at Dic's country ways. In fact, the eldest MissTousy had asked Tom the name of his handsome friend. 

Tom left Rita, and her tears fell unheeded as she finished theafter-dinner work. For ten days she had looked forward to this Sunday, and after its tardy arrival it was full of grief, despite her joy atseeing Dic. 

At two o'clock Williams left, and the remainder of the afternoon richlycompensated the girl for her earlier troubles. Tom went out, and aboutfour o'clock Mr. Bays went for a walk while Justice was sleepingupstairs. During the father's absence, Dic and Rita had a delightfulhalf hour to themselves, during which her tongue made ample amends forits recent silence, and talked such music to Dic as he had never beforeheard. She had, during the past ten days, made memoranda of the subjectsupon which she wished to speak, fearing, with good reason, that shewould forget them all, in the whirl of her joy, if she trusted tomemory. So the memoranda were brought from a pocket, and the subjectstaken up in turn. To Dic that half hour was well worth the ride toIndianapolis and home again. To her it was worth ten times ten days ofwaiting, and the morning with its wretched dinner was forgotten. 

Mrs. Margarita, stricken by Tom's words, had been thinking all theafternoon of the note payable on demand, and had grown to fear theconsequences of her conduct at dinner-time. She had hardly grown out ofthe feeling that Dic was a boy, but his prompt resentment of her coldreception awakened her to the fact that he might soon become a dangerousman. Rita's show of rebellion also had an ominous look. She was nearingthe dangerous age of eighteen and could soon marry whom she chose. Dicmight carry her off, despite the watchfulness of open-eyed Justice, andcause trouble with the note her husband had so foolishly given. Allthese considerations moved Margarita, the elder, to gentleness, and whenshe came downstairs she said:--

"Dic, I am surprised and deeply hurt. We always treat you withoutceremony, as one of the family, and I didn't mean that I didn't want youto stay for dinner. I did want you, and you must stay for supper. "

Dic's first impulse was to refuse the invitation; but the pleading inRita's eyes was more than he could resist, and he remained. 

How different was the supper from the dinner! Rita was as talkative asone could ask a girl to be, and Mrs. Bays would have referred to therelative virtues of hearing and seeing girls, had she not been intemporary fear of the demand note. Tom was out for supper with Williams. Mr. Bays told all he knew; and even the icy dragoness, thawed by thegenial warmth, unbent to as great a degree as the daughter of JudgeAnselm Fisher might with propriety unbend, and was actuallypleasant--for her. After supper Dic insisted that Mrs. Bays should go tothe front room, and that he should be allowed, as in olden times, whenhe was a boy, to assist Rita in "doing up" the after-supper work. So he, wearing an apron, stood laughingly by Rita's side drying the disheswhile she washed them. There were not enough dishes by many thousand, and when the paltry few before them had been dried and placed in a largepan, Dic, while Rita's back was turned, poured water over them, and, ofcourse, they all had to be dried again. Rita laughed, and began her taskanew. 

"Who would have thought, " she whispered, shrugging her shoulders, "thatwashing dishes could be such pleasant work. "

Dic acknowledged his previous ignorance on the subject. He was forinterrupting the work semi-occasionally, but when the interruptionsbecame too frequent, she would say: "Don't, Dic, " and laughingly pushhim away. She was not miserly. She was simply frugal, and Dic had nogood reason to complain. After every dish had been washed and dried manytimes, Rita started toward her torture chamber, the front room. 

At the door she whispered to Dic:--

"Mr. --that man is in there. He will remain all evening, and I want youto stay till he goes. "

"Very well, " responded Dic. "I don't like that sort of thing, but if youwish, I'll stay till morning rather than leave him with you. "

Williams was on hand, and as a result Rita had no words for any one. There was no glorious fireplace in the room, and consequently no coseyciphering log. In its place was an iron stove, which, according to Rita, made the atmosphere "stuffy. "

Toward nine o'clock Mr. And Mrs. Bays retired, and the "sitting-out"tournament began. The most courteous politeness was assumed by thebelligerent forces, in accordance with established custom in alltournaments. 

The great clock in the corner struck ten, eleven, and twelve o'clock. Still the champions were as fresh as they had been at nine. No one couldforetell the victor, though any one could easily have pointed out thepoor victim. After ten o'clock the conversation was conducted almostentirely by Williams and Dic, with a low monosyllable now and then fromRita when addressed. She, poor girl, was too sleepy to talk, even toDic. Soon after twelve o'clock the knight from Blue, pitying her, showedsigns of surrender; but she at once awoke and mutely gave him tounderstand that she would hold him craven should he lower his lancepoint while life lasted. The clock struck one. 

The champions had exhausted all modern topics and were beginning on oldRome. Dic wondered what would be the hour when they should reach Greeceand Egypt in their backward flight. But after the downfall of Rome, nearthe hour of two, Sir Roger was unhorsed, and went off to his castle andto bed. Then Rita bade Dic good-by, after exacting from him a solemnpromise to return the next Sunday. 

Rita thought Dic's victory was a good omen, and drew much comfort fromit. She tried to lie awake to nurse her joy, but her eyes were so heavythat she fell asleep in the midst of her prayer. 

Dic saddled his horse and started home. The sharp, crisp air wasdelicious. The starlit sky was a canopy of never ceasing beauty, andthe song in his heart was the ever sweet song of hope. The four hours'ride seemed little more than a journey of as many minutes; and when hestabled his horse at home, just as the east was turning gray and thesun-blinded stars were blinking, he said to himself:--

"A fifty-two-mile ride and twenty-four hours ofhappiness, --anticipation, realization, and memory, --cheap!"

He slept for two or three hours and hunted all day long. Tuesday's stagebrought a letter from Rita, and it is needless to speak of itselectrifying effect on Dic. There was a great deal of "I" and "me" and"you" in the letter, together with frequent repetitions; but tautology, under proper conditions, may have beauties of its own, not at all to bedespised. 

Dic went to town Tuesday evening and sat before Billy Little's fire tillten o'clock, telling our worthy little friend of recent events. Theyboth laughed over the "sitting-out" tournament. 

"It begins to look as if you would get her, " remarked Billy, leaningforward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees. He wasintensely jealous of Williams, and was eager to help Dic in any mannerpossible. 

"I hope you are right, Billy Little, " replied Dic. "When persons agreeas do Rita and I, there should be a law against outside interference. "

"There is such a law, " answered Billy--"God's law, but most persons havegreater respect for a legislative statute. "

"I didn't know you were religious, " said Dic. 

"Of course I am. Every man with any good in him is religious. Onedoesn't have to be a Methodist, a Baptist, or a Roman Catholic to bereligious. But bless my soul, Dic, I don't want to preach. " He leanedforward looking into the fire, took his pipe from his mouth and, asusual, hummed Maxwelton's braes. 

"If Rita were a different girl, my task would be easier, " observed Dic. "She is too tender-hearted and affectionate to see faults in any one whois near to her. Notwithstanding her mother's cruelty and hypocrisy, Ritaloves her passionately and believes she is the best and greatest ofwomen. She stands in fear of her, too, and when the diabolical old fiendquotes Scripture, no matter how irrelevantly, or has heart trouble, thegirl loses self-control and would give up her life if her mother wantedit. Rita is a coward, too; but that is a sweet fault in a woman, and Iwould not have her different in any respect. I believe Mrs. Bays hasgreater respect for me since I lent the money. I could see the goodeffect immediately. "

"Her respect would not have been so perceptible had you taken a notepayable in one or two years. Hold that demand note as a club over theold woman, and perhaps you will get the girl. "

"Was that your reason for advising me to take the note payable ondemand?" asked Dic. 

"It was one of my reasons--perhaps the chief one. "

"Then I'll write to Mr. Bays asking him to draw a new note payable intwo years, " said Dic. 

Billy took a small piece of paper, wrote a line or two, and handed it toDic, saying:--

"Sign this and deliver it to Williams when you take Bays's note due intwo years. "

The slip read, "Pay on demand to Roger Williams, Esq. , one Rita Bays. "

Dic laughed nervously, and said: "I guess you're right, as usual. Afterall, it is a shame that I should take her to my poor log-cabin when shemight have a mansion in Boston and all that money can buy. If I were anunselfish man, I should release my claims to her. " A silence of severalmoments ensued, during which Billy drew the leather trunk from under thebed and took a fresh letter from the musty package we have alreadyseen. He drew his chair near to the candle, slipped the letter from itsenvelope, and slowly read its four pages to himself. After gazing at thefire for several minutes in meditation he said:--

"I received a Christmas gift, Dic. It came from England. I got it thismorning. It is the miniature of an old friend. I have not seen or heardfrom her in thirty years. I also have a letter. If you wish, you may bethe only person in all the world, save myself, to read it. "

"Indeed, I'll be glad--if you wish me to read it. You know I am deeplyinterested in all that touches you. "

"I believe I know, " answered Billy, handing him the letter across thetable. Dic read to himself:--

 ----, ENGLAND, 18

 "MY DEAR FRIEND: Each Christmas day for many years have I written a letter to you, but none of them have ever been seen by any eyes save my own. I have always intended sending them to you, but my courage upon each occasion has failed me, and none of them has ever reached you. This one I mean to send. I wonder if I shall do so? How many years is it, my friend, since that day, so full of pain, --ah, so full of pain, --when I returned the ring you had given me, and you released me to another. In your letter you made pretence that you did not suffer, knowing that I would suffer for the sake of your pain. But you did not deceive me. I knew then, as I know now, that you released me because you supposed the position and wealth which were offered me would bring happiness. But, my friend, that was a mistaken generosity. Life has been rich in many ways. I have wealth and exalted position, and am honored and envied by many. My husband is a good, kind man. I have no children and am thankful in lacking them. A woman willingly bears children only for the man she loves. But, oh, my friend, the weariness that never ceases, the yearning that never stops, the dull pain that never really eases, have turned me gray, and I am old before my time. I fear the longing and the pain are sinful, and nightly I pray God to take them from my heart. At times He answers, in a degree, my prayers, and I almost forget; but again, He forsakes me, and at those moments my burden seems heavier than I can bear. One may easily endure if one has a bright past or a happy future to look upon. One may live over and over again one's past joys, or may draw upon a hopeful future; but a dead, ashen past, a barren present, and a hopeless future bring us at times to rebellion against an all-wise God because He has given us life. Time is said to heal all wounds; but it has failed with me, and they, I fear, will ache so long as I live. I suppose you, too, are old, though you will always be young to me, and doubtless the snow is also in your hair. I, sinful one that I am, send you with this letter, my miniature and a lock of my hair, that you may realize the great change that has been wrought in me by time. This letter I surely will post. May it take to you in the wilderness a part of my wretchedness, for so selfish am I that I would take comfort in knowing that I do not suffer alone. I retract the last sentence and in its place ask, not that you suffer, but that you do not forget. In health I am blessed beyond my deserts, and I hope the same comfort abides with you. You will hear from me never again. I have allowed myself this one delightful moment of sin, and God, I know, will give me strength against another. I wish you all the good that one human being can wish another. 

 "Regretfully, fondly, farewell. 

 "RITA. "

Dic, almost in tears, returned the letter to Billy Little, and thatworthy man, wishing to rob the scene of its sentimentality, said:--

"She says she supposes my hair is gray! She doesn't know I am as bald asa gourd. Here is her miniature. I'll not send her mine; she mightlaugh. "

Dic took the picture and saw a sweet, tender face, fringed by whitecurls, and aglow with soft, brown eyes. 

"Do you see a resemblance in the miniature to--to any one you know?"asked Billy Little. 

"By George!" exclaimed Dic, holding the picture at arm's length, "Rita--her mouth, her eyes; the same name, too, " and he kissed theminiature rapturously. 

"Look here, young fellow, " cried Billy Little. "Hand me that miniature. You shan't be kissing all my female friends. By Jove! if she were tocome over here, I'd drive you out of the settlement with a shot-gun, 'deed if I wouldn't. Now you will probably change your mind aboutunselfishly surrendering Rita to Williams. I tell you, Dic, a foolconscience is more to be dreaded than a knavish heart. "

"You are always right, Billy Little, though, to tell you the truth, Ihad no intention whatever of surrendering Rita to any one, " returnedDic. 

"I know you hadn't. Of course I knew you could not even have spokenabout it had you any thought that it might be possible. "

A KISS AND A DUEL

CHAPTER XI

A KISS AND A DUEL

I shall not attempt to give you an account of Dic's numerous journeyingsto Indianapolis. With no abatement in affection, the period of hisvisits changed from weekly to fortnightly, and then to monthly. Meantime, Williams was adroitly plying his suit; and by convincing Ritathat he had abandoned the rôle of lover for that of friend, he succeededin regaining her confidence. As agent for his father's products, he hadan office at Indianapolis, and large sums of money passed through hishands. He and Tom became great cronies, for it was Williams's intentionto leave no stone unturned, the turning of which might assist him inwinning Rita. His passion for the girl became almost desperate at times, and her unmistakable coldness added fuel to the flame. He well knew shedid not love him; but, like many another mistaken man, he believed hecould teach her that great lesson if she were his wife, and could notbelieve that she entertained either a serious or a lasting sentiment forso inferior a person as Diccon Bright. Williams had invariably foundsmooth sailing with other young ladies; and head winds in Rita's casecaused the harbor to appear fairer than any other for which he had evertrimmed his sails. 

Soon after Rita's entrance into Indianapolis society she became popularwith the fair sex and admired of the unfair; that condition, in myopinion, being an unusual triumph for any young woman. To that endWilliams was of great assistance. A rich, cultured society man of Bostonwas sure to cut a great figure among the belles and mothers of a smallfrontier town. The girl whom Williams delighted to honor necessarilyassumed importance in the eyes of her sisters. In most cases they wouldhave disliked her secretly in direct ratio to the cube of their outwardrespect; but Rita was so gentle and her beauty was so exquisite, yetunassertive, that the girl soon numbered among her friends all who knewher. There were the Tousy and the Peasly girls, the Wright girls and theMorrisons, to say nothing of the Smiths, Browns, and Joneses, many ofwhom were the daughters of cultured parents. If any one nowadaysbelieves that Indianapolis--little spot in the wilderness though itwas--lacked refined society during the thirties, he is much mistaken. Servants were scarce, and young ladies of cultured homes might any daybe called upon to cook the dinner or the supper, and afterward to "doup" the work; but they could leave the kitchen after preparing a goodmeal, walk into the parlor and play Beethoven and Mozart with credit tothemselves and their instructors, and pleasure to their audience. Theycould leave the piano and discuss Shakespeare, Addison, Dick Steele, Provost, and Richardson; and, being part of the immutable feminine, could also discuss their neighbors upon occasion, and speak earnestlyupon the serious subject of frocks and frills. As to beauty--but that isa benediction granted to all times and places, creating more or lesstrouble everywhere. 

The Tousy girls, having wealth, beauty, and numbers--there were five ofthem, ranging in years from fifteen to twenty-five--led the socialmarch; and they at once placed the stamp of unqualified approval uponour little country girl from Blue. The eldest of the Tousy brood was, ofcourse, Miss Tousy; then came Sue, Kate, and the others, both of whom, naturally, had names of their own. Miss Tousy will soon make herappearance again in these pages for a short time. Her own romance Ishould like to tell you some day. 

 * * * * *

The firm of Fisher and Fox thrived famously during the first few monthsof their partnership, and that Tom might not be ashamed of Rita when insociety, Mrs. Bays consented that she should have some new gowns, hats, and wraps. All this fine raiment pleased Dic for Rita's sake, andtroubled him for his own. 

The first he saw of the new gowns was on a certain bright Sundayafternoon in spring. Rita's heart had been divided between two desires:she longed to tell Dic in her letters of her beautiful new gowns, butshe also wished to surprise him. By a masterful effort she took thelatter course, and coming downstairs after dinner upon the Sundaymentioned she burst suddenly upon Dic in all her splendor. Her delightwas so intense that she could not close her lips for smiling, and Dicwas fairly stunned by her grandeur and beauty. She turned this way andthat, directing him to observe the beautiful tints and the fashionablecut of her garments, and asked him if the bonnet with its enormous"poke, " filled with monster roses, was not a thing of beauty and a joyso long as it should last. Dic agreed with her, and told her with truththat he had never seen a fashion so sweet and winsome. Then he receivedhis reward, after being cautioned not to disturb the bonnet, and theystarted out for a walk in the sunshine. 

Dic's garments were good enough, --he had bought them in New York, --butRita's outfit made his clothes look poor and rusty. Ever since herresidence in Indianapolis he had felt the girl slipping away from him, and this new departure in the matter of dress seemed to be a furtherdeparture in the matter of Rita. In that conclusion he was wrong. Thegirl had been growing nearer to him day by day. Her heart belonged tohim more entirely than it had even on the banks of Blue, and she longedfor the sycamore divan and the royal canopy of elm. Still, she loved herpretty gowns. 

"I am almost afraid of you, " said Dic, when he had closed the gate andwas taking his place beside her for the walk. 

"Why?" asked Rita, delightedly. Her heart was full of the spring andDic; what more could she desire?

"Your gown, your bonnet, your dainty shoes, your gloves, your beauty, all frighten me, " said Dic. "I can't believe they belong to me. I can'trealize they are mine. "

"But they are, " she said, flashing up to him a laughing glance from hereyes. "My new gown should not frighten you. "

"But it does, " he returned, "and you, too. "

"I am glad if I frighten you, " she answered, while lacing her gloves. "Ihave been afraid of you long enough. It is your turn now. "

"You have been afraid of me?" asked Dic in surprise. 

"Yes, " she returned quite seriously. "I have always been slightly afraidof you, and I hope I always shall be. The night of Scott's social I wassimply frightened to death, and before that night for a long, long timeI was in constant fear of you. I was afraid you would speak of--youknow--and I was afraid you would not. I did not know what terriblecatastrophe would happen if you did speak, and I did not know what wouldhappen to me if you did not. So you see I have always been afraid ofyou, " she said laughingly. 

"Why, Rita, I would not harm a hair of your head. "

"Of course not. I did not fear you in that way. You are so strong andbig and masterful; that is what frightens me. Perhaps I enjoy fearingyou just a bit. "

"But you are so much grander than I, " returned Dic, "that you seem to befarther from me than ever before. "

"Farther?" she asked in surprise. 

"Yes, you seem to be drifting from me ever since you came toIndianapolis, " he returned. 

"Ah, Dic, I have been feeling just the reverse, " and her eyes openedwide as she looked into his without faltering. There was not a thoughtin all their gentle depths she would not gladly have him know. A shortsilence ensued, during which she was thinking rapidly, and her thoughtsproduced these remarkable words:--

"You should have taken me long ago. " Dic wondered how he might havetaken her; but failing to discover any mistake, he went on:--

"I am going to New York again this spring and, --and you will be pasteighteen when I return. You can then marry me without your mother'sconsent, if you will. Will you go home with me when I return?"

The eyes and the face were bent toward the ground, but the lipswhispered distinctly, "Yes, Dic, " and that young man bitterly regrettedthe publicity of their situation. 

Soon our strollers met other young persons, and Dic was presented. Allwere dressed in holiday attire, and the young man from Blue felt thathis companion and her friends outshone him completely. Rita was proud ofhim, and said as much in reply to Dic's remark when they resumed theirwalk. 

"You might come to see me during the week, when the stores are open, "she said, "and you might buy one of the new-fashioned hats. If you canafford it, you might order a long coat for Sunday. Polished shoes wouldlook well, too; but I am satisfied with you as you are. I only suggestthese purchases because you seem to feel uncomfortable. "

After Rita's suggestion he did feel uncomfortable. He had earned nomoney since his return from New York, and Rita's fine feathers had beenpurchased by the proceeds of his twenty-six hundred dollars invested inher father's business. Therefore, hat, coat, and shoes were not withinhis reach unless he should go into debt, and that he had no thought ofdoing. 

With her husband's increasing prosperity, Mrs. Bays grew ever moredistant in her manner toward Dic. Rita, having once learned thatrebellion did not result in instant death to her or to her parent, hadtaken courage, and governed her treatment of Williams by her mother'sconduct toward Dic. Therefore Justice, though stern, was neverinsulting. 

After Rita's suggestion bearing upon the coat, Dic, though ardentlydesiring to see her, dreaded to go to Indianapolis, and at that time hisvisits became monthly, much to Rita's grief. She complained in herletters, and her gentle reproaches were pathetic and painful to Dic. 

Tom frequently visited the old home, and, incidentally, Sukey Yates, upon whom his city manner and fashionable attire made a tremendousimpression. Returning home from his visits to Sukey, Tom frequentlyspoke significantly of Dic's visits to that young lady's ciphering log, and Rita winced at her brother's words, but said nothing. Miss Yatesprobably multiplied the number of Dic's visits by two or more inspeaking of them to Tom, having in mind the double purpose of producingan effect upon that young man and also upon his sister. But there wastoo much truth in her boasting, since our hero certainly submittedhimself to Sukey's blandishments and placed himself under the fatalspell of her dimples with an increasing frequency which was to belamented. Especially was it lamented by Billy Little. Sukey was soperfect a little specimen of the human animal, and her heart was soprone to tenderness, that she became, upon intimate acquaintance, theincarnation of that condition into which the right sort of people praykind Providence to lead them not. The neighborhood gossips and prophetsfreely predicted that Rita would marry Williams, in which case it wassurmised Miss Yates would carry her dimples into the Bright family. Thistheory Sukey encouraged by arch glances and shy denials. 

Tom had become a great dandy, and considered himself one of thecommercial features of the Indiana metropolis. He would have his oldhome friends, including Sukey, believe that he directed the policy ofFisher and Fox, and that he was also the real business brain in theoffice of Roger Williams, where he occupied the position of confidentialclerk. He was of little real value to Williams, save in the matter ofwooing Tom's sister. Tom knew that he held his clerkship only by thetenure of Rita's smiles, and Williams, by employing him, gained an allynot at all to be despised. 

On a certain Monday morning, after Rita had the day previous shownmarked preference to Dic, Williams said:--

"Tom, father orders me to cut down expenses, and I fear I shall becompelled to begin with your salary. I regret the necessity, but thegovernor's orders are imperative. We will let it stand as it is for thismonth and will see what can be done afterward. "

This gentle hint was not lost on Thomas. He went home that day todinner, and Rita felt the heavy hand of her brother's displeasure. 

"You are the most selfish, ungrateful girl living, " said Tom, whohonestly thought his fair sister had injured him. Tom's sense of truth, like his mother's, ran parallel to his wishes. 

"Why?" asked Rita, wonderingly. Had the earth slipped from its axis, Tom and his mother would have placed the blame on Rita. 

"Why?" repeated Tom. "Because you know I have a good position withWilliams. He pays me a better salary than any one else would give me;yet you almost insulted him yesterday and went off for a walk with thatcountry jake. "

"Isn't Dic your friend?" asked Rita. 

"No, of course he ain't, " replied Tom. "Do you think I'd take him outcalling, with such clothes as he wears, to see any of the girls?"

"I hope not, " answered Rita, struggling with a smile. 

"No, sir, " insisted Tom, "and if I lose my place because you mistreatWilliams on Dic's account, he shan't come into this house. Do youunderstand? If he does, I'll kick him out. "

"You kick Dic!" returned Rita, laughing. "You would be afraid to say'boo' to him. Tom, I should be sorry to see you after you had tried tokick Dic. "

"Well, I'll tell you now, Sis, " said Tom, threateningly, "you treatWilliams right. If you don't, your big, jakey friend will suffer. "

"It is on Dic's capital that father is making so much money, " respondedRita. "Had it not been for him we would still be on Blue. I certainlywish we were back there. "

"Your father will soon pay Dic his money, " said Mrs. Bays, solemnly, "and then we will be free to act as we wish. "

"The debt to Dic is no great thing, " said Tom. "The firm owes Williamsnearly four times that amount, and he isn't a man who will stand muchfoolishness. Father is not making so much money, either, as you thinkfor, and the first thing you know, with your smartness, you will ruinhim and me both, if you keep on making a fool of yourself. But thatwouldn't hurt you. You don't think of nobody but yourself. "

"That has always been Rita's chief fault, " remarked the Chief Justice, sitting in solemn judgment upon a case that was not before her. PoorRita was beginning to feel that she was a monster of selfishness. Herfather came feebly to her defence. 

"I don't believe the girl lives, " said Thomas, Sr. , "who is less selfishthan Rita. But Fisher and I do owe Williams a great deal of money, andare not making as much as we did at first. The crops failed last summer, and collections are hard. Williams has been pressing for money, and Ihope all the family will treat him well, for he is the kind of man whomight take out his spite upon me, for the sake of getting even withsomebody else. "

Rita's heart sank. Her father, though a weak vassal, had long been heronly ally. 

Had Williams not been a suitor for her hand, Rita would have found himagreeable; and if her heart had been free, he might have won it. So longas he maintained the attitude of friend and did not conflict with Dic'sclaims, he was well received; but when he became a lover--a conditiondifficult to refrain from--she almost hated and greatly feared him. Despite her wretchedness, she accepted his visits and invitations forher father's sake, and at times felt that she was under the spell of acruel wizard from Boston. With all these conditions, the battle of Dic'swooing, though he held the citadel, --Rita's heart, --was by no means aneven fight. There were other causes operating that might eventually routhim, even from that citadel. 

One evening, while sitting before Billy Little's fire, Dic's campaignwas discussed in detail. The young man said:--

"Rita and I are to be married soon after I return from New York. If hermother consents, well and good; if she refuses, we will bear upmanfully under her displeasure and ignore it. I have often thought ofyour remark about Mrs. Bays as a mother-in-law. "

"She certainly would be ideal, " responded Billy. "But I hope you willget the girl. She's worth all the trouble the old lady can make. "

"Why do you say 'hope'?" asked Dic. "I'm sure of getting her. Why, BillyLittle, if I were to lose that girl, I believe I should go mad. "

"No, you wouldn't, " returned his friend. "You would console yourselfwith the dimpler. "

"Why, Billy Little, you are crazy--excuse me--but you don't understand, "expostulated Dic. "For me, all that is worth possessing in the whole biguniverse is concentrated in one small bit of humanity. Her little bodyencompasses it all. Sukey Yates could be nothing to me, even though Icared nothing for Rita. She has too many other friends, as she callsthem, and probably is equally generous to all. "

"If you care for Rita, you should remain away from Sukey, " remarkedBilly. "She may be comprehensive in her affections, and she may havebeen--to state it mildly--overtender at times; but when a girl of herardent temperament falls in love, she becomes dangerous, because she isreally very attractive to the eye. "

"I don't go there often, and I'll take your advice and remain away. Ihave feared the danger you speak of, but--"

"Speak out, Dic; you may trust me, " said Billy. Dic continued:--

"I don't like to speak of a girl as I was going to speak of Sukey, butI'll explain. I have, of course, been unable to explain to Rita, and I'ma selfish brute to go to Sukey's at all. Rita has never complained, butthere is always a troubled look in her eyes when she jestingly speaksof Sukey as my 'other girl. ' Well, it's this way: Sukey often comes tosee mother, who prefers her to Rita, and if she comes in the evening, ofcourse I take her home. I believe I have not deliberately gone over tosee her three times in all my life. Sometimes I ride home from churchwith her and spend part of the evening. Sukey is wonderfully pretty, andher health is so good that at times she looks like a little nymph. Sheis, in a way, entertaining too. As you say, she appeals to the eye, andwhen she grows affectionate, her purring and her dimples make aformidable array not at all to be despised. You are right. She is thesame to a score of men, and I could not fall in love with her were shethe only girl on earth. I should be kicked for speaking so of her or ofany girl, but you know I would not speak so freely to any one but you. Speaking to you seems almost like thinking. "

"If it makes you think, I shall be glad you spoke, " answered Billy. 

"No more Sukey for me, " said Dic. "I'll have nothing more to do withher. I want to be decent and worthy of Rita. I want to be true to her, and Sukey is apt to lead me in the other direction, without even theexcuse on my part of caring for her. An honest man will not deliberatelylead himself into temptation. "

Upon the Sunday previous to Dic's intended departure for New York hevisited Rita. He had made this New York trip once before, and hadreturned safely, therefore its terrors for Rita were greatly reduced. Her regret on account of the second expedition was solely because shewould be separated from Dic for three or four months, and thatbitterness was sweetened by the thought that she would have him alwaysafter his return. 

"How shall I act while you are away?" she asked. "Shall I continue toreceive Mr. Williams, or shall I refuse to see him? You must decide forme, and I'll act as you wish. You know how unhappy mother will be if Irefuse to see him and--and, you know she will be very severe with me. Iwould not care so much for that, although her harshness hurts meterribly. But mother's in bad health--her heart is troubling her a greatdeal of late--and I can't bear to cause her pain. On the other hand, ittortures me when that man comes near me, and it must pain you when Ireceive him kindly. I can't bear to pain you and--and at times I fear ifI permit his attention you will--will doubt me. That would kill me, Dic;I really believe it would. "

"Don't worry on that score, " replied Dic, placing his hand on her heart, "there is nothing but truth here. "

"I hope not, Dic, " she replied. She could not boast even of herfidelity. There might be many sorts of evil in that heart, for all sheknew. 

"Indeed, there is not, " said Dic, tenderly. "If by any chance we shouldever be separated, --if we should ever lose each other, --it will not bebecause of your bad faith. "

"But, Dic, " cried Rita, "that terrible 'if. ' It is the first time youever used the word with reference to us. "

"It means nothing, Rita, " answered Dic, reassuringly. "There can be no'if' between you and me. As for Williams, you must receive him and treathim kindly. Tom is his clerk, and I should hate to see Tom lose hisposition. Tom is a mighty good fellow. You say your father owes Williamsa large debt. He might, if he chose, act ugly. Therefore, you must actprettily. Poor Williams! I'm sorry for him. We will give them all theslip when I return. "

The slip came in an unexpected manner, and Dic did not go to New York. 

Rita's continued aversion to Williams, instead of cooling that youngman's ardor, fired it to a degree previously unknown in the cool-bloodedWilliams family. He had visited his cultured home for the purpose ofdilating upon the many charms of body, soul, and mind possessed by thisfair girl of the wilderness. His parents, knowing him to be a young manof sound Mayflower judgment and worthy to be trusted for making a good, sensible bargain in all matters of business, including matrimony, readily gave their consent, and offered him his father's place at thehead of the agricultural firm, in case he should marry. They were wiseenough to know that a young man well married is a young man well made;and they had no doubt, judging from Roger's description, that Rita wasthe girl of girls. 

Williams did not tell his parents that up to that time his wooing hadbeen in vain, and they, with good reason, did not conceive it possiblethat any girl in her right mind would refuse their son. Roger waswilling, Roger's parents were willing, Rita's parents were eager for thematch; every person and everything needful were on his side, save onesmall girl. Roger thought that trifling obstacle would soon yield to thepressure of circumstances, the persuasion of conditions, and the charmof his own personality. He and the conditions had been warring upon thesmall obstacle for many months, and still it was as small as ever--butno smaller. The non-aggressive, feather-bed stubbornness ofinsignificant obstacles is often very irritating to an enterprisingsoul. 

Williams was a fine, intellectual fellow, and his knowledge of humannature had enabled him to estimate--at least to approximate--theinestimable value of the girl he so ardently desired. Her rare beautywould, he thought, grace a palace; while her manifold virtues and goodcommon-sense would accomplish a much greater task, and grace a home. Added to these reasons of state was a passionate love on the part ofWilliams of which any woman might have been proud. Williams was, ordinarily, sure-footed, and would have made fewer mistakes in hiswooing had his love been less feverish. He also had a great fund ofcommon-sense, but love is inimical to that rare commodity, and under theblind god's distorting influence the levelest head will, in time, becomeconical. So it happened that, after many months of cautiousmanoeuvring, Williams began to make mistakes. 

For the sake of her parents and Tom, Rita had treated Williams withquiet civility, and when she learned that she could do so withoutprecipitating a too great civility on his part, she gathered confidenceand received him with undisguised cordiality. Roger, in his eagerness, took undue hope. Believing that the obstacle had become very small, hedetermined, upon occasion, to remove it entirely, by one bold stroke. Rita's kindness and Roger's growing hope and final determination to trythe issue of one pivotal battle, all came into being during the periodwhen Dic had reduced his visits to one month. The final charge by theBoston 'vincibles was made on the evening following Dic's visitlast-mentioned. 

An ominous quiet had reigned in the Williams camp for several months, and the beleaguered city, believing that hostilities had ceased, waslulled into a state of unwatchfulness, which, in turn, had given greathope to the waiting cohorts. 

Upon the Monday evening referred to, the girl commanding the beleagueredforces received the enemy, whom she wished might be her friend, into heroutworks, the front parlor. Little dreaming that a perfidious Greek wasentering her Trojan gates, she laughed and talked charmingly, hoping, ifpossible, to smooth the road for her father and Tom by the help of herall-powerful smiles. Poor and weak she considered those smiles to be;but the Greek thought them wondrous, and coveted them as no Greek evercoveted Troy. Feeling that Williams sought only her friendship, andbeing more than willing to give him that, she was her natural self, andwas more winsome and charming than she had ever before appeared to him. Her graciousness, which he should have been wise enough to understandbut did not, her winsomeness and beauty, which he should have beenstrong enough to withstand but was not, and his love, which he tried toresist but could not, induced him upon that evening to make an attack. 

Many little items of local interest had been discussed, foreign affairswere touched upon, books, music, and the blessed weather had each beenduly considered, and short periods of silence had begun to occur, together with an occasional smothered yawn from Rita. Williams, with theoriginal purpose of keeping the conversation going and with no intent toboast, said:--

"My father has purchased a new home in Boston beyond the Common, over onthe avenue, and has offered to give me his old house. He has determinedto retire from the firm and I am to take his place. I shall start forBoston Christmas Day"--here his self-control forsook him--"and, Rita, ifyou will go with me, I shall be the happiest man on earth. "

The girl remained silent, feeling that he knew her mind on the subject, and hoping he would proceed no farther. Hope, spurred by desire, iseasily awakened, and Williams, misunderstanding her silence, continued:--

"I do not mean to boast, but I cannot help telling you that your home inBoston, if you will go with me, will be one of the most beautiful in thecity. All that wealth can buy you shall have, and all that love anddevotion can bring you shall possess. Other girls would jump at thechance--" (poor conical head--this to this girl) "but I want you, Rita--want you of all the world. "

Rita rose to her feet, surprised and alarmed by this Grecian trick, andWilliams, stepping quickly to her side, grasped her hand. He had losthis wonted self-control and was swept forward by the flood of hislong-pent-up emotions. 

"Mr. Williams, I beg you will not--" cried Rita, endeavoring to withdrawher hand. 

"You shall listen to me, " he cried, half in anger, half pleadingly. "Ihave loved you as tenderly and unselfishly as woman ever was loved, since I first knew you. I know I am not worthy of you, but I am theequal of any other man, and you shall treat me fairly. "

The girl, in alarm, struggled to free herself from his grasp, but heheld her and continued:--

"No other man can give you the love I feel for you, and you shallrespond to it. "

"It is impossible, Mr. Williams, " she said pleadingly. "You do not knowall. I am sorry, so sorry, to give you pain. " Her ever ready tears beganto flow. "But I do not feel toward you as you wish. I--there is another. He is--has been very near to me since I was a child, and I have promisedto be his wife this long time. "

Her words were almost maddening to Williams, and he retorted as if hewere, in truth, mad. 

"That country fellow? You shall never marry him! I swear it! He is apoor, supercilious fool and doesn't know it! He has nothing in thisworld, and has never seen anything beyond the limits of his father'sfarm. "

"He has been to New York, " interrupted Rita, in all seriousness. 

Williams laughed. "I tell you he is a boor. He is a--"

"He is to be my husband, Mr. Williams, and I hope you will not speakill of him, " said Rita, with cold dignity. 

"He is not to be your husband, " cried Williams, angrily. "You shall bemine--mine; do you hear? Mine! I will have you, if I must--" he caughtthe girl in his arms, and pressing her head back upon the bend of hiselbow, kissed her lips to his heart's content and to his own everlastingundoing. When he released her she started from the room, but he, grasping her arm, detained her, saying:--

"Rita, I beg your pardon. I lost my head. I am sorry. Forgive me. "

"There can be no forgiveness for you, " she said, speaking slowly, "and Iwish you to let me leave the room. "

"Rita, forgive me, " he pleaded. "I tell you I was insane when I--I didthat. You have almost driven me mad. You can surely forgive me when youknow that my act was prompted by my love. Your heart is ready withforgiveness and love for every one but me, and I, more than all others, love you. I beg you to forgive me, and if I cannot have your love, forget what I have done this night and again be my friend. "

After a long, painful pause, she spoke deliberately: "I would not marryyou, Mr. Williams, if you were a king, or if I should die by reason ofrefusing you. I cannot now be even your friend. I shall tell my fatherand brother what you have done, and they will order you out of thishouse. I will tell Dic, and he will kill you!" Her eyes, usually sogentle, were hard and cold, as she continued: "There is the door. I hopeyou will never darken it again. "

She again started to leave the room, and he again detained her. He knewthat disgrace would follow exposure, and, being determined to silenceher at any cost, said angrily:--

"If you tell your father, I will take from him his store, his home, hisfarm. He owes me more than all combined are worth. If you will notlisten to me through love, you shall do so from fear. I am sorry, verysorry, for what happened. I know the consequences if you speak of it. Noone can be made to understand exactly how it happened, and I willprotect myself; of that you may be sure. If you speak of what I did, driven to it by my love for you, I say I will turn your father andmother into the street. They will be penniless in their old age. Yourbrother Tom is a thief. He has been stealing from me ever since he cameto my office. Only last night I laid a trap for him and caught him inthe act of stealing fifty dollars. He took the money and lost it atWelch's gambling saloon. He has taken, in all, nearly a thousanddollars. I have submitted to his thefts on your account. I have extendedyour father's notes because he is your father. But if you tell any onethat I--I kissed you to-night, or if you repeat what I have toldconcerning your father and brother, your parents go to the street, andTom to the penitentiary. Now, do you understand me?"

"Yes. "

"Will you remain silent?"

"Yes. "

Then he took his hat, saying, "I have been beside myself to-night, butit was through love for you, and you will forgive me, won't you?"

"Yes. "

"And I may come again?" he asked. 

"Yes. "

"And we will forget all that has happened this evening and you will bemy friend?"

"Yes. "

"If you will forgive me, " he continued, recovering his senses, "and willallow me the sweet privilege of your friendship, I promise never againto speak of my love until you have given me permission. Shall it be acompact?"

"Yes, " murmured the girl. 

"Will you give me your hand?" he asked. She offered the hand, and heclasping it, said:--

"You have much to forgive, but your heart is full of gentleness, and youhave promised. "

"Yes, I have promised, " she returned huskily. 

"Good night, Rita. "

"Good night. "

The girl hurried to her room, and, almost unconscious of what she wasdoing, dressed for the night. During the first few minutes after she hadextinguished the candle and had crept into bed, she could not thinkcoherently, but soon consciousness came in an ingulfing flood. Williams's kisses seemed to stick to her. She rubbed her lips till theywere raw, but still the clinging pollution seemed to penetrate to hersoul. Her first coherent thought, of course, was of Dic. No man but hehad ever, till that night, touched her lips, and with him a kiss was asacrament. Now he would scorn her. The field of her disaster seemed tobroaden, as she thought of it, and with the chastity of her lips shefelt that she had lost everything worth having in life. Abandoning herpillow, she covered her head with the counterpane, and drawing her kneesto her breast, lay trembling and sobbing. Dic was lost to her. Thereseemed to be no other possible outcome to the present situation. Shefeared Williams as never before, and felt that she was in his clutchesbeyond escape. The situation seemed hopeless beyond even the reach ofprayer, her usual refuge, and she did not pray. She knew of her father'sdebt to Williams, and had always feared that Tom was not to be trusted. She was convinced without evidence other than Williams's words that hehad told the truth, and she knew that ruin and disgrace for her fatherand Tom waited upon a nod from the man whom she hated, and that the nodwaited upon her frown. 

The next morning Rita's face lacked much of its wonted beauty. Her eyeswere red and dim, the cheeks were pale and dim, her lips were blue anddim, and all the world, seen by her eyes, was dark and dim. The firstthing that must be done, of course, was to tell Dic of the ravaged kiss. She had no more desire to conceal that terrible fact from him than awounded man has to deceive the surgeon. He must be told without delay, even should he at once spurn her forever. 

She feared Williams, bearing in mind his threat, and determined first topledge Dic to secrecy, and then to tell him of her disgrace. She wroteto him, begging him to come to her at once; and he lost no time ingoing. 

He arrived at the Bays house an hour past noon, and Rita soon had him toherself in the front parlor. When they entered the room and were alonehe took her hand; but she withdrew it, saying:--

"No, no; wait till you hear what has happened. "

He readily saw that something terrible had transpired. "What is it, Rita? Tell me quickly. "

"I can't, Dic, till I have your solemn promise that you will neverrepeat what I am about to tell you. "

"But, Rita--" he began, in expostulation. 

"No--no, you must promise. You must swear--if you will hear. "

"I promise. I swear if you wish. What can it be?"

Then she drew him to a settee, and with downcast eyes began her piteousstory. 

"Monday evening Mr. Williams came to call upon me. You know you said Imust receive him kindly. I did so. And he again asked me to--to--youknow--to marry him. When I told him it was impossible, he grew angry;and when I became frightened and tried to leave the room, he caught meby the hand and would not let me go. Then he told me again howdesperately he cared for me; and when I answered angrily and tried toescape, he held me and--and--oh, Dic, I can't tell you. I thought Icould, but I can't. I--I loathe myself. " She bent her head forward, andcovering her face with her hands, sobbed convulsively. 

"Go on, Rita. My God! you must tell me, " demanded Dic. 

"I know I must, " she replied between sobs. "Oh, Dic, do not hate me. Heheld me to him as you sometimes do, --but, oh, it was so different. I washelpless, and he bent back my head and kissed me on the lips till Ithought I should faint. "

"The cowardly hound. He shall pay dearly for his--"

"I have your promise, your oath, " said the girl, interrupting him. 

"But, Rita--"

"I trusted you, Dic, and I know you will faithfully keep your promise. Father owes Williams a large sum of money, and Tom has been stealingfrom him. " Here she began to weep. "He will ruin father and send Tom tothe penitentiary if he learns that I have told you this. He told me hewould, and I promised I would tell no one; but my duty to you is higherthan my duty to keep my promise. Now you know why I held you off when wecame in here. "

"No, I don't know, " he replied. "You have not promised to marry him?"

"No, no, " she returned excitedly. 

"Then why did you refuse me?"

"I'm not worthy to be your wife. I feel that I have been contaminated, "she answered. 

"No, no, girl, " he cried joyfully. "It was not your fault. The fallingsnow is not purer than you, and truth itself is not truer than yourheart. I go to New York soon, and when I return all your troubles willcease. "

"They have ceased already, Dic, " she murmured, placing her head upon hisbreast, while tears fell unheeded over her cheeks. "I thought an hourago I should never again be happy, but I am happy already. Dic, you area wonderful man to produce such a change in so short a time. "

"I am wonderful only in what you give me, " he answered. 

"How beautifully you speak, " she whispered; but the remainder of thatinterview is not at all necessary to this story. 

Dic left Rita late in the afternoon and met Williams on the street downtown. They could not easily pass each other without exchanging words, sothey stopped and spoke stiffly about the weather, past, present, andfuture. Dic tried to conceal all traces of resentment, and partiallysucceeded. Williams, still smarting from his troubles and mistakes withRita, and hating Dic accordingly, concealed his feelings with poorsuccess. The hatred of these men for each other was plain in every wordand act, and in a few moments, Williams, unable longer to bear thestrain, said:--

"This sham between us is disgusting. Let us settle our differences asgentlemen adjust such affairs. "

"Do you mean that we shall fight it out?" asked Dic. 

"Yes, " returned Williams. "You are not afraid to fight, are you?"

"No, and yes, " answered Dic. "I have had but few fights--I fear I couldnot go into a fight in cold blood and--and for many reasons I do notwish to fight you. "

"I supposed you would decline. I knew you to be a coward, " sneeredWilliams, growing brave upon seeing Dic's disinclination. 

"No, " responded Dic, calmly looking into Williams's face, "I havenothing to fear from you. You could not stand against me even for oneminute. "

"But you misunderstand me, " said Williams. "I do not wish to fight withmy fists. That is the method of ruffians and country bullies. I am notsurprised at your mistake. "

Dic laughed softly and replied: "I do not know why your words don'tanger me. Perhaps because I pity you. I can afford to be magnanimous andsubmit to your ravings; therefore, I am neither angry nor afraid. "

"I propose to settle our difficulty as gentlemen adjust such affairs, "said Williams. "Of course, you know nothing about the methods ofgentlemen. I challenge you to meet me in a duel. Now do youunderstand--understand?"

Williams was nervous, and there was a murderous gleam in his eyes. Dic'sheart throbbed faster for a moment, but soon took again its regularbeat. He rapidly thought over the situation and said:--

"I don't want to kill you and don't want you to kill me. " He paused fora moment with a smile on his lips and continued: "Suppose we let thegirl decide this between us. But perhaps I am again showing my ignoranceof gentlemanly methods. Do gentlemen force their attentions uponunwilling ladies?"

"Oh, if you refuse, " retorted Williams, ignoring his question, "I canslap your face now in the public streets. "

"Don't do it, Williams, " responded Dic, looking to the ground and tryingto remain calm. 

"Why?" Williams asked. 

"Because--I will fight you if you insist, without the occasion of astreet brawl. Another name might be brought into that. "

"Am I to understand that you accept my challenge?" asked Williams. 

"Yes, if you insist, " replied Dic, calmly, as if he were accepting aninvitation to dinner. "I have always supposed that this sort of anaffair should be arranged between gentlemen by their friends; but ofcourse I don't know how gentlemen act under these circumstances. Perhapsyou don't consider me a gentleman, and you certainly must have somedoubts in your mind concerning yourself; therefore, it may be proper forus to arrange this little matter with each other. "

"I suppose you would prefer seconds, " returned Williams. "They mightprevent a meeting. "

After a few moments of silence Dic said, "If we fight, I fear anotherperson's name will be dragged into our quarrel. "

"You may, if you wish, find plenty of excuses, " returned Roger. "If youwish to accept my challenge, do so. If not, say so, and I will take myown course. "

"Oh, I'll accept, " returned Dic, cheerily. "As the challenged party, ifwe were gentlemen, I believe I might choose the weapons. "

"Yes, " responded Williams. 

"What do you suppose would be the result were I to choose rifles at twohundred yards?" asked Dic, with an ugly smile on his face. 

"I should be delighted, " responded the other. "I expected you to choosehoes or pitchforks. "

"I think it fair to tell you, " said Dic, "that I can hit a silver dollarfour times out of five shots at two hundred yards, and you will probablydo well to hit a barn door once out of ten at that distance. I will letyou see me shoot before I definitely choose weapons. Afterwards, if youprefer some other, I will abide your choice. "

"I am satisfied with your choice, " responded Williams, who pridedhimself upon his rifle-shooting, in which accomplishment Dic hadunderrated his antagonist. 

"We must adopt some plan to prevent people from connecting anotherperson with this affair, " suggested Dic. "If you will come down toBays's farm for a day's hunting, I will meet you there, and the resultmay be attributed by the survivor to a hunting accident. "

"The plan suits me, " said Williams. "I'll meet you there to-morrow atnoon. I'll tell Tom I have an engagement to go squirrel-hunting withyou. "

Dic rode home, and of course carried the news of his forthcoming duel toBilly Little. 

"There are worse institutions in this world than the duel, " remarkedBilly, much to his listener's surprise. "It helps to thin out thefools. "

"But, Billy Little, I must fight him, " responded Dic. "He insists, andwill not accept my refusal. He says I am afraid to fight him. "

"If he should say you were a blackamoor, I suppose you would be black, "retorted Billy. "Is that the way of it?"

"But I am glad he does not give me an opportunity to refuse, " said Dic. 

"I supposed as much, " answered Billy. "You will doubtless be delightedif he happens to put a bullet through you, and will surely be happy forlife if you kill him. "

"It is his doing, Billy Little, " said Dic, with an ugly gleam in hiseyes, "and I would not balk him. Billy Little, I would fight that man ifI knew I should hang for it the next day. I'll tell you--he grosslyinsulted Rita Monday evening. He held her by force and kissed her lipstill she was hardly conscious. "

"Good God!" cried Billy, springing to his feet and trembling withexcitement. "Fight him, Dic! Kill him, Dic! Kill the brute! If youdon't, by the good God, I will. "

"You need not urge me, Billy Little. I'm quite willing enough. Still Ihope I shall not kill him. "

"You hope you will not kill him?" demanded Billy. "If you do not, Iwill. Where do you meet?"

"He will be at Bays's house to-morrow noon, and we will go up to mycleared eighty, half a mile north. There we will step off a course oftwo hundred yards and fire. Whatever happens we will say was the resultof a hunting accident. "

Billy determined to be in hiding near the field of battle, and wassecreted in the forest adjoining the cleared eighty an hour before noonnext day. Late in the morning Dic took his rifle and walked down to theBays's house. I shall not try to describe his sensations. 

Williams was waiting, and Dic found him carefully examining his gun. Thegun contained a bullet which, Dic thought, with small satisfaction, might within a short time end his worldly troubles, and the troublesseemed more endurable than ever before. Sleep had cooled his brain sincehis conversation with Billy, and he could not work himself into amurderous state of mind. He possessed Rita, and love made himmagnanimous. He did not want to fight, though fear was no part of hisreluctance. The manner of his antagonist soon left no doubt in Dic'smind that the battle was sure to come off. Something inWilliams--perhaps it was his failure to meet his enemy's eyes--alarmedDic's suspicions, and for a moment he feared treachery at the hands ofhis morose foe; but he dismissed the thought as unworthy, and openingthe gate started up the river path, taking the lead. He was ashamed toshow his distrust of Williams, though he could not entirely throw itoff, and the temptation to turn his head now and then to watch hisfollowing enemy was irresistible. They had been walking but a fewminutes when Dic, prompted by distrust, suddenly turned his head andlooked into the barrel of a gun held firmly to the shoulder of ourgentleman from Boston. With the nimbleness of a cat, Dic sprang to oneside, and a bullet whistled past his face. One second later in turninghis head and the hunting accident would have occurred. 

After the shot Williams in great agitation said:--

"I saw a squirrel and have missed it. "

"You may walk ahead, " answered Dic, with not a nerve ruffled. "You mightsee another squirrel. "

Williams began to reload his gun, but Dic interrupted the proceeding. 

"Don't load now. We will soon reach the clearing. "

Williams continued reloading, and was driving the patch down upon thepowder. Dic cocked his rifle, and raising it halfway to his shoulder, said:--

"Don't put the bullet in unless you wish me to see a squirrel. I'll notmiss. Throw me your bullet pouch. "

Williams, whose face looked like a mask of death, threw the bullet pouchto Dic, and, in obedience to a gesture, walked forward on the path. After taking a few steps he looked backward to observe the man he hadtried to murder. 

"You need not watch me, " Dic said; "I'm not hunting squirrels. "

Soon they reached the open field. Dic had cleared every foot of theground, and loved it because he had won it single-handed in a battleroyal with nature; but nature was a royal foe that, when conquered, gaveroyal spoils of victory. The rich bottom soil had year by year repaidDic many-fold for his labor. He loved the land, and if fate should proveunkind to him, he would choose that spot of all others upon which tofall. 

"Is this the place?" asked Williams. 

"Yes, " answered Dic, tossing the bullet pouch. "Now you may load. "

When Williams had finished loading, Dic said: "I will drop my hat here. We will walk from each other, you going west, I going east. The sun isin the south. When we have each taken one hundred steps, we will call'Ready, ' turn, and fire when we choose. "

Accordingly, Dic dropped his hat, and the two men started, one towardthe east, one toward the west, while the sun was shining in the south. Williams quickly ran his hundred steps. 

Dic had counted forty steps when he heard the cry "Dic" coming from theforest ten yards to the south, and simultaneously the sharp crack of arifle behind him. At the same instant his left leg gave way under himand he fell to the ground, supposing he had stepped into a muskrat hole. After he had fallen he turned quickly toward Williams and saw thatgentleman hastily reloading his gun. Then he fully realized that hisantagonist had shot him, though he was unable to account for the voicehe had heard from the forest. That mystery, too, was quickly explainedwhen he heard Billy's dearly loved voice calling to Williams:--

"Drop that gun, or you die within a second. "

Turning to the left Dic saw his friend holding the rifle which hadfallen from his own hands when he went down, and the little fellowlooked the picture of determined ferocity. Williams dropped his gun. Dicwas sitting upright where he had fallen, and Billy, handing him theweapon, said:--

"Kill him, Dic; kill him as you would a wolf. I'm afraid if I shoot I'llmiss him, and then he will reload and kill you. "

Williams was a hundred and forty yards away, but Dic could easily havepierced his heart. He took the gun and lifted it to his shoulder. Williams stood motionless as a tree upon a calm day. Dic lowered hisgun, but after a pause lifted it again and covered Williams's heart. Heheld the gun to his shoulder for a second or two, then he threw it tothe ground, saying:--

"I can't kill him. Tell him to go, Billy Little. Tell him to go before Ikill him. "

[Illustration: "'KILL HIM, DIC; KILL HIM AS YOU WOULD A WOLF. '"]

Williams took up his gun from the ground and started to leave, when Dicsaid to Billy Little:--

"Tell him to leave his bullets. "

Williams dropped the bullet pouch without a command from Billy, andagain started to leave. Dic tried to rise to his feet, but failed. 

"I guess I'm wounded, " he said hoarsely. "My God, Billy Little, look atthe blood I've lost! I--I feel weak--and--and dizzy. I believe I'm goingto faint, " and he accordingly did so. Billy cut away the trousers fromDic's wounded leg, disclosing a small round hole in the thigh. The bloodwas issuing in ugly spurts, and at once Billy knew an artery had beenwounded. He tore the trousers leg into shreds and made a tourniquetwhich he tied firmly above the wound and soon the hæmorrhage was greatlyreduced. By the time the tourniquet was adjusted, Williams was well downtowards the river, and Billy called to him:--

"Go up the river to the first house and tell Mrs. Bright to send the mandown with the wagon. Perhaps if you assist us, the theory of theaccident will be more plausible. "

Williams did as directed. Dic was taken home. Within an hour Kennedy, summoned by an unwilling messenger, was by the wounded man's side. BillyLittle was watching with Dic's mother, anxious to hear the doctor'sverdict. There was still another anxious watcher, our pink and whitelittle nymph, Sukey, though the pink had, for the time, given way to thewhite. She made no effort to conceal her grief, and was willing that allwho looked might see her love for the man who was lying on the bedunconscious. 

Williams remained with Bays's tenant till next day, and then returned toIndianapolis, carrying the news of the "accident. "

THE LOVE POWDER

CHAPTER XII

THE LOVE POWDER

Rita was with her mother when she received the terrible news. Of coursethe accident was the theme of conversation, and Rita was in deeptrouble. Even Mrs. Bays was moved by the calamity that had befallen theman whose face, since his early boyhood, had been familiar in her ownhouse. At first Rita made no effort to express her grief. 

"It is too bad, too bad, " was the extent of Mrs. Bays's comment. Takingcourage from even so meagre an expression of sympathy, Rita begged thatshe might go home--she still called the banks of Blue her home--and helpMrs. Bright nurse Dic. Mrs. Bays gazing sternly at the malefactor, uttered the one word "No, " and Rita's small spark of hope wasextinguished almost before it had been kindled. 

Within a few days Billy Little went to see Rita, and relieved her ofanxiety concerning Dic. Before he left he told her that Sukey wasstaying with Mrs. Bright and assisting in the nursing and the work. 

"I have been staying there at night, " said Billy, "and Sukey hangs aboutthe bed at all hours. "

Billy did not wish to cause jealousy in Rita's breast, but hoped toinduce her to expostulate gently with Dic about the attentions hepermitted himself to receive from the dimpler. For a minute or two hiswords caused a feeling of troubled jealousy in Rita's heart, but shesoon dismissed it as unworthy of her, and unjust to Dic and Sukey. Tothat young lady she wrote: "I am not permitted to nurse him, and I thankyou for taking my place. I shall remember your goodness so long as Ilive. "

The letter should have aroused in Sukey's breast high impulses and puremotives; but it brought from her red lips, amid their nest of dimples, the contemptuous expletive "Fool, " and I am not sure that she wasentirely wrong. A due respect for the attractiveness and willingness ofher sisters is wise in a woman. Rita's lack of wisdom may be excusedbecause of the fact that her trust in Sukey was really a part of herfaith in Dic. 

Thus it came to pass that Dic did not go to New York, but was confinedto his home for several months with a fractured thigh bone. During thatperiod Rita was in constant prayer and Sukey in daily attendance. Thedimpler's never ceasing helpfulness to Dic and his mother won hisgratitude, while the dangerous twinkling of the dimples and the prettysheen of her skin became familiar to him as household gods. He had neverrespected the girl, nor was his respect materially augmented by herkindness, which at times overleaped itself; but his gratitude increasedhis affection, and his sentiment changed from one of almost repugnanceto a kindly feeling of admiration for her seductive beauty, regard forher kindly heart, and pleasure in her never failing good temper. 

Sukey still clung to her dominion over several hearts, receiving themupon their allotted evenings; and although she had grown passionatelyfond of Dic, she gave a moiety of kindness to her subjects, each in histurn. She easily convinced each that he was the favored one, and thatthe others were friends and were simply tolerated. She tried no suchcoquetry with Dic, but gladly fed upon such crumbs as he might throwher. If he unduly withheld the crumbs, she, unable to resist heryearning for the unattainable, at times lost all maidenly reserve, andby eloquent little signs and pleadings sought them at the hand of herDives. The heart of a coquette is to be won only by running away fromit, and Dic's victory over Sukey was achieved in retreat. 

During Dic's illness Tom's heart, quickened doubtless by jealousy, hadgrown more and more to yearn for Sukey's manifold charms, physical andtemperamental. Billy Little, who did not like Sukey, said her charmswere "dimple-mental"; but Billy's heart was filled with many curiousprejudices, and Tom's judgment was much more to be relied upon in thiscase. 

One morning when Sukey entered Dic's room she said: "Tom was to see melast night. He said he would come up to see you to-day. "

"He meant that he will come up to see you, " replied Dic, teasing her. "One of these times I'll lose another friend to Indianapolis, and when Igo up there with my country ways you won't know me. "

"I'll never go to Indianapolis, " Sukey responded, with a demure glance. "Dear old Blue is good enough for me. The nearer I can live to it, thebetter I shall be satisfied. " Dic's lands were on the river banks, whilethose of Sukey's father were a mile to the east. 

"If you lived too close to the river, you might fall in, " returned Dic, choosing to take Sukey's remark in jest. 

"I'm neither sugar nor salt, " she retorted, "and I would not melt. I'msure I'm not sugar--"

"But sugarish, " interrupted Dic. 

"_You_ don't think I'm even sugarish, " she returned poutingly. 

"Indeed I do, " he replied; "but you must not tell Tom I said so. "

"Why not?" asked Sukey. "He's nothing to me--simply a friend. "

So the conversation would run, and Sukey, by judicious fishing, caught aminnow now and then. 

 * * * * *

During the latter days of Dic's convalescence, Sukey paid a visit to herfriend Rita, and the girls from Blue attracted the beaux of the capitalcity in great numbers. For the first time in Sukey's life she felt thatshe had found a battle-field worthy of her prowess, and in truth shereally did great slaughter. Balls, hay rides, autumn picnics, andnutting parties occurred in rapid succession. Tom and Williams were, ofcourse, as Tom expressed it, "Johnny on the spot, " with our girls. 

After Rita's stormy interview with Williams she had, through fear, continued to receive him in friendliness. At first the friendliness wasall assumed; but as the weeks passed, and he, by every possible means, assured her that his rash act was sincerely repented, and under noconditions was to be repeated, she gradually recovered her faith in him. Her heart was so prone to forgive that it was an easy task to imposeupon it, and soon Williams, the Greek, was again encamped within thewalls of trusting Troy. He frequently devoted himself to other youngladies, and our guileless little heroine joyfully reached the conclusionthat she no longer reigned queen of his cultured heart. For this reasonshe became genuinely kind to him, and he accordingly gave her much ofhis company during the month of Sukey's visit. 

One day a nutting party, including our four friends, set forth on theirway up White River. At the mouth of Fall Creek was a gypsy camp, and theyoung folks stopped to have their fortunes told. The camp consisted of adozen covered wagons, each containing a bed, a stove, and cookingutensils. To each wagon belonged a woman who was able and anxious toforetell the future for the small sum of two bits. Our friends selectedthe woman who was oldest and ugliest, those qualities having long beenlooked upon as attributes of wisdom. Rita, going first, climbed over thefront wheel of the ugliest old woman's covered wagon, and entered thetemple of its high priestess. The front curtain was then drawn. Theinterior of the wagon was darkened, and the candle in a small redlantern was lighted. The hag took a cage from the top of the wagon whereit had been suspended, and when she opened the door a small screech owlemerged and perched upon the shoulders of its mistress. There itfluttered its wings and at short intervals gave forth a smotheredscreech, allowing the noise to die away in its throat in a series ofdisagreeable gurgles. When the owl was seated upon the hag's shoulder, she took from a box a half-torpid snake, and entwined it about her neck. With the help of these symbols of wisdom and cunning she at once beganto evoke her familiar spirits. To this end she made weird passes throughthe air with her clawlike hands, crying in a whispered, high-pitchedwail the word, "Labbayk, labbayk, " an Arabian word meaning "Here am I. "

Rita was soon trembling with fright, and begged the hag to allow her toleave the wagon. 

"Sit where you are, girl, " commanded the gypsy in sepulchral tones. "Ifyou attempt to pass, the snake will strike you and the owl will tearyou. The spirit of wisdom is in our presence. The Stone God has alreadytold me your fate. It is worth your while to hear it. "

Rita placed her trembling hand in the hag's claw. 

"No purer woman ever lived than you, " began the sorceress; "but if youmarry the dark man who awaits you outside, you will become evil; youwill be untrue to him; you will soon leave him in company with anotherman who is light of complexion, tall, and strong. Disgrace and ruinawait your family if you marry the light man. Even the Stone God cannotforetell a woman's course when love draws her in opposite directions. May the Stone God pity you. "

The hag's ominous words, fitting so marvellously the real situation, frightened Rita and she cried, "Please let me out, " but the gypsy heldher hand, saying:--

"Sit still, ye fool; sit and listen. For one shilling I will teach you aspell which you may throw over the man you despise, and he will witherand die; then you may marry the one of your choice, and all evil shallbe averted. "

"No, no!" screamed the girl, rising to her feet and forcing her way tothe front of the wagon. In passing the witch she stumbled, and infalling, grasped the snake. The owl screeched, and Rita sprang screamingfrom the wagon-seat to the ground. 

Sukey's turn came next, and although Rita begged her not to enter thegypsy's den, our lady of the dimples climbed over the front wheel, eagerfor forbidden fruit. 

The hideous witch, the owl, and the snake for a moment frightened Sukey;but she, true daughter of Eve, hungered for apples, and was determinedto eat. 

After foretelling numerous journeys, disappointments, and pleasureswhich would befall Sukey, the gypsy said:--

"You have many admirers, but there is one that remains indifferent toyour charms. You may win him, girl, if you wish. "

"How?" cried Sukey, with eagerness. 

"I can give you a love powder by which you may cause him to love you. Icannot sell it; but a gift for a gift is no barter. If you will give megold, I will give you the powder. "

"I have no money with me, " answered Sukey; "but I will come to-morrowand bring you a gold piece. "

"It must be gold, " said the hag, feeling sure of her prey. "A gift ofbaser metal would kill the charm. "

"I will bring gold, " answered Sukey. Laden with forbidden knowledge andhope, she sprang from the front wheel into Tom's arms, and was veryhappy. 

That night she asked Rita, "Have you a gold dollar?"

"Yes, " replied Rita, hesitatingly, "I have a gold dollar and threeshillings. I'm saving my money until Christmas. I want five dollars tobuy a--" She stopped speaking, not caring to tell that she had formonths been keeping her eyes on a trinket for Dic. "I am notaccumulating very rapidly, " she continued laughing, "and am beginning tofear I shall not be able to save that much by Christmas. "

"Will you loan it to me--the gold dollar?" asked Sukey. 

"Yes, " returned Rita, somewhat reluctantly, having doubts of Sukey'sintention and ability to repay. But she handed over the gold dollar withwhich the borrower hoped to steal the lender's lover. 

Next day Sukey asked Tom to drive her to the gypsy camp, but she did notexplain that her purpose was to buy a love powder with which she hopedto win another man. Sukey, with all her amiable disposition, --BillyLittle used to say she was as good-natured as a hound pup, --was a girlwho could kiss your lips, gaze innocently into your eyes, and betray youto Cæsar, all unconscious of her own perfidy. Rita was her friend. Stillshe unblushingly borrowed her money, hoping therewith to steal Dic. Tomwas her encouraged lover; still she wished him to help her in obtainingthe love powder by which she might acquire the love of another man. Sukey was generous; but the world and the people thereof were made forher use, and she, of course, would use them. She did not know she wasfalse--but why should I dwell upon poor Sukey's peccadilloes as if shewere the only sinner, or responsible for her sins? Who is responsiblefor either sin or virtue?

Rita deserved no praise for being true, pure, gentle, and unselfish. Those qualities were given with her heart. The Chief Justice should notbe censured because she held peculiar theories of equity and looked uponthe words "as we forgive those who trespass against us" as meresurplusage. She was born with her theories and opinions. Sukey shouldnot be blamed because of her dimples and her too complacent smiles. Forwhat purpose were dimples and smiles created save to give pleasure, andincidentally to cause trouble? But I promise there shall be no morephilosophizing for many pages to come. 

Sukey, by the help of Tom and Rita, purchased her love powder, and, being eager to administer it, informed Rita that evening that sheintended to return home next morning. Accordingly, she departed, leavingRita to receive alone the attentions of her persistent lover. 

Within a week or two after Sukey's return, Dic, having almost recovered, went to see Rita. He was not able to go a-horseback, so he determined totake the stage, and Billy Little went with him as body-guard. 

While they waited for the coach in Billy's back room, Williams becamethe topic of conversation. 

"He will marry Rita in spite of you, " said Billy, "if you don't take hersoon. What do you say? Shall we bring her home with us to-morrow? Shewas eighteen last week. " Billy was eager to carry off the girl, for heknew the Williams danger, and stood in dread of it. Dic sprang from hischair, delighted with the proposition. The thought of possessing Ritato-morrow carried with it a flood of rapturous emotions. 

"How can we bring her?" he asked. "We can't kidnap her from her mother. "

"Perhaps Rita may be induced to kidnap herself, " remarked Billy. "If wefurnish the plan, do you believe Rita will furnish the girl? Will shecome with us?" You see Billy, as well as Dic, was eloping with thisyoung lady. 

"Yes, she will come when I ask her, " returned Dic, with confidence. 

After staring at the young man during a full minute, Billy said: "I amafraid all my labor upon you has been wasted. If you are so great a foolas not--do you mean to say you have never asked her to go with you--runaway--elope?"

"I have never asked her to elope, " returned Dic, with an expression ofdoubt in his face. Billy's words had aroused him to a knowledge of thefact that he was not at all the man for this situation. 

"You understand it is this way, " continued Dic, in explanation of hissingular neglect. "Rita does not see her mother with our eyes. Shebelieves her to be a perfect woman. She believes every one is good; buther mother has, for so many years, sounded the clarion of her ownvirtues, that Rita takes the old woman at her own valuation, and holdsher to be a saint in virtue, and a feminine Solomon in wisdom. Ritabelieves her mother the acme of intelligent, protecting kindness, andlooks upon her cruelty as the result of parental love, meant entirelyfor the daughter's own good. I have not wanted to pain my future wife bycausing a break with her mother. Should Rita run off with me, therewould be no forgiveness for her in the breast of Justice. "

"The girl, doubtless, could live happily without it, " answered Billy. 

"Not entirely happy, " returned Dic. "She would grieve. You don't knowwhat a tender heart it is, Billy Little. There is not another like it inall the world. Had it not been for that consideration, I would have beenselfish enough to bring her home with me when she offered to come, andwould--"

"Mighty Moses!" cried Billy, springing to his feet. "She offered to gowith you?"

"Yes, " replied Dic; "she said when last I saw her, 'You should havetaken me long ago. '"

"And--and you"--Billy paused for breath and danced excitedly about theroom--"and you did not--you--you, oh--Maxwelton's braes--and you--Ah, well, there is nothing to be gained by talking to you upon that subject. What _do_ you think of the administration? Jackson is a hickoryblockhead, eh? Congress a stupendous aggregation of asses. Yes, everybody is an ass, of course; but there is one who is monumental. Monumental, I say. Monu--ah, well--Maxwelton's braes arebonny--um--um--um--um--damn!" And Billy sat down disgusted, turning hisface from Dic. 

After a long pause Dic spoke: "I believe you are right, Billy Little. Ishould have brought her. "

"Believe--" cried the angry little friend. "Don't you know it? The _ponsasinorum_ is a mere hypothesis compared to the demonstration in thiscase. "

"But she was not of age, and could not marry without her parents'consent, " said Dic. "Had I brought her home, we could have found no oneto perform the ceremony. "

"I would have done it quickly enough; I am a justice of the peace. Icould have done it as well as forty preachers. I should have been finedfor transgressing the law in marrying you without a license, but I wouldhave done it, and it would have been as legal as if it had taken placein a cathedral. We could have paid the fine between us. "

"Well, what's to be done?" asked Dic, after a long, awkward pause. "It'snot too late. "

"Yes, it's too late, " answered Billy. "I wash my hands of the wholeaffair. When a man can get a girl like Rita, and throws away his chance, he's beyond hope. I supposed you had bought her for twenty-six hundreddollars--you will never see a penny of it again--and a bargain at theprice. She is worth twenty-six hundred million; but if you could not buyher, you should have borrowed, stolen, kidnapped--anything to get her. Now what do you think of yourself?"

"Not much, Billy Little, not much, " answered Dic, regretfully. "But youshould have said all this to me long ago. Advice after the fact is likemeat after a feast--distasteful. "

"Ah, you are growing quite epigrammatic, " said Billy, snappishly; "butthere is some truth in your contention. We will begin again. When we seeRita, we will formulate a plan and try to thwart Justice. "

"What plan have you in mind?" asked Dic, eager to discuss the subject. 

"I have none, " Billy replied. "Rita will perhaps furnish both the planand the girl. "

Dic did not relish the suggestion that Rita would be willing to take soactive a part in the transaction, and said:--

"I fear you do not know Rita. She is not bold enough to do what youhope. If she will come with us, it will be all I can expect. We must dothe planning. "

"You say she offered to come with you?" asked Billy. 

"Y-e-s, " responded Dic, hesitatingly; "but she is the most timid ofgirls, and we shall need to be very persuasive if--"

Billy laughed and interrupted him: "All theory, Dic; all theory andwrong. 'Deed, if I knew you were such a fool! The gentlest and mostguileless of women are the bravest and boldest under the stress of agreat motive. The woman who is capable of great love is sure also tohave the capacity for great courage. I know Rita better than yousuppose, and, mark my words, she will furnish both the plan and thegirl; and if you grow supercilious, egad! I'll take her myself. "

"I'll not grow supercilious. She is perfect, and anything she'll do willbe all right. I can't believe she is really to be mine. It seems morelike a castle in the air than a real fact. "

"It is not a fact yet, " returned Billy, croakingly; "and if this tripdoesn't make it a fact, I venture to prophesy you will have anuntenanted aerial structure on your hands before long. "

"You don't believe anything of the sort, Billy Little, " said Dic. "Ican't lose her. It couldn't happen. It couldn't. "

"We'll see. There's the stage horn. Let us hurry out and get an insideseat. The sky looks overcast, and I shouldn't like to have this coatrained upon. There's a fine piece of cloth, Dic. Feel it. " Dic complied. "Soft as silk, isn't it?" continued Billy. "They don't make such clothin these days of flimsy woolsey. Got it thirty years ago from the famousSchwitzer on Cork Street. Tailor shop there for ages. Small shop--dingylittle hole, but that man Schwitzer was an artist. Made garments for allthe beaux. Brummel used to draw his own patterns in that shop--in thatvery shop, Dic. Think of wearing a coat made by Brummel's tailor. Remarkable man that, Brummel--George Bryan Brummel. Good head, full ofgood brains. Son of a confectioner; friend of a prince. Upon oneoccasion the Prince of Wales wept because Brummel made sport of hiscoat. Yes, egad! blubbered. I used to know him well. Knew the 'FirstGentleman' of Europe, too, the Prince of Wales. Won a thousand andeleven pounds from Brummel one night at whist. He paid the eleven andstill owes the thousand. Had a letter from him less than a year ago, saying he hoped to pay me some day; but bless your soul, Dic, he'llnever be able to pay a farthing. He's in France now, because he owesnearly every one in England. Fine gentleman, though, fine gentleman, every inch of him. Well, this coat was made by his tailor. You don'tblame me for taking good care of it, do you?"

"Indeed not, " answered Dic, amused, though in sympathy with BeauBrummel's friend. 

"I have two vests in my trunk by the same artist, " continued Billy. "Idon't wear them now. They won't button over my front. I'll show them toyou some day. "

At this point in the conversation our friends stepped into the stagecoach. Others being present, Billy was silent as an owl at noonday. Withone or two sympathetic listeners Billy was a magpie; with many, he was astork--he loved companionship, but hated company. 

Arriving at Indianapolis, our worthy kidnappers sought the house ofunsuspecting Justice, and were received with a frigid dignity becomingthat stern goddess. Dic, wishing to surprise Rita, had not informed herof his intended visit. After waiting a few minutes he asked, "Where isRita?"

"She is sick, " responded Mrs. Bays. "She has not been out of her bed forthree days. We have had two doctors with her. She took seven differentkinds of medicine all yesterday, and to-day she has been very bad. "

"No wonder, " remarked Billy; "it's a miracle she isn't dead. Sevendifferent kinds! It's enough to have killed a horse. Fortunately she isyoung and very strong. "

"Well, I'm sure she would have died without them, " answered Mrs. Bays. 

"You believe six different kinds would not have saved her, eh?" askedBilly. 

"Something saved her. It must have been the medicine, " replied Mrs. Bays, partly unconscious of Billy's irony. She was one of the manymillions who always accept the current humbug in whatever form he comes. Let us not, however, speak lightly of the humble humbug. Have you everconsidered how empty this world would be without his cheering presence?You notice I give the noun "humbug" the masculine gender. The femininemembers of our race have faults, but great, monumental, world-pervadinghumbugs are masculine, one and all, from the old-time witch doctor andDruid priest down to the--but Mrs. Bays was speaking:--

"The doctors worked with her for four hours last night, and when theyleft she was almost dead. "

"Almost?" interrupted Billy. "Fortunate girl!"

"I hope I may see her, " asked Dic, timidly. 

"No, you can't, " replied Mrs. Bays with firmness. "She's in bed, and I_hardly_ think it would be the proper thing. "

"Dic!" called a weak little voice from the box stairway leading from theroom above. "Dic!" And that young man sprang to the stairway door withevident intent to mount. Mrs. Bays hurried after him, crying:--

"You shall not go up there. She's in bed, I tell you. You can't seeher. "

Billy rose to his feet and stood behind her. When Dic stopped, at thecommand of Mrs. Bays, Billy made an impatient gesture and pointed to theroom above, emphasizing the movement with a look that plainly said, "Goon, you fool, " and Dic went. 

Mrs. Bays turned quickly upon Billy, but his pale countenance was asexpressionless as usual, and he was examining his finger tips with suchcare one might have supposed them to be rare natural curiosities. 

"Ah, Dic, " cried the same little voice from the bed, when that young manentered the room, and two white arms, from which the sleeves had fallenback, were held out to him as the pearly gates might open to a wanderingsoul. 

Dic knelt by the bedside, and the white arms entwined themselves abouthis neck. He spoke to her rapturously, and placed his cool cheekagainst her feverish face. Then the room grew dark to the girl, her eyesclosed, and she fainted. 

Dic thought she was dead, and in an agony of alarm placed his ear to herheart, hoping to hear its beating. No human motive could have been purerthan Dic's. Of that fact I know you are sure, else I have written of himin vain; but when Mrs. Bays entered the room and saw him, she waspleased to cry out:--

"Help! help! he has insulted my daughter. "

Billy mounted the stairway in three jumps, a feat he had not performedin twenty years, and when he entered the room Mrs. Bays pointedmajestically to the man kneeling by Rita's bed. 

"Take that man from my house, Mr. Little, " cried Mrs. Bays in asepulchral, judicial tone of voice. "He broke into her room and insultedmy sick daughter when she was unconscious. "

Dic remained upon his knees by the bedside, and did not fully grasp themeaning of his accuser's words. Billy stepped to Rita's side, and takingher unresisting hand hastily sought her pulse. Then he spoke gruffly toMrs. Bays, who had wrought herself into a spasm of injured virtue. 

"She has fainted, " cried Billy. "Fetch cold water quickly, and a drop ofwhiskey. "

Mrs. Bays hastened downstairs, and Dic followed her. 

"Get the whiskey, " he cried. "I'll fetch the water, " and a few secondsthereafter Billy was dashing cold water in Rita's face. The great browneyes opened, and the half-conscious girl, thinking that Dic was stillleaning over her, lifted her arms and gave poor old Billy a moment inparadise, by entwining them about his neck. He enjoyed the delicioussensation for a brief instant, and said:--

"I'm Billy Little, Rita, not Dic. " Then the eyes opened wider asconsciousness returned, and she said:--

"I thought Dic was here. "

"Yes--yes, Rita, " said Dic, "I am here. I was by your side a momentsince. I came so suddenly upon you that you fainted; then Billy Littletook my place. "

"And you thought I was Dic, " said Billy, laughingly. 

"I'm glad I did, " answered the girl with a rare smile, again placing herarms about his neck and drawing his face down to hers; "for I love youalso very, very dearly. " Billy's heart sprang backward thirty years, andthumped away astonishingly. At that moment Mrs. Bays returned with thewhiskey, and Billy prepared a mild toddy. 

"The doctor said she must not have whiskey while the fever lasts, "interposed Mrs. Bays. 

"We'll try it once, " replied Billy, "and if it kills her, we'll not tryit again. Here, Rita, take a spoonful of this. "

Dic lifted her head, and Billy administered the deadly potion, while thehumbug lover stood by, confidently expecting dire results, but too muchsubdued by the situation to interpose an objection. 

Soon Rita asked that two pillows be placed under her head, and, sittingalmost upright in bed, declared she felt better than for several days. 

Mrs. Bays knew that Dic's motive had been pure and spotless, but she hadno intention of relinquishing the advantage of her false position. Shehad for months been seeking an excuse to turn Dic from her house, andnow that it had come, she would not lose it. Going to Rita's side, sheagain took up her theme:--

"No wonder my poor sick daughter fainted when she was insulted. I can'ttell you, Mr. Little, what I saw when I entered this room. "

"Oh, mother, " cried Rita, "you were wrong. You do not understand. When Isaw Dic, I held up my arms to him, and he came to me because I wantedhim. "

"_You_ don't know, my daughter, you don't know, " interrupted Mrs. Bays. "I would not have you know. But I will protect my daughter, my own fleshand blood, against insult at the cost of my life, if need be. I havedevoted my life to her; I have toiled and suffered for her since I gaveher birth, and no man shall enter my house and insult her while I havestrength to protect her. " She gathered force while she spoke, and talkedherself into believing what she knew was false, as you and I may easilydo in very important matters if we try. 

"My dear woman, " said Billy, in surprise bordering on consternation, "you don't mean you wish us to believe that you believe that Dicinsulted Rita?"

"Yes, I saw him insult her. I saw it with my own eyes. "

"In what manner?" demanded Dic. 

He was beginning to grasp the meaning of her accusation, and wasbreathing heavily from suppressed excitement. Before she could reply hefully understood, and a wave of just anger swept over him. 

"Old woman, you know you lie!" he cried. "I revere the tips of Rita'sfingers, and no unholy thought of her has ever entered my mind. _I_insult her! You boast of your mother's love. You have no love for her ofany sort. You have given her nothing but hard, cold cruelty all her lifeunder the pretence--perhaps belief--that you were kind; but if your lovewere the essence of mother love, it would be as nothing compared to myman's love for the girl who will one day be my wife and bear mychildren. "

The frightened old woman shrank from Dic and silently took a chair bythe window. Then Dic turned to the bed, saying:--

"Forgive me, Rita, forgive me. I was almost beside myself for a moment. Tell me that you know I would not harm you. "

"Of course you would do me no harm, " she replied sobbing. "You couldnot. You would be harming yourself. But how could you speak so violentlyto my mother? You were terrible, and I was frightened. How could you?How could you?"

"I was wild with anger--but I will explain to you some day when you aremy wife. I will not remain in this house. I must not remain, but I willcome to you when you are well. You will write me, and I will come. Youwant me, don't you, Rita?"

"As I want nothing else in all the world, " she whispered, taking hisface between her hands. 

"And you still love me?" he asked. 

"Ah, " was her only reply; but the monosyllable was eloquent. 

Dic at once left the house, but Billy Little remained. 

"I never in all my life!" exclaimed Mrs. Bays, rising from her chair. Billy did not comprehend the exact meaning of her mystic words, but in ageneral way supposed they referred to her recent experiences as unusual. 

"You were mistaken, Mrs. Bays, " he said. "Dic could not offer insult toyour daughter. You were mistaken. "

"I guess I was, " she replied; "I guess I was, but I never, I never inall my life!"

The old woman was terribly shaken up; but when Billy took his departure, her faculties returned with more than pristine vigor, and poor, sickRita, as usual, fell a victim to her restored powers of invective. 

Mrs. Bays shed no tears. The salt in her nature was not held insolution, but was a rock formation from which tears could not easily bedistilled. 

"I have nursed you through sickness, " she said, turning upon Rita withan indignant, injured air. "I have toiled for you, suffered for you, prayed for you. I have done my duty by you if mother ever did duty bychild, and now I am insulted for your sake; but I bear it all with acontrite spirit because you are my daughter, though God's just hand isheavy upon me. There is one burden I will bear no longer. You must giveup that man--that brute, who just insulted me. "

"He did not insult you, mother. "

"He did, and nothing but God's protecting grace saved me from bodilyharm in my own house while protecting my daughter's honor. "

"But, mother, " cried Rita, weeping, "you are wrong. If there was anywrong, it was I who did it. "

"You don't know! Oh, that I should live to see what I did see, andendure what I have endured this day for the sake of an ungratefuldaughter--oh, sharper than a serpent's tooth, as the good book says--tobe insulted--I never! I never!"

Rita, of course, had been weeping during her mother's harangue; but whenthe old woman took up her meaningless refrain, "I never! I never!" thegirl's sobs became almost convulsive. Mrs. Bays saw her advantage anddetermined not to lose it. 

"Promise me, " demanded this tender mother, rudely shaking the girl, "promise me you will never speak to him again. "

Rita did not answer--she could not, and the demand was repeated. StillRita answered not. 

"If you don't promise me, I'll leave your bedside. I'll never speak yourname again. "

"Oh, mother, " sobbed the girl, "I beg you not to ask that promise of me. I can't give it. I can't. I can't. "

"Give me the promise this instant, or I'll disown you. Do you promise?"

The old woman bent fiercely over her daughter and waited stonily for ananswer. Rita shrank from her, but could not resist the domineering oldcreature, so she whispered:--

"Yes, mother, I promise, " and the world seemed to be slipping away fromher forever. 

THE DIMPLER

CHAPTER XIII

THE DIMPLER

Billy Little soon found Dic and greeted him with, "Well, we haven't gother yet. "

"No, but when she recovers, we will have her. What an idiot I was toallow that old woman to make me angry!"

"You are right for once, Dic, " was Billy's consoling reply. "She hasbeen waiting for an excuse to turn you from her doors, and you furnishedit. I suppose you can never enter the house again. "

"I don't want to enter it, unless by force to take Rita. Why didn't Itake her long ago? It serves no purpose to call myself a fool, but--"

"Perhaps it's a satisfaction, " interrupted Billy, "a satisfaction todiscover yourself at last. Self-knowledge is the summit of all wisdom. "

"Ah, Billy Little, don't torture me; I am suffering enough as it is. "Billy did not answer, but took Dic's hand and held it in his warm claspfor a little time as they walked in silence along the street. 

The two disconsolate lovers who had come a-kidnapping remained overnight in Indianapolis, and after breakfast Billy suggested that theydiscuss the situation in detail. 

"Have you thought of any plan whereby you may communicate with Rita?" heasked. 

"No, " answered Dic. 

"Do you know any of her girl friends?"

"The very thing!" exclaimed Dic, joyous as possible under thecircumstances. "I'll see Miss Tousy, and she will help us, I'm sure. "

"Is she sentimentally inclined?" queried Billy. 

"I don't know. "

"Is her face round or oval?"

"Oval, " replied Dic, in some perplexity. 

"Long oval?"

"Rather. "

"Good!" exclaimed Billy. "Does she talk much or little?"

"Little, save at times. "

"And her voice?"

"Low and soft. "

"Better and better, " said Billy. "What does she read?"

"She loves Shakespeare and Shelley. "

"Go to her at once, " cried Billy, joyfully. "I'll stake my life she'llhelp. Show me a long oval face, a soft voice speaking little, and alover of poetry, and I'll show you the right sort of heart. But we mustbegin at once. Buy a new stock, Dic, and have your shoes polished. Get agood pair of gloves, and, if you think you can handle it properly, astick. Fine feathers go farther in making fine birds than wise mensuppose. Too much wisdom often blinds a man to small truths that arepatent to a fool. I wish you were small enough to wear my coat. "

Dic congratulated himself upon his bulk, but he took Billy's adviceregarding the gloves and stock. Billy was a relic of the days of thegrand beaux, when garments, if they did not make the man, at least couldmar the gentleman, and held his faith in the omnipotence of dress, as aheritage from his youth--that youth which was almost of another world. Dic was one of the few men whose splendor of person did not require theadornments of dress. All women looked upon his redolence of life andstrength with pleasure, and soon learned to respect hisstraightforward, fearless honesty. Miss Tousy had noted Dic's qualitieson previous occasions, and valued him accordingly. She was alsointerested in Rita, who was her protégée; and she was graciousnessitself to Dic that day as she asked him, "What good fortune brings you?"

"It is bad fortune brings me, I am sorry to say, " returned Dic. "Yesterday was the unluckiest day of my life, and I have come to you forhelp. "

Miss Tousy's kind heart responded, as Billy Little had predicted. 

"Then your ill luck is my good fortune. In what way can I help you? Igive you _carte blanche_; ask what you will. "

"I will not hold you to your offer until I tell you what I want. Thenyou may refuse if you feel that--"

"I'll not refuse, " answered the kindly young lady. "Go on. "

"You know that Ri--, Miss Bays, is--has been for a long time--that is, has promised to be--"

"I know. But what has happened?"

"It's a long story. I'll not tell you all. I--"

"Yes, tell me all--that is, if you wish. I'm eager to hear all, even tothe minutest details. Don't mind if the story is long. " And she settledherself comfortably among the cushions to hear his sentimentalnarrative. Dic very willingly told the whole story of yesterday's woes, and Miss Tousy gave him her sympathy, as only a woman can give. It wasnot spoken freely in words, merely in gestures and little ejaculatory"ah's, " "oh's, " and "too bad's"; but it was soothing to Dic, and sweetMiss Tousy gained a lifelong friend. 

"You see, " said Dic, after he had finished his story, "I cannotcommunicate with Rita. She is ill, and I shall be unable to hear fromher. "

"I'll keep you informed; indeed I will, gladly. Oh, that hard old woman!There is no hallucination so dangerous to surrounding happiness as thatof the Pharisee. Mrs. Bays has in some manner convinced herself that herhardness is goodness, and she actually imposes the conviction uponothers. Her wishes have come to bear the approval of her conscience. Every day of my life I grow more thankful that I have a sweet, gentlemother. But Mrs. Bays intends right, and that, perhaps, is a savinggrace. "

"I prefer a person who intends wrong and does right to one who intendsright and does wrong, " replied Dic. "I know nothing so worthless andcontemptible as mistaken good intentions. But we should not criticiseRita's mother. "

"No, " returned Miss Tousy; "and I'll go to see Rita every day--twice aday--and will write to you fully by every mail. "

"I intend to remain at the inn till she recovers. I couldn't wait forthe mail. "

"Very well, that is much better. I'll send you word to the inn aftereach visit, or, if you wish, you may come to me evenings, and I'll tellyou all about her. Shall I see you to-night, and shall I carry anymessage?"

"Tell her I will remain till she is better, and--and then I--Iwill--that will be all for the present. "

 * * * * *

Billy Little was for going home at noon, but Dic begged him to remain. The day was very long for Dic, notwithstanding Billy's companionship, and twice during the afternoon he induced his friend to exhibit theBrummel coat at the street-crossing a short distance south of the housewherein the girl of girls lay ill and grieving. After much persuasion, Billy consented to accompany Dic on his visit that evening to MissTousy. The Schwitzer coat was carefully brushed, the pale face wasclosely shaved and delicately powdered, and the few remaining hairs weremade to do the duty of many in covering Billy's blushing baldness. 

"I wish I had one of my waistcoats here, " said our little coxcomb. "Iwould button it if I had to go into stays--egad! I would. I will showyou those waistcoats some day, --India silk--corn color, with a touch ofgold braid at the pockets, ivory buttons the size of a sovereign, withgold centres, made by the artist who made the coat. The coat is allright. Wouldn't be ashamed to wear it to a presentation. I will buttonit over this waistcoat and it will not be noticed. How do you like thisstock--all right?"

"I think it is. "

"I have a better one at home. Got it down by the bank. Smith, Dye andCompany, Limited, Haberdashers. I can recommend the place if--if youever go to London. Brummel's haberdasher--Brummel knew the best places. Depend upon him for that. Where he dealt, there you would hear the trampof many feet. He made Schwitzer's fortune. Wonderful man, Brummel. Wonderful man, and I like him if he does owe me a thousand pounds thirtyyears past due. Egad! it has been so long since I carried a stick I havealmost lost the knack of the thing. A stick is a useful thing to agentleman. Gives him grace, furnishes occupation for his hands. Glovesin one hand, stick in the other--no man need get his hands mixed. Gotthis stick down on Washington Street an hour ago. How do I seem tohandle it?" He walked across the room, holding the stick in the mostapproved fashion--of thirty years before. 

"It's fine, Billy Little, it's fine, " answered Dic, sorry to see anapparent weakness in his little friend, though loving him better forthe sake of it. The past had doubled back on Billy for a day, and hefelt a touch of his youth--of that olden time when the first dandy ofEngland was heir-apparent to the crown and blubbered over an ill-fittingcoat. If you will look at the people of those times through the lens ofthat fact, you will see something interesting and amusing. 

After many glances toward the mirror, Billy announced that he was ready, and marched upon Miss Tousy, exulting in the fact that there was not inall the state another coat like the one he wore. Billy's vanity, to dohim justice, was not at all upon his own account. He wished to appearwell for Dic's sake, and ransacked his past life for points in etiquetteand manner once familiar, but now almost forgotten by him and by theworld. His quaint old resurrections were comical and apt to createmirth, but beneath their oddities I believe a discerning person wouldeasily have recognized the gentleman. 

I shall not describe to you Billy's Regency bow when Dic presented himto Miss Tousy; nor shall I bring into his conversation all the "My dearmadams, " "Dear ladys, " and "Beg pardons, " scattered broadcast in hiseffort to do credit to his protégé. But Miss Tousy liked Billy, whileshe enjoyed his old-fashioned affectations; and in truth the man was inall respects worthy of the coat. 

"Rita is very ill, " Miss Tousy said. "Mrs. Bays says your conduct almostkilled her daughter. Two doctors are with her now. "

"Terrible, my dear madam, terrible, " interrupted Billy, and Miss Tousycontinued:--

"I whispered to Rita that you would remain, and she murmured, 'I'm soglad. Tell him mother forced me to promise that I would never see himagain, and that promise is killing me. I can't forget it even for amoment. Ask him to forgive me, and ask him if it will be wrong for meto break the promise when I get well. I cannot decide whether it wouldbe wrong for me to keep it or to break it. Both ways seem wicked tome!'"

"Wicked!" cried Billy springing from his chair excitedly, and walkingacross the room, gloves in one hand, stick in the other, and Brummelcoat buttoned tightly across the questionable waistcoat, "my dear lady, tell her it will be wicked--damnable--beg pardon, beg pardon; but I mustrepeat, dear lady, it will be wicked and wrong--a damning wrong, if shekeeps the promise obtained by force--by force, lady, by duress. Tell herI absolve her from the promise. I will go to Rome and get the Pope'sabsolution. No! that will be worse than none for Rita; she is a Baptist. Well, well, I'll hunt out the head Baptist, --the high chief of allBaptists, if there is one, --and will get his absolution. But, my dearMiss Tousy, she has faith in me. I have never led her wrong in my life, and she knows it. Tell her I say the promise is not binding, beforeeither God or man, and you will help her. "

"And tell her she will not be able to keep the promise, " interruptedDic. "I'll make it impossible. When she recovers, I'll kidnap her, ifneed be. "

"I'll go at once and tell her, " returned Miss Tousy. "She is in need ofthose messages. "

Dic and Billy walked down to Bays's with Miss Tousy, and waited on thecorner till she emerged from the house, when they immediately joinedher. 

"I gave her the messages, " said Miss Tousy, "and she became quieter atonce. 'Tell him I'll get well now, ' she whispered. Then she smiledfaintly, and said, 'Wouldn't it be romantic to be kidnapped?' After thatshe was silent; and within five minutes she slept, for the first timesince yesterday. "

Rita's illness proved to be typhoid fever, a frightful disease in thosedays of bleeding and calomel. 

Billy returned home after a few days, but Dic remained to receive hisdiurnal report from Miss Tousy. 

One evening during the fourth week of Rita's illness Dic received thejoyful tidings that the fever had subsided, and that she would recover. He spent a great part of the night watching her windows from across thestreet, as he had spent many a night before. 

On returning to the inn he found a letter from Sukey Yates. He had beenthinking that the fates had put aside their grudge against him, and thathis luck had turned. When he read the letter announcing that the poorlittle dimpler was in dire tribulation, and asking him to return to herat once and save her from disgrace, he still felt that the fates hadchanged--but for the worse. He was sure Sukey might, with equalpropriety, make her appeal to several other young men--especially to TomBays; but he was not strong enough in his conviction to relieve himselfof blame, or entirely to throw off a sense of responsibility. In truth, he had suffered for weeks with an excruciating remorse; and the sin intowhich he had been tempted had been resting like lead upon hisconscience. He remembered Billy's warning against Sukey's too seductivecharms; and although he had honestly tried to follow the advice, and hadclearly seen the danger, he had permitted himself to be lured into atrap by a full set of dimples and a pair of moist, red lips. He was notso craven as to say, even to himself, that Sukey was to blame; but deepin his consciousness he knew that he had tried not to sin; and thatSukey, with her allurements, half childish, half-womanly, andall-enticing, had tempted him, and he had eaten. The news in her letterentirely upset him. For a time he could not think coherently. He hadnever loved Sukey, even for a moment. He could not help admiring herphysical beauty. She was a perfect specimen of her type, and her tooaffectionate heart and joyous, never-to-be-ruffled good humor made hera delightful companion, well fitted to arouse tenderness. Add virtue andsound principle to Sukey's other attractions, and she would have made awife good enough for a king--too good, far too good. For the lack ofthose qualities she was not to blame, since they spring from heredity orenvironment. Sukey's parents were good, honest folk, but wholly unfittedto bring up a daughter. Sukey at fourteen was quite mature, and gaveevidence of beauty so marked as to attract men twice her age, who "keptcompany" with her, as the phrase went, sat with her till late in thenight, took her out to social gatherings, and--God help the girl, shewas not to blame. She did only as others did, as her parents permitted;and her tender little heart, so prone to fondness, proved to be a curserather than the blessing it would have been if properly directed andprotected. Mentally, physically, and temperamentally she was very closeto nature, and nature, in the human species, needs curbing. 

The question of who should bear the blame did not enter into Dic'sperturbed cogitations. He took it all upon his own broad shoulders, anddid not seek to hide his sin under the cloak of that poor extenuation, "she did tempt me. " If Rita's love should turn to hatred (he thought itwould), he would marry Sukey and bear his burden through life; but ifRita's love could withstand this shock, Sukey's troubles would gounrighted by him. Those were the only conclusions he could reach. Hiskeen remorse was the result of his sin; and while he pitied Sukey, hedid not trust her. 

Next morning Dic saw Miss Tousy and took the stage for home. His firstvisit was to Billy Little, whom he found distributing letters back ofthe post-office boxes. 

"How is Rita?" asked Billy. 

"She's much better, " returned Dic. "Miss Tousy tells me the fever hasleft her, and the doctors say she will soon recover. I wanted to see herbefore I left, but of course that could not be; and--and the truth is Icould not have looked her in the face. "

"Why?" Billy was busy throwing letters. 

"Because--because, Billy Little, I am at last convinced that I representthe most perfect combination of knave and fool that ever threw heavenaway and walked open-eyed into hell. "

"Oh, I don't know, " replied the postmaster, continuing to toss lettersinto their respective boxes. "I . .. Don't know. The world has seen somerare (Mrs. Sarah Cummins) combinations of that sort. " After a long pausehe continued: "I . .. I don't believe (Peter Davidson) I don'tbelieve . .. There is much knave in you. Fool, perhaps (Atkinson, David. Hedoesn't live here), in plenty--. " Another pause, while three or fourletters were distributed. "Suppose you say that the formula--thechemical formula--of your composition would stand (Peter Smith) F_{9}K_{2}. Of course, at times, you are all M, which stands for man, but(Jane Anderson, Jane Anderson. Jo John's wife, I suppose)--"

"You will not jest, Billy Little, when you have heard all. "

"I am not . .. Jesting now. Go back . .. Into my apartments. I'll lock thedoor (Samuel Richardson. Great writer) and come back to you (LeanderCross. Couldn't read a signboard. What use writing letters to him?) whenI have handed (Mrs. Margarita Bays. They don't know she has moved toIndianapolis, damn her)--when I have handed out the mail. "

Dic went back to the bedroom, and Billy opened the delivery window. Thelittle crowd scrambled for their letters as if they feared a delay of amoment or two would fade the ink, and when the mail had been distributedthe calm postmaster went back to hear Dic's troubles. At no time inthat young man's life had his troubles been so heavy. He feared BillyLittle's scorn and biting sarcasm, though he well knew that in the endhe would receive sympathy and good advice. The relation between Dic andBilly was not only that of intimate friendship; it was almost like thatbetween father and son. Billy felt that it was not only his privilege, but his duty, to be severe with the young man when necessity demanded. When Dic was a boy he lost his father, and Billy Little had stood assubstitute for, lo, these many years. 

When Billy entered the room, Dic was lost amid the flood of innumerableemotions, chief among which were the fear that he had lost Rita and thedread of her contempt. 

Billy went to the fireplace, poked the fire, lighted his pipe, andleaned against the mantel-shelf. 

"Well, what's the trouble now?" asked Brummel's friend. 

"Read this, " answered Dic, handing him Sukey's letter. 

Billy went to the window, rested his elbows upon the piano, put on his"other glasses, " and read aloud:--

 "'DEAR DIC: I'm in so much trouble. '" ("Maxwelton's braes, " exclaimed Billy. The phrase at such a time was almost an oath. ) "'Please come to me at once. '" (Billy turned his face toward Dic and gazed at him for thirty long seconds. ) "'Come at once. Oh, please come to me, Dic. I will kill myself if you don't. I cannot sleep nor eat. I am in such agony I wish I were dead; but I trust you, and I am sure you will save me. I know you will. If you could know how wretched and unhappy I am, if you could see me tossing all night in bed, and crying and praying, you certainly would pity me. Oh, God, I will go crazy. I know I will. Come to me, Dic, and save me. I have never said that I loved you--you have never asked me--but you know it more surely than words can tell. '

 "'SUKEY. '"

When Billy had finished reading the letter he spoke two words, as if tohimself, --"Poor Rita. " His first thought was of her. Her pain was hispain; her joy was his joy; her agony was his torture. Then he seatedhimself on the stool and gazed across the piano out the window. After alittle time his fingers began to wander over the keys. Soon thewandering fingers began to strike chords, and the random chords grewinto soft, weird improvisations; then came a few chords from thebeloved, melodious "Messiah"; but as usual "Annie Laurie" soon claimedher own, and Billy was lost, for the time, to Dic and to the world. Meanwhile Dic sat by the fireplace awaiting his friend's pleasure, andto say that he suffered, but poorly tells his condition. 

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked Billy, suddenly turningon the stool. Dic did not answer, and Billy continued: "Damned prettymess you've made. Proud of yourself, I suppose?"

"No. "

"Lady-killer, eh?"

"No. "

"Oh, perhaps it wasn't your fault, Adam? You are not to blame? Shetempted you?"

"I only am to blame. "

"'Deed if I believe you have brains enough to know who is to blame. "

"Yes, I have that much, but no more. Oh, Billy Little, don't--don't. "Billy turned upon the piano-stool, and again began to play. 

Dic had known that Billy would be angry, but he was not prepared forthis avalanche of wrath. Billy had grown desperately fond of Rita. Noone could know better than he the utter folly and hopelessness of hispassion; but the realization of folly and a sense of hopelessness do notshut folly out of the heart. If they did, there would be less sufferingin the world. Billy's love was a strange combination of that which mightbe felt by a lover and a father. He had not hoped or desired ever topossess the girl, and his love for Dic had made it not only easy, butjoyous to surrender her to him. Especially was he happy over the unionbecause it would insure her happiness. His love was so unselfish that hewas willing to give up not only the girl, but himself, his blood, hislife, for her sweet sake. With all his love for Dic, that young man waschiefly important as a means to Rita's happiness, and now he had becomeworse than useless because he was a source of wretchedness to her. Youmay understand, then, the reason for Billy's extreme anger against thisyoung man, who since childhood had been his friend, almost as dear as ifhe were his son. 

After rambling over the keys for two or three minutes, he turnedsavagely upon Dic, saying:--

"I wish you would tell me why you come to me for advice. You don't takeit. "

"Yes, I do, Billy Little. I value your advice above every one else's. "

"Stuff and nonsense. I warned you against that girl--the dimpler: muchyou heeded me. Do you think I'm a free advice factory? Get out of here, get out of here, I say, and let me never see your face--"

"Oh, Billy Little, don't, don't, " cried Dic. "You can't forsake me afterall these years you have helped me. You can't do it, Billy Little!"

"Get out of here, I say, and don't come back--" ("Ah, Billy Little, Ibeg--") "till to-morrow morning. Come to-morrow, and I will try to tellyou what to do. " Dic rushed upon the terrible little fellow, claspedhis small form with a pair of great strong arms, and ran from the room. Billy sat for a moment gazing at the door through which Dic had passed;then he arranged his stock, and turned to his piano for consolation andinspiration. 

Billy knew that he knew Dic, and believed he knew Sukey. He knew, amongother facts concerning Dic, that he was not a libertine; that he waspure in mind and purpose; that he loved and revered Rita Bays; and thathe did not care a pin for Sukey's manifold charms of flesh and blood. Hebelieved that Sukey was infatuated with Dic, and that her fondness grewpartly out of the fact that he did not fall before her smiles. He alsobelieved that her regard for Dic did not preclude, in her comprehensivelittle heart, great tenderness for other men. Sukey had, upon oneoccasion, been engaged to marry three separate and distinct swains ofthe neighborhood, and a triangular fight among the three suitors hadaroused in the breast of her girl friends a feeling of envy that wasdelicious to the dimpling little _casus belli_. After Dic's departure, Billy sat throughout most of the night gazing into the fire, smoking hispipe, and turning the situation over in his mind. When Dic arrived nextmorning he was seated on the counter ready with his advice. The youngman took a seat beside him. 

"Now tell me all about it, " said Billy. "I think I know, but tell me theexact truth. Don't spare the dimpler, and don't spare yourself. "

Thereupon Dic unfolded his story with a naked truthfulness that made himblush. 

"I thought as much, " remarked Billy, when the story was finished. "MissPotiphar from Egypt has brought you and herself into trouble. "

"No, no, Billy Little, you are wrong. I cannot escape blame by placingthe fault upon her. I should despise myself if I did; but I would be ablind fool not to see that--that--oh, I cannot explain. You know thereare Jap Bertram, Dick Olders, Tom Printz, and, above all, Tom Bays, whoare her close friends and constant visitors and--and, you know--youunderstand my doubts. I do not trust her. I may be wrong, but I supposeI should wish to err on the right side. It is better that I should errin trusting her than to be unjust in doubting her. The first questionis: Shall I marry Sukey if Rita will forgive me? The second, Shall Imarry her if Rita refuses to forgive me? Am I bound by honor and duty tosacrifice my happiness for the sake of the girl whom I do not, butperhaps should, trust?"

"I don't see that your happiness has anything to do with the case, "returned Billy. "If that alone were to be considered, I should say marrySukey regardless of your doubts. You deserve the penalty; but Rita hasdone no sin, and you have no right to punish her to pay your debts. Youare bound by every tie of honor to marry her, and you shall do so. Thedimpler is trying to take you from Rita, and if you are not careful yourfool conscience will help her to do it. "

"If Rita will forgive me, " said Dic. 

"She'll forgive you sooner or later, " answered Billy. "Her love andforgiveness are benedictions she cannot withhold nor you escape. "

I doubt if Billy Little would have been so eager in forwarding thismarriage had not Williams been frowning in the background. Billy, as youknow, had a heart of his own--a bachelor heart; but he hated Williams, and was intensely jealous of him. So, taking the situation at its worst, Dic was the lesser of two evils. But, as I have already told you manytimes, he passionately loved Dic for his own sake, and his unselfishregard for the priceless girl made the young man doubly valuable as ameans to her happiness. If Rita wanted a lover, she must have him. Ifshe wanted the moon, she ought to have it--should have it, if BillyLittle could get it for her. So felt Billy, whose advice brought joy toDic. It also brought to him the necessity of a painful interview withSukey. He dreaded the interview, and told Billy he thought he wouldwrite to Sukey instead. 

"You can pay at least a small part of the penalty you owe by seeing thegirl and bearing the pain of an interview, " replied Billy. "But if youare too cowardly to visit her, write. I suppose that's what I should doif I were in your place. But I'd be a poor example for a manly man tofollow. "

"I'll see her, " replied Dic. "Poor Sukey! I pity her. "

"It isn't safe to pity a girl like Sukey. Pity has a dangerous kinsman, "observed Billy. 

 * * * * *

On his way home, Dic called upon Sukey, and, finding her out, left wordhe would return that evening. When she received the message her heartthrobbed with hope, and the dimples twinkled joyously for the first timein many days. She used all the simple arts at her command to adornherself for his reception, and toiled to assist the dimples in the greatpart they would soon be called upon to play in the drama of her life. She knew that Dic did not trust her, and from that knowledge grew herown doubts as to the course he would take. Hope and fear warmed andchilled her heart by turns; but her efforts to display her charms weretruly successful; and faith, born of man's admiration, led her tobelieve she would that night win the greatest prize the world had tooffer, and would save herself from ruin and disgrace. 

Soon after supper the family were relegated to the kitchen, and Sukey, with palpitating heart, waited in the front room for Dic. 

Among our simple rural folk a décolleté gown was considered immodest. Inorder to be correct the collar must cover the throat, as nearly to thechin and ears as possible. Sukey's dresses were built upon this plan, much to her regret; for her throat and bosom were as white andplump--but never mind the description. They suited Sukey, and so far asI have ever heard they were entirely satisfactory to those so fortunateas to behold them. Therefore, when she was alone, knowing well theinutility of the blushing rose unseen, she opened the dress collar andtucked it under at each side, displaying her rounded white throat, withits palpitating little spot--almost another dimple--where it merged intothe bosom. There was no immodest exposure, but when Mrs. Yates returnedto the room for her glasses, the collar was quickly readjusted andremained in place till Dic's step was heard. Now, ready, and alltogether: dimples, lips, teeth, eyes, and throat, do your duty! So muchdepended upon Dic that she wanted to fall upon her knees when heentered. It grieves me to write thus of our poor, simple little girl, whose faults were thrust upon her, and I wish I might have told thisstory with reference only to her dimples and her sweetness; but Dicshall not be hopelessly condemned for his sin, if I can prevent it, saveby those who are entitled to cast stones, and to prevent suchcondemnation I must tell you the truth about Sukey. The fact that hewould not claim the extenuation of temptation is at least some reasonwhy he should have it. 

I shall not tell you the details of this interview. Soon after Dic'sarrival our little Hebe was in tears, and he, moved by her suffering, could not bring himself to tell her his determination. Truly, Billy wasright. It was dangerous to pity such a girl. Dic neither consented norrefused to marry her, but weakly evaded the subject, and gave her theimpression that he would comply with her wishes. He did not intend tocreate that impression; but in her ardent desire she construed hissilence to suit herself, and, becoming radiant with joy, was prettierand more enticing than she had ever before appeared. Therefore, as everyman will agree, Dic's task became difficult in proportion, and painfulbeyond his most gloomy anticipations. His weakness grew out of a greatvirtue--the wholesome dread of inflicting pain. 

During the evening Sukey offered Dic a cup of cider, and her heart beatviolently while he drank. 

"It has a peculiar taste, " he remarked. 

"There are crab apples in it, " the girl answered. 

There was something more than crab apples in the cider; there was a lovepowder, and two hours after Dic's arrival at home he became ill. Dr. Kennedy ascribed the illness to poisoning, and for a time it looked asif Sukey's love powder would solve several problems; but Dic recovered, and the problems were still unsolved. 

From the day Dic received Sukey's unwelcome letter, he knew it was hisduty to inform Rita of his trouble. He was sure she would soon learn theinteresting truth from disinterested friends, should the secret becomepublic property on Blue, and he wanted at least the benefit of an honestconfession. That selfishness, however, was but a small part of hismotive. He sincerely felt that it was Rita's privilege to know all aboutthe affair, and his duty to tell her. He had no desire to conceal hissin; he would not take her love under a false pretence. He almost feltthat confession would purge him of his sin, and looked forward with acertain pleasure to the pain he would inflict upon himself in tellingher. In his desire for self-castigation he lost sight of the pain hewould inflict upon her. He knew she would be pained by the disclosure, but he feared more its probable effect upon her love for him, and lookedfor indignant contempt and scorn from her, rather than for themanifestation of great pain. He resolved to write to Rita at once andmake a clean breast of it; but Billy advised him to wait till she wasentirely well. 

Dic, quite willing to postpone his confession, wrote several letters, which kind Miss Tousy delivered; but he did not speak of Sukey Yatesuntil Rita's letters informed him that she was growing strong. Then hewrote to her and told her in as few words as possible the miserablestory of his infidelity. He did not blame Sukey, nor excuse himself. Hesimply stated the fact and said: "I hardly dare hope for yourforgiveness. It seems that you must despise me as I despise myself. Itis needless for me to tell you of my love for you, which has not waveredduring so many years that I have lost their count. But now that Ideserve your scorn; now that I am in dread of losing you who have solong been more than all else to me, you are dearer than ever before. Write to me, I beg, and tell me that you do not despise me. Ah, Rita, compared to you, there is no beauty, no purity, no tenderness in theworld. There seems to be but one woman--you, and I have thrown away yourlove as if I were a blind fool who did not know its value. Write to me, I beg, and tell me that I am forgiven. "

But she did not write to him. In place of a letter he received a smallpackage containing the ivory box and the unfortunate band of gold thathad brought trouble to Billy Little long years before. 

WISE MISS TOUSY

CHAPTER XIV

WISE MISS TOUSY

Upon first reading Dic's letter, Rita was stunned by its contents; butwithin a day or two her thoughts and emotions began to arrangethemselves, and out of order came conclusion. The first conclusion was asurprise to her: she did not love Dic as she had supposed. A scornfulindifference seemed to occupy the place in her heart that for years hadbeen Dic's. With that indifference came a sense of change. Dic was notthe Dic she had known and loved. He was another person; and to thisfeeling of strangeness was added one of scorn. This new Dic was a manunworthy of any pure girl's love; and although her composite emotion wasstreaked with excruciating pain, as a whole it was decidedly againsthim, and she felt that she wished never to see him again. She began aletter to him, but did not care to finish it, and returned the ringwithout comment, that being the only answer he deserved. Pages of scorncould not have brought to Dic a keener realization of the certainty andenormity of his loss. He returned the ring to Billy Little. 

"I thank you for it, Billy, though it has brought grief to me as it didto you. I do not blame the ring; my loss is my own fault; but it isstrange that the history of the ring should repeat itself. It almostmakes one superstitious. "

"Egad! no one else shall suffer by it, " said Billy, opening the hugeiron stove and throwing the ring into the fire. 

Dic's loss was so heavy that it mollified Billy's anger, which forseveral days had been keen against his young friend. Billy's own painand grief also had a softening effect upon his anger; for with Dic outof the way, Rita Bays, he thought, would soon become Mrs. RogerWilliams, and that thought was torture to the bachelor heart. 

Rita, bearing the name of his first and only sweetheart, had entered theheart of this man's second youth; and in the person of Dic he was wooingher and fighting the good fight of love against heavy odds. Dic, uponreceiving the ring, was ready to surrender; but Billy well knew thatmany a battle had been won after defeat, and was determined not to throwdown his arms. 

Thinking over his situation, Dic became convinced that since Rita waslost to him, he was in honor bound to marry Sukey Yates. Life would be adesert waste, but there was no one to thank for the future Sahara buthimself, and the self-inflicted sand and thirst must be endured. Thethought of marrying Sukey Yates at first caused him almost to hate her;but after he had pondered the subject three or four days, familiaritybred contempt of its terrors. Once having accepted the unalterable, hewas at least rid of the pain of suspense. He tried to make himselfbelieve that his pain was not so keen as he had expected it would be;and by shutting out of his mind all thoughts of Rita, he partiallysucceeded. 

Sunday afternoon Dic saw Sukey at church and rode home with her, restingthat evening upon her ciphering log. He had determined to tell her thathe would marry her; but despite his desire to end the suspense, he couldnot bring himself to speak the words. He allowed her to believe, byinference, what she chose, and she, though still in great doubt, feltthat the important question was almost settled in her favor. 

During the interim of four or five days Billy Little secretly calledupon Miss Tousy, and incidentally dropped in to see Rita. 

After discussing matters of health and weather, Billy said: "Rita, youmust not be too hard on Dic. He was not to blame. Sukey is a veritablelittle Eve, and--"

"Billy Little, I am sorry to hear you place the blame on Sukey. Isuppose Dic tells you she was to blame. "

"By Jove! I've made a nice mess of it, " muttered Billy. "No, Dic blameshimself entirely, but I know whereof I speak. That girl is in love withhim, and has set this trap to steal him from you and get him forherself. She has been trying for a long time to entrap him, and you arehelping her. Dic is a true, pure man, who has been enticed into errorand suffers for it. You had better die unmarried than to lose him. "

"I hope to die unmarried, and I pray that I may die soon, " returned Ritawith a deep, sad sigh. 

"No, you'll not die unmarried. You will marry Williams, " said Billy, looking earnestly into her eyes. 

"I shall not. "

"If you wish to throw Dic over and marry Williams, you should openlyavow it, and not seize this misfortune of Dic's as an excuse. "

"Oh, Billy Little, you don't think me capable of that, do you?" answeredRita, reproachfully. 

"Do you give me your word you will not marry Williams?" asked Billy, eagerly. 

"Yes, I give you my word I will not marry him, if--if I can help it, "she answered, and poor Billy collapsed. He took his handkerchief fromhis pocket to dry the perspiration on his face, although the room wascold, and Rita drew forth her handkerchief to dry her tears. 

"Dic loves you, Rita. He is one man out of ten thousand. He is honest, true, and pure-minded. He has sinned, I know; but he has repented. Onesin doesn't make a sinner, and repentance is the market price of mercy. I know a great deal of this world, my girl, and of its men and women, and I tell you Dic is as fine a character as I know. I don't know a manthat is his equal. Don't let this one fault condemn him and yourself towretchedness. "

"I shall not be wretched, " she replied, the picture of woe, "for Idon't--don't care for him. I'm surprised, Billy Little, that I do not, and I think less of myself. There must be something wrong about me. Imust be wicked when my--my love can turn so easily to indifference. ButI do not care for him. He is nothing to me any more. You may be sure Ispeak the truth and--and although I am glad to have you here, I don'twant you to remain if you continue to speak of--of him. "

The situation certainly was confusing, and Billy, in a revery, resortedto Maxwelton's braes as a brain clarifier. Soon wild thoughts came tohis mind, and wilder hopes arose in his bachelor heart. This girl, whomhe had loved for, lo, these many years, was now free of heart and hand. Could it be possible there was hope for him? Pat with this strangethought spoke Rita:--

"You say he is a splendid man, pure and true and honest; but you know, Billy Little, that measured by the standard of your life, he is not. Iused to think he was like you, that you had made him like yourself, andI did love him, Billy Little. I did love him. But there is no one likeyou. You are now my only friend. " Tears came to her eyes, and she leanedtoward Billy, gently taking his hand between her soft palms. Tumultcaused the poor bachelor heart to lose self-control, and out of itsfulness to speak:--

"You would not marry me?" he asked. The words were meant as a question, but fortunately Rita understood them as a mere statement of a patentfact, spoken jestingly, so she answered with a laugh:--

"No, of course not. I could not marry you, Billy Little. But I wish youwere young; then, do you know, I would make you propose to me. Youshould not have been born so soon, Billy Little. But if I can't have youfor my husband, I'll have you for my second father, and _you_ shall notdesert me. "

Her jest quickly drove the wild hopes out of the bachelor heart, andBilly trembled when he thought of what he had tried to say. He left thehouse much agitated, and returned to see Miss Tousy. After aconsultation with that lady covering an hour, he went to the tavern andtook the stage for home. 

Next day, in the midst of Dic's struggles for peace, and at a time whenhe had almost determined to marry Sukey Yates, a letter came from MissTousy, asking him to go to see her. While waiting for the stage, Dicexhibited Miss Tousy's letter, and Billy feigned surprise. 

Two or three days previous to the writing of Miss Tousy's letter, Ritahad told that sympathetic young lady the story of the trouble with Dic. The confidence was given one afternoon in Miss Tousy's cosey littleparlor. 

"When is your friend Mr. Bright coming to see you?" asked Miss Tousy. "You are welcome to meet him here if you cannot receive him at home. "

"He will not come again at all, " answered Rita, closely scanning herhands folded on her lap. 

"Why?" asked her friend, in much concern, "has your mother at lastforced you to give him up?"

"No, mother knows nothing of it yet--nothing at all. I simply sent hisring back and don't want to--to see him again. Never. "

"My dear girl, you are crazy, " exclaimed Miss Tousy. "You don't knowwhat you are doing--unless you have grown fond of Mr. Williams; but Ican't believe that is true. No girl would think twice of him when sosplendid a fellow as Dic--Mr. Bright--was--"

"No, indeed, " interrupted Rita, "that can never be true. I would nevercare for any man as I cared for--for him. But I care for him no longer. It is all over between--between--it is all over. "

From the hard expression of the girl's face one might easily havesupposed she was speaking the truth; there was no trace of emotion. 

"But, Rita! This will never do!" insisted Miss Tousy. "You don't knowyourself. You are taking a step that will wreck your happiness. Youshould also consider him. "

"You don't know what he has done, " answered Rita, still looking down ather folded hands. 

"I don't _care_ what he has done. You did not make yourself love him, and you cannot throw off your love. You may for a time convince yourselfthat you are indifferent, but you are simply lying to yourself, my deargirl, and you had better lie to any one else--the consequences will beless serious. Never deceive yourself, Rita. That is a deception youcan't maintain. You may perhaps deceive all the rest of the world solong as you live--many a person has done it--but yourself--hopeless, Rita, perfectly hopeless. "

"I'm not deceiving myself, " answered the wilful girl. "You don't knowwhat he has done. "

"I don't _care_, " retorted Miss Tousy warmly. "If he were my lover, I--Itell you, Rita Bays, I'd forgive him. I'd keep him. He is one out of athousand--so big and handsome; so honest, strong, and true. "

"But he's not true; that's the trouble, " answered Rita, angrily, although there had been a soft, tell-tale radiance in her eyes when MissTousy praised him. 

"Ah, he has been inveigled into smiling upon another girl, " asked MissTousy, laughing and taking Rita's hand. "That is the penalty you mustpay for having so splendid a lover. Of course other girls will want him. I should like to have him myself--and, Rita, there are lots of girlsbold enough or weak enough to seek him outright. You mustn't see thoselittle things. Frequently the best use a woman can make of her eyes isto shut them. "

In place of shutting her eyes, Rita began to weep, and Miss Tousycontinued:--

"This man loves you and no other, my sweet one. That's the great thing, after all. No girl can steal his heart from you--of that you may besure. "

"But I say you don't know, " sobbed Rita. "I will tell you. " And she didtell her, stumbling, sobbing, and blushing through the narrative ofDic's unforgivable perfidy. 

Miss Tousy whistled in surprise. After a moment of revery she said: "Sheis trying to steal him, Rita, and she is as bad as she can be. If youwill give me your promise that you will never tell, I'll tell yousomething Sue Davidson told me. " Rita promised. "Not long since yourbrother Tom called on Sue and left his great-coat in the hall. Sue'syoung sister got to rummaging in Tom's great-coat pockets, for candy, Isuppose, and found a letter from this same Sukey Yates to Tom. Sue toldme about the letter. It breathed the most passionate love, and imploredTom to save her from the ruin he had wrought. So you see, Dic is not toblame. " She paused, expecting her listener to agree with her; but Ritasighed and murmured:--

"He is not excusable because others have been wicked. "

"But I tell you I wouldn't let that little wretch steal him from me, "insisted Miss Tousy. "That's what she's trying to do, and you'rehelping her. When she was here I saw plainly that she was infatuatedwith him, and was bound to win him at any price--at any cost. She had noeyes nor dimples for any one else when he was by; yet he did not noticeher--did not see her smiles and dimples. Don't tell me he cares for her. He had eyes for no one but you. Haven't you seen how other girls acttoward him? Didn't you notice how Sue Davidson went at him every chanceshe got?"

"No, " answered Rita, still studying her folded hands, and regardless ofher tear-stained face. 

"I think Sue is the prettiest girl in town, excepting you, " continuedMiss Tousy, "and if she could not attract him, it would be hopeless forany one else to try. "

"Nonsense, " murmured Rita, referring to that part of Miss Tousy's remarkwhich applied to herself. 

"No, it isn't nonsense, Rita. You are the prettiest girl I ever saw--butno matter. She is pretty enough for me to hate her. She is the sort ofpretty girl that all women hate and fear. She obtrudes herprettiness--keeps her attractions always _en évidence_, as the Frenchsay. She moistens her lips to make them tempting, and twitches the rightside of her face to work that dimple of hers. She is so attractive thatshe is not usually driven to seek a man openly; but Dic--I mean Mr. Bright--did not even see her smiles. Every one else did; and I willwager anything you like she has written love-notes to him--reallove-notes. He would, of course, be too honorable to tell. He's not thesort of man who would kiss and tell--he is the sort women trust withtheir favors--but I'll wager I'm right about Sue Davidson. " She wasright, though Dic's modesty had not permitted him to see Miss D. 's notesin the light Miss Tousy saw them. 

"He is not the man, " continued Miss Tousy, "to blame a girl for a faultof that sort, even in his own mind, and he would not explain at awoman's expense to save his life. With a man of his sort, the girl is toblame nine times out of ten. I wouldn't give a fippenny bit for a man noother girl wanted. There is a large class of women you don't know yet, Rita. You are too young. The world has a batch of mawkish theories aboutthem, but there are also a few very cold facts kept in the dark, --lodgesecrets among the sex. Dic is modest, and modesty in an attractive manis dangerous--the most dangerous thing in the world, Rita. Deliver mefrom a shy, attractive man, unless he cares a great deal for me. Shynessin a man is apt to make a girl bold. "

"It did not make me bold, " said Rita, with a touch of fire. 

"Not in the least?" asked Miss Tousy, leaning over the girl's lap, looking up into her face and laughing. "Now come, Rita, confess; you'reas modest as a girl has any good reason to be, but tell me, didn'tyou--didn't you do your part? Now confess. "

"Well, I may have been a little bold, I admit, a very little--justat--you know, just at one time. I _had_ to be a little--just alittle--you see--you know, outspoken, or--you know what I mean. He mightnot have--oh, you understand how such things happen. "

The hands in the lap were growing very interesting during these remarks, and the tear-stained cheeks were very hot and red. 

"Yes, yes, dear, " said Miss Tousy, leaning forward and kissing the hotcheeks, "yes, yes, sweet one. I know one just _has_ to help them a bit;but that is not boldness, that is charity. "

"Since I think about it, perhaps I was, " murmured Rita. "I know I haveoften turned hot all over because of several things I did; but I caredso much for him. I was so young and ignorant. That was over two yearsago. I cared so much for him and was all bewildered. Nothing seemedreal to me during several months of that time. Part of the time itseemed I was in a nightmare, and again, it was like being in heaven. Apoor girl is not a responsible being at such times. She doesn't knowwhat she does nor what she wants; but it's all over now. I . .. Don't . .. Care anything . .. About . .. Him now. It's all over. " Such a mournfullittle voice you never heard, and such a mournful little face you neversaw. Still, it was all over. 

Miss Tousy softly kissed her and said: "Well, well, we'll straighten itall out. There, don't cry, sweet one. " But Rita did cry, and foundcomfort in resting her head on Miss Tousy's sympathetic bosom. 

The letter Sue Davidson had found altered Rita's feeling toward Sukey;but it left untouched Dic's sin against herself, and she insisted thatshe did not care for him, and never, never would forgive. With all hergentleness she had strong nerves, and her spirit, when aroused, was toohigh to brook patiently the insult Dic had put upon her. Miss Tousy'swords had not moved her from her position. Dic was no longer Dic. He wasanother person, and she could love no man but Dic. She had loved him allher life, and she could love none other. With such poor sophistry didshe try to convince herself that she was indifferent. At times shesucceeded beyond her most sanguine hope, and tried to drive convictionhome by a song. But the song always changed to tears, the tears toanger, anger to sophistry, and all in turn to a dull pain at the heart, making her almost wish she were dead. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile the affairs of Fisher and Fox were becoming more and moreinvolved. Crops had failed, and collections could not be made. Williams, under alleged imperative orders from Boston, was pressing for moneyor security. Tom had "overdrawn" his account in Williams's office; and, with the penitentiary staring him in the face, was clamoring for moneyto make good the overdraft. At home he used the words "overdraft" and"overdrawn" in confessing the situation. Williams, when speaking to Tomof the shortage, had used the words "embezzlement" and "thief. "

[Illustration: "MISS TOUSY SOFTLY KISSED HER AND SAID, . .. 'THERE, DON'TCRY, SWEET ONE. '"]

Rita's illness had prevented Williams's visits; but when she recovered, he began calling, though he was ominously sullen in his courtship, andhis passion for the girl looked very much like a mania. 

One evening at supper table, Tom said: "Father, I must have five hundreddollars. I have overdrawn my account with Williams, and I'll lose myplace if it is not paid. I _must_ have it. Can't you help me?"

"What on earth have you been doing with the money?" asked Tom, Sr. "Ihave paid your tailor bills and your other bills to a sufficient amount, in all conscience, and what could you have done with the money you gotfrom Williams and your salary?"

Tom tried to explain, and soon the Chief Justice joined in: "La, father, there are so many temptations in town for young men, and our Tom is sopopular. Money goes fast, doesn't it, Tom? The boy can't tell what wentwith it. Poor Tom! If your father was half a man, he'd get the money foryou; that's what he would. If your sister was not the most wicked, selfish girl alive, she could settle all our troubles. Mr. Williamswould not press his brother-in-law or his wife's father. I have toiledand suffered and worked for that girl all my life, and so has herfather, and so have you, Tom. We have all toiled and suffered and workedfor her, and now she's too ungrateful to help us. Oh, 'sharper than aserpent's tooth, ' as the Immortal Bard of Avon truly says. "

Rita began to cry and rose from her chair, intending to leave the room, but her mother detained her. 

"Sit down!" she commanded. "At least you shall hear of the trouble youbring upon us. I have been thinking of a plan, and maybe you can help uscarry it out if you want to do anything to help your father and brother. As for myself, I don't care. I am always willing to suffer and endure. 'Blessed are they that suffer, for they shall inherit the kingdom ofheaven. '"

Tom pricked up his ears, Tom, Sr. , put down his knife and fork tolisten, and Rita again took her seat at table. 

"Billy Little has plenty of money, " continued Mrs. Margarita, addressingher daughter. "The old skinflint has refused to lend it to your fatheror Tom, but perhaps he'll not refuse you if you ask him. I believe theold fool is in love with you. What they all want with you I can't see, but if you'll write to him--"

"Oh, I can't, mother, I can't, " cried Rita, in a flood of tears. 

I will not drag the reader through another scene of heart failure andmaternal raving. Rita, poor girl, at last surrendered, and, amid tearsof humiliation, wrote to Billy Little, telling of her father's distress, her mother's commands, and her own grief because she was compelled toapply to him. "You need not fear loss of your money, my friend, " shewrote, honestly believing that she told the truth. "You will soon berepaid. Mr. Williams is demanding money from my father and Uncle Jim, and I dislike, for many reasons well known to you, to be underobligations to him. If you can, without inconvenience to yourself, lendthis money, it will help father greatly just at this time, and willperhaps save me from a certain frightful importunity. The money will berepaid to you after harvest, when collections become easier. If I didnot honestly believe so, even my mother's commands would not induce meto write this letter. "

Rita fully believed the money would be paid; but Billy knew that if hemade the loan, he would be throwing his money away forever. 

After making good Dic's loss of twenty-six hundred dollars, --which sum, you may remember, went to Bays, --Little had remaining in his strong-boxnotes to the amount of two thousand dollars, which, together with hissmall stock of goods and two or three hundred dollars in cash, constituted the total sum of his worldly wealth. He had reached a pointin life where he plainly saw old age staring him in the face--an uglystare which few can return with equanimity. The small bundle of noteswas all that stood between him and want when that time should come "sanseverything. " But Williams was staring Rita in the face, and if thelittle hoard could save her, she was welcome to it. 

Billy's sleep the night after he received Rita's letter was meagre anddisturbed, but next morning he took his notes and his poor littleremainder of cash and went to Indianapolis. He discounted the notes, ashe had done in Dic's case, and with the proceeds he went to the store ofFisher and Bays. Fisher was present when Billy entered the privateoffice and announced his readiness to supply the firm with twenty-threehundred dollars on their note of hand. The money, of course, beingborrowed by the firm, went to the firm account, and was at once appliedby Fisher upon one of the many Williams notes. Therefore Tom's"overdrafts" remained _in statu quo_; likewise the penitentiary. 

The payment of Billy Little's twenty-three hundred dollars upon theWilliams debt did not help matters in the least. The notes owed by thefirm of Fisher and Bays to the Williams house aggregated nearly fourteenthousand dollars, and Billy's poor little all did not stem the tide ofimportunity one day, although it left him penniless. The thought of hispoverty was of course painful to Billy, but he rode home that eveningwithout seeing Rita, happy and exultant in the mistaken belief that hehad helped to save her from the grasp of Williams. 

That same evening at supper Tom, Sr. , told of Billy Little's loan, andthere was at once an outburst of wrath from mother and son because partof the money had not been applied to Tom's "overdraft. "

"The pitiful sum of twenty-three hundred dollars!" cried Tom. "The oldskinflint might as well have kept his money for all the good it will dous. Do you think that will keep Williams from suing us?" In Tom'sremarks Mrs. Bays concurred, saying that she "always knew he was a meanold miser. "

Rita tried to speak in her friend's defence, but the others furiouslysilenced her, so she broke down entirely, covered her face with herhands, and wept bitterly. She went through the after-supper work amidblinding tears, and when she had finished she sought her room. Withoutundressing she lay down on the bed, sobbing till the morning light shonein at her window. Before she had lost Dic her heart could fly from everytrouble and find sweet comfort in thoughts of him; but now there was norefuge. She was alone in the world, save for Billy Little. She loved herfather, but she knew he was weak. She loved Tom, but she could not helpdespising him. She loved her mother, but she feared her, and knew therewas no comfort or consolation for her in that hard heart. Billy had notcome to see her when he brought the money, and she feared she hadoffended him by asking for it. 

Such was the situation when Dic received Miss Tousy's letter invitinghim to call upon her. 

 * * * * *

Miss Tousy greeted Dic kindly when he presented himself at her door, andled him to the same cosey front parlor wherein Rita had imparted thestory of her woes and of Dic's faithlessness. She left her guest in theparlor a moment or two, while she despatched a note to a friend in town. When she returned she said:--

"I'm sorry to hear of the trouble between you and Rita, and amdetermined it shall be made up at once. "

"I fear that is impossible, Miss Tousy, " returned Dic, sadly. "She willnever forgive me. I should not were I in her place. I do not expect itand am not worth it. "

"But she will forgive you; she will not be able to hold out against youfive minutes if you crowd her. Trust my word. I know more about girlsthan you do; but, above all, I know Rita. "

Miss Tousy watched him as he stood before her, hanging his head, a veryhandsome picture of abject humility. After a moment of silence Dicanswered:--

"Miss Tousy, the truth is, I have lost all self-respect, and know that Iam both a fool and a--a criminal. Rita will not, cannot, and ought notto forgive me. I am entirely unworthy of her. She is gentle and tenderas she can be; but she has more spirit than you would suspect. I haveseen her under the most trying circumstances, and with all hergentleness she is very strong. I have lost her and must give her up. "

"You'll be no such fool, " cried Miss Tousy; "but some one is knocking atthe front door. Be seated, please. " She opened the front hall door, kissed "some one" who had knocked, and said to "some one":--

"Step into the parlor, please. I will be with you soon. " Then she closedthe parlor door and basely fled. 

Dic sprang to his feet, and Rita, turning backward toward the door, stood trembling, her hand on the knob. 

"Don't go, Rita, " said Dic, huskily. "I did not know you were cominghere. I give you my word, I did not set a trap for you. Miss Tousy willtell you I had no thought of seeing you here. I wanted to see you, butI would not try to entrap you. I intended going to your house openlythat you might refuse to see me if you wished; but since you are here, please--oh, Rita, for God's sake, stay and hear me. I am almost crazedby what I have suffered, though I deserve it all, all. You don't knowwhat I have to say. " She partly opened the door; but he stepped quicklyto her side, shut the door, and spoke almost angrily:--

"You shall hear me, and after I have spoken, if you wish, you may go, but not until then. "

He unclasped her hand from the knob, and, using more of his greatstrength than he knew, led her to a chair and brought another forhimself. 

The touch of command in Dic's manner sent a strange thrill to the girl'sheart, and she learned in one brief moment that all her sophistry hadbeen in vain; that her love was not dead, and could not be killed. Thatknowledge, however, did not change her resolution not to forgive him. You see, there was a touch of the Chief Justice in the girl. 

"I want you to hear me, Rita, and, if you can, I want you to forgive me, and then I want you to forget me, " said Dic. 

The words "forget me" were not what she had expected to hear. She hadsupposed he would make a plea for forgiveness and beg to be taken back;but the words "forget me, " seeming to lead in another direction, surprised her. With all her resolutions she was not prepared to forget. She lifted her eyes for a fleeting glance, and could not help thinkingthat the memory of his face had been much less effective than itspresence. The tones of his voice, too, were stronger and sweeter atclose range than she had remembered. In short, Dic by her side and Dictwenty-five miles away were two different propositions--the former avery dangerous and irresistible one, indeed. Still, she would notforgive him. She could not and would not forget him; but she would shuther eyes to the handsome face, she would close her ears to the deep, strong voice, she would harden her heart to his ardent love, and, alas!to her own. She insisted to herself that she no longer loved him, andnever, never would. 

Every word that Sukey had ever spoken concerning Dic, every meeting ofwhich she knew that had ever taken place between him and thedimpler, --in fact, all the trivial events that had happened between herlover and the girl who was trying to steal him from her, including theoccurrence at Scott's social, --came vividly back to Rita at that momentwith exaggerated meaning, and told her she had for years been a poor, trusting dupe. She would listen to Dic because he was the stronger andcould compel her to remain in the room; but when he should finish, shewould go and would never speak to Miss Tousy again. 

"This is a terrible calamity I have brought upon us, " said Dic, speakingwith difficulty and constraint. "It is like blindness or madness, andmeans wretchedness for life to you and me. "

Still the unexpected direction, thought Rita, but she answered out ofher firm resolve:--

"I shall not be wretched, for I do not--don't care. The time was when Idid care very, very much; but now I--" She did not finish the sentence, and her conscience reproached her, for she knew she was uttering a big, black lie. 

Dic had expected scorn, and had thought he would be able to bear itwithout flinching. He had fortified himself days before by driving allhope out of his heart, but (as we say and feel when our dear ones die)he was not prepared, even though he well knew what was coming. Her wordsstunned him for a moment, but he soon pulled himself together, and hisunselfish love brought a feeling akin to relief: a poor, dry sort ofjoy, because he had learned that she did not suffer the pain that wastorturing him. No mean part of his pain was because of Rita's suffering. If she did not suffer, he could endure the penalty of his sin withgreater fortitude. This slight relief came to him, not because his lovewas weak, but because his unselfishness was strong. 

"If I could really believe that you do not care, " he said, strugglingwith a torturing lump in his throat, "if I could surely know that you donot suffer the pain I feel, I might endure it--God in heaven! I supposeI might endure it. But when I think that I have brought suffering toyou, I am almost wild. "

The girl's hands were folded demurely upon her lap, and she was gazingdown at them. She lifted her eyes for an instant, and there was anunwonted hardness in them as she answered: "You need not waste anysympathy on me. I don't want it. "

"Is it really true, Rita, " he asked, "that you no longer care for me?Was your love a mere garment you could throw off at will?" He paused, but Rita making no reply, he continued: "It wounds my vanity to learnthat I so greatly overestimated your love for me, and I can hardlybelieve that you speak the truth, but--but I hope--I almost hope you do. Every sense of honor I possess tells me I must accept the wages of mysin and marry Sukey Yates, even though--"

Suddenly a change came over the scene. The girl who had been so passiveand cold at once became active and very warm. She sprang to her feet, panting with excitement. Resolutions and righteous indignation werescattered to the four winds by the tremendous shock of his words. Sukeyat last had stolen him. That thought seemed to be burning itself intothe very heart of her consciousness. 

"You--you marry Sukey Yates!" she cried, breathing heavily and leaningtoward Dic, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, "you _marry_ her?"The question was almost a wail. 

"But if you no longer care there can be no reason why I should not, "said Dic, hardly knowing in the whirl of his surprise what he wassaying. 

Rita thought of the letter to Tom, and all the sympathetic instincts ofher nature sprang up to protect Dic, and to save him from Sukey's wickeddesigns. 

"Oh, " she cried, falling back into her chair, "you surely did notbelieve me!"

"And you do care?" asked Dic, almost stunned by her sudden change offront. Rita's conduct had always been so sedate and sensible that he didnot suppose she was possessed of ordinary feminine weaknesses. 

"Oh, Dic, " she replied, "I never thought you would desert me. "_In_consistency may also be a jewel. 

Dic concluded he was an incarnate mistake. Whichever way he turned, heseemed to be wrong. 

"I desert you?" he exclaimed. "But you returned my ring and did not evenanswer my letter, and now your scorn--"

"What else could you expect?" asked the girl, in a passionate flow oftears. 

"I don't know what I expected, but I certainly did not expect this, "answered Dic, musing on the blessed fault of inconsistency that dwellsin every normal woman's breast. "I did not expect this, or I should haveacted differently toward her after you returned the ring. I would nothave--I--I--God help me!" and he buried his face in his hands. 

"You would not have done what, Dic? Tell me all. " Her heart came to himin his trouble. He had sinned, but he was suffering, and that she couldnot bear. 

The low, soft tones of her voice soothed him, and he answered: "I wouldnot have allowed her to believe I intended marrying her. I did not tellher in words that I would, but--I can't tell you. I can't speak. " He sawRita's face turn pale, and though his words almost choked him, hecontinued, "I suppose I must pay the penalty of my sin. "

He gently put the girl from him, and went to the window, where heleaned, gazing into the street. She also rose, and stood waiting for himto speak. After a long pause she called his name, --

"Dic!"

When he turned she was holding out her arms to him, and the next momentthey were round his neck. 

After a blank hour of almost total silence in the parlor, Miss Tousycame to the door and knocked. She had listened at the door several timesduring the hour; but, hearing no enlightening words or sounds, she hadretreated in good order. 

Allowing a moment to elapse after knocking, Miss Tousy called:--

"Are you still there?"

Rita had been very still there, and was vividly conscious of the factwhen Miss Tousy knocked. Going to the door, Rita opened it, saying:--

"Yes, we are still here. I'm ashamed to have kept you out so long. " Shelooked her shame and blushed most convincingly. 

Upon hearing the knock, Dic hurried over to the window, and when MissTousy entered he deluded himself into the belief that his attitude ofcareless repose would induce her to conclude he had been standing thereall the afternoon. But Miss Tousy, in common with all other youngladies, had innate knowledge upon such subjects, and possibly also alittle experience--she was twenty-five, mind you--; so she was amusedrather than deceived. 

"Well?" she asked, and paused for answer. 

"Yes, " answered Rita. 

They understood each other, if we do not, for Miss Tousy kissed Rita andthen boldly went to Dic and deliberately kissed him. Thereupon Ritacried, "Oh!" Dic blushed, and all three laughed. 

"But I'll leave you to yourselves again, " said accommodating Miss Tousy. "I know you want to be alone. "

"Oh, we are through, " answered Rita, blushing, and Dic reluctantlyassented. Miss Tousy laughed and asked:--

"Through what?"

Then there was more blushing and more laughing, and Rita replied, "Justthrough--that's all. "

"Well, I congratulate you, " said Miss Tousy, taking Rita's hand, "and amvery happy that I have been the means of bringing you together again. Take the advice of one who is older than you, " continued Miss Tousy, theold and the wise, "and never, never again allow anything to separateyou. Love is the sweetest blossom of life, whose gentle wings willalways cover you with the aromatic harmony of an everlasting sunlight. "Rita thought the metaphor beautiful, and Dic was too interested to becritical. Then Rita and Miss Tousy, without any reason at all, began toweep, and Dic felt as uncomfortable as the tears of two women could makehim. 

THE CHRISTMAS GIFT

CHAPTER XV

THE CHRISTMAS GIFT

Dic started home with his heart full of unalloyed happiness; but at theend of four hours, when he was stabling his horse, the old pain for thesake of another's sorrow asserted itself, and his happiness seemed to bea sin. Rita's tender heart also underwent a change while she lay thatnight wakeful with joy and gazing into the darkness. 

Amid all her joy came the ever recurring vision of Sukey's wretchedness. While under the convincing influence of her own arguments and Dic'sresistless presence, she had seen but one side of the question, --herown; but darkness is a great help to the inner sight, and now the otherside of the case had its hearing. She remembered Sukey's letter to Tom, but she knew the unfortunate girl loved Dic. Was it right, she askedherself over and over again, was it right that she should be happy atthe cost of another's woe? Then came again the flood of her greatlonging--the longing of her whole life--and she tried to tell herselfshe did not care who suffered, she intended to be happy. That was theway of the world, and it should be her way. But Rita's heart was a poorplace for such thoughts to thrive, and when she arose next morning, after a sleepless night of mingled joy and sorrow, she was almost asunhappy as she had been the previous morning. She spent several days andnights alternating between two opinions; but finally, after repeatedconversations with Miss Tousy, whose opinions you already know, andafter meditating upon Sukey's endeavor to entrap two men, she arrived attwo opposing conclusions. First, it was her duty to give Dic up; andsecond, she would do nothing of the sort. That was the first, and Ibelieve the only selfish resolve that ever established itself in thegirl's heart with her full knowledge and consent. But the motive behindit was overpowering. She shut her lips and said she "didn't care, " andonce having definitely settled the question, she dismissed it, feelingthat she was very sinful, but also very happy. 

Dic, of course, soon sought Billy Little, the ever ready receptacle ofhis joys and sorrows. 

No man loved the words, "I told you so, " more dearly than Little, andwhen Dic entered the store he was greeted with that irritating sentencebefore he had spoken a word. 

"You told me what?" asked Dic, pretending not to understand. 

"Come, come, " returned Billy, joyously, "I see it in your face. You knowwhat I mean. Don't try to appear more thick-headed than you are. Oh, perhaps you are troubled with false modesty, and wish to hide the lightof a keen perception. Let it shine, Dic, let it shine. Hide it not. Avoid the bushel. "

Dic laughed and said: "Well, you were right; she did forgive me. Nowplease don't continue to point out your superior wisdom. I see itwithout your help. Get thee a bushel, Billy Little, lest you shine toobrightly. "

"No insolence, young man, no insolence, " retorted Billy, with a facegrave and serious, save for a joyful smile in his eyes. 

"Close the store door, Billy Little, " said Dic, after a few minutes ofconversation, "and come back to the room. I want to talk to you. "

"The conceit of some people!" replied the happy merchant. "So you wouldhave me close my emporium for the sake of your small affairs?"

"Yes, " responded Dic. 

"Well, nothing wins like self-conceit, " answered Billy. "Here's the key. Lock the front door, and I'll be with you when I fold this bolt of Indiasilk. "

Dic locked the door, Billy finished folding the India silk--a bolt oftwo-bit muslin, --and the friends went into the back room. 

How sweet it is to prepare one's self deliberately for good news! Billy, in a glow of joy, lighted his pipe, moved his chair close to thefireplace, for the day was cold, and gave the word of command--"Goahead!"

Dic told him all that had happened in Miss Tousy's parlor, omitting, ofcourse, to mention the blank hour, and added: "I had a letter from Ritathis morning, and she feels as I do, that we are very cruel; but shesays she would rather be selfish and happy than unselfish and miserable, which, as you know, is not at all true. She couldn't be selfish if shewere to try. "

"Good little brain in that little head, " exclaimed Billy. "There neverwas a better. But, as you say, she's wrong in charging herself withselfishness. I believe she has more common sense, more virtue, moretenderness, gentleness, beauty, and unselfishness than any other girl inthe world. "

Dic laughed, very much pleased with his friend's comments upon Rita. "Ibelieve you are in love with her yourself. "

The shaft unintentionally struck centre and Billy's scalp blushed as hehaltingly remarked, "Well, I suppose you're right. " Then after a longpause--"Maxwelton's braes, um, um, um. " Another long pause ensued, during which Billy knocked the ashes from his pipe against the wall ofthe fireplace, poked the back-log, and threw on two or three largepieces of wood. 

"I don't mind telling you, " he said, chuckling with laughter, "that Iwas almost in love with her at one time. She was so perfect--had thesame name, face, and disposition of--of another that--Jove! I wasterribly jealous of you. "

"Nonsense, " answered Dic, with a great pleased laugh. 

"Of course it was nonsense. I knew it then and know it now; but when, let me ask you, had nonsense or any other kind of sense anything to dowith a man falling in love?"

"I think it the most sensible thing a man can do, " answered Dic, out ofthe fulness of his cup of youth. 

"Has it made you happy?"

"Yes, and no. "

"But mostly no?" responded the cynic. 

"Yes, Billy Little, so far it's been mostly no; but the time will comewhen I will be very happy because of it. "

"Not if you can help it. We will see how it turns out in the end. "

"Billy Little, you are the greatest croaker I ever knew, " observed Dic, testily. 

"It is better to croak early than to sing too soon. But what do youwant?"

"I want to know again what I shall do about Sukey since this new changein Rita. When I thought Rita was lost to me, I fear I permitted Sukey tobelieve I would, you know, comply with her wishes; but now I can't, andI don't know how to tell her about it. I said nothing, but my silencealmost committed me. "

After a moment spent in thought, Billy answered: "Frederick the Greatused to say, 'In default of unanswerable arguments it is better toexpress one's self laconically and not go beating about the bush. ' Gotell her. "

"That's easier to advise than to do, " retorted Dic. "She will cry, and--"

"Yes, I know; if it were as easy to do as it is to advise, this would bea busy world. She will cry, and a woman's tears hurt the right sort ofman. But bless my soul, Dic, why don't you settle your own affairs? I'mtired of it all. It's getting to trouble me as much as it troubles you. "Billy paused, gazing into the fire, and dropped into a half-revery. "Ican see the poor little dimpler weeping and grieving. I can hear hersobs and feel her heartaches. She is not good; but the fault is nothers, and I wish I might bear her pain and suffer in her stead. Ibelieve it hurts me more to see others suffer than to suffer myself. Iwish I might bear every one's suffering and die on a modern Calvary. What a glorious thought that is, Dic--the Master's vicarious atonement!Even if the story be nothing but a fable, as some men claim, the thoughtis a glorious one, and the fate--ah, the fate--but such a fate is onlyfor God. If I can't help the suffering of the world, I wish I might livein the midst of Sahara, where I could not hear of human pain. It hurtsme, Dic. Indeed it does. And this poor little dimpler--I'm sorry, I'msorry. "

"Ah, Billy Little, think of my sorrow, " said Dic. 

"It's a question whether we should shrink from our troubles or facethem, " continued Little; "but in your case I should choose theshrinking, and write to the poor, pathetic little dimpler. Poor thing!Her days of dimpling are over. If you knew that you had led her astray, your duty, I believe, would be clear; but there is the 'if' that givesus serious pause and makes cowards of us both. Write to her, Dic. Youare too great a coward to face her, and I'm not brave enough even toadvise it. "

Dic wrote to Sukey, and avoided the pain of facing her, but not the painof knowing that she suffered. His letter brought an answer from Sukeythat was harder to bear than reproaches. 

Within two or three days Sukey wrote to Rita, whom she knew to be thecause of Dic's desertion. The letter to Rita, like the one to Dic, contained no word of reproach. "I do not blame you for keeping him, " shesaid in closing. "He has always belonged to you. I hope you will behappy and not trouble yourselves about me. No one knows about thisterrible affair, Rita, but you and Dic, and I hope you will tell nobody. Especially, please, please, don't tell Tom. This is the only request Imake: don't let Tom know anything about it. I want to confess, Rita, that I have been very wicked, and that Dic is not to blame. I feel it myduty to tell you this, so that you may not blame him. I have broughttrouble to you both, and it is as little as I should do to tell you thetruth. The fault was mine. I gave him a love powder. But I loved him. "

Sukey's letter came one morning four or five days before Christmas. Ritawept all day over it, and at night it helped her in taking a step thatsettled all the momentous questions touching Dic and herself. 

On the same fateful day Mr. Bays and Tom came home together in themiddle of the afternoon. That unwonted event was, in itself, alarming. Rita was reading near the window, and her mother was knitting before thefire. When our Toms, father and son, entered the room, trouble wasplainly visible upon their faces. Tom senior threw his cap and great furcoat on the bed, while De Triflin' leaned against the mantel-shelf. Drawing a chair to the fire, Tom the elder said:--

"Well, Margarita, I guess we're ruined--Jim and me and Tom--all of us. Isee no earthly way out of it. "

"What's the matter?" asked Madam Jeffreys, folding her knitting andplacing it in her lap with great deliberation. Rita dropped her book, and went over to her father. 

"Williams, I suppose?" queried Madam Jeffreys. 

"Yes; he has had orders from home to collect the money we owe the house, or else to take the store, the farm, our household furniture, everything, at once. Williams leaves for home Christmas Day, andeverything must be settled before then. He gives us till to-morrow noonto raise the money. But that is not the worst, " continued Mr. Bays, nervously, rising and turning his back to the fire, "Tom has--hasoverdrawn his account more than a thousand dollars in Williams's office. Williams don't call it 'overdrawn. ' He calls it embezzlement, theft. Tomand me went to Judge Blackford and told him just how the money wastaken. The Judge says Williams is right about it; it is embezzlement, and Williams says the firm insists on prosecuting Tom and sending him tothe penitentiary if the money is not replaced. God only knows what weare to do, Margarita. The farm is mortgaged for its full value, and sofar as I can see we are ruined, ruined. " Tears began to flow over hischeeks, and Rita, drawing his face down to hers, stood on tiptoe andtried to kiss the tears away. 

"Let me go to see Billy Little, " she said in desperation. "He will lendus the money; I know he will. "

"Like h--he will, " cried gentle Tom. "Dic asked him to loan me enoughmoney to pay my overdraft--said he would go on the note--but he refusedpoint blank; said the twenty-three hundred dollars he loaned father andUncle Jim Fisher was all the money he had. The miserly old curmudgeon!"

Mrs. Bays went weeping to Tom's side. "Poor Tom, my dear, dear son, " shewhimpered, trying to embrace him. 

Dear son roughly repulsed her, saying: "There's no need to go outside ofour family for help. If Rita wasn't the most selfish, ungrateful foolalive, she'd settle all our troubles by one word. "

"Would you have me sell myself, Tom?" asked the ungrateful sister. 

"Of course I would!! sell yourself!! rot!! You'd be getting a mightygood price. There's lots better-looking girls 'en you would jump at thechance. Sell yourself? Ain't Williams a fine gentleman? Where's anotherlike him? Ain't he rich? Ain't he everything a girl could want in aman--everything but a green country clodhopper?"

"All that may be true, Tom, but I can't marry him. I can't, " returnedRita, weeping and sobbing in her father's arms. 

"Can't you, Rita?" asked Mr. Bays. "All that Tom says about him is true, every word. Williams is good enough for any girl in the world but you. No man is that. You would soon forget Dic. "

"No, no, father, never, never, in all my life. "

"And you would soon learn to like Williams, " continued the distractedfather. "Please, Rita, try to do this and save me and Tom. "

"She shall do it, " cried Madam Jeffreys, taking courage from theknowledge that at last her husband was her ally. She went to Rita andpulled her from her father's arms. "She shall do it or go into thestreet this very night, never to enter my house again. I'll never speakto her again if she don't. It will pain me to treat my own flesh andblood so harshly, but it is my duty--my duty. I have toiled and sufferedand endured for her sake all my life, and it will almost kill me to turnagainst her now; but if she don't save her father and brother, I surelywill. God tells me it is my duty. I do not care for myself. I have eatenhusks all my life, ever since I got married, and I can die eating them;but for the sake of my dear husband and my dear son who bears his ownfather's name, it is my duty, God tells me it is my duty to spurn her. It is but duty and justice; and justice to all is my motto. It was myfather's motto. " She was a wordy orator, but her vocabulary waslimited; and after several repetitions of the foregoing sentiments, sheturned from oratory to anatomy. "Oh, my heart, " she cried, placing herhand upon her breast, "I believe I am about to die. "

She sank gasping into the chair, from which she had risen to hurl herPhilippic at Rita's head, and by sheer force of her indomitable willcaused a most alarming pallor to overspread her face. Rita ran for thecamphor, Mr. Bays fetched the whiskey, and under these restorativesMadam Jeffreys so far recovered that her husband and son were able toremove her from the chair to the bed. Rita, in tribulation and tears, sat upon the bedside, chafing her mother's hands and doing all in herpower to relieve the sufferer. 

"Don't touch me, ungrateful child, " cried Mrs. Margarita, "don't touchme! If you won't save your father and brother from ruin when you can, you are not fit to touch your mother. I am dying now, " she continued, gasping for breath. "Because of your cruelty and ingratitude, the blowhas been more than God, in His infinite mercy, has given me strength toendure. When I am gone, you will remember about this. I forgive you; Iforgive you. " Sigh followed sigh, and Rita feared she had killed herparent. 

"Oh, mother, " she sobbed, "I will do what you wish. Ah, no, I can't. Ican't do it. Don't ask me. "

"Beg her, father, beg her, " whispered Mrs. Bays to her spouse when shesaw that Rita was wavering. Bays hesitated; but a look from the bedbrought him to a proper condition of obedience:--

"Rita, won't you save your father and brother?" he asked, taking hisdaughter's hands in his own. "We are all ruined and disgraced and lostforever if you do not. Rita, I beg you to do this for my sake. "

The father's appeal she could not withstand. She covered her face withher hands; then, suddenly drawing herself upright and drying her tears, she said in a low voice, "I will. "

Those two little words changed the world for father and son fromdarkness to light. They seemed also to possess wonderful curative powersfor heart trouble, for within three minutes they snatched my LadyJeffreys from the jaws of death and placed her upright in the bed. Within another minute she was on her feet, well and hearty as ever, busily engaged evolving a plan for immediate action. 

"Write to Williams at once, " she said to Rita, "asking him to call thisevening. Tell him you want to talk to him about your father's affairs. "

Rita again hesitated, but she had given her word, and accordinglywrote:--

 "MR. WILLIAMS: If not otherwise engaged, will you please call this evening. I am in great trouble about my father and Tom, and wish to talk to you concerning their affairs. 

 "RITA. "

Tom delivered the note, which threw Williams into a state of ecstasybordering on intoxication. 

I beg you to pause and consider this girl's piteous condition. Never inall the eighteen years of her life had she unnecessarily given pain to ahuman heart. A tender, gentle strength, love for all who were near her, fidelity to truth, and purity without the blemish of even an impurethought, had gone to make up the sum of her existence. As a reward forall these virtues she was now called upon to bear the burden of anunspeakable anguish. What keener joy could she know than that which hadcome to her through her love for Dic? What agony more poignant could shesuffer than the loss of him? But, putting Dic aside, what calamitycould so blacken the future for her, or for any pure girl, as marriagewith a man she loathed? We often speak of these tragedies regretfullyand carelessly; but imagine yourself in her position, and you will pitythis poor girl of mine, who was about to be sold to the man whom shedespised--and who, worst of all, loved her. Madame Pompadour says in hermemoirs, "I was married to one whom I did not love, and a misfortunestill greater was that he loved me. " That condition must be the acme ofa woman's suffering. 

Williams knocked at Rita's door early in the evening, and was admittedto the front parlor by the girl herself. She took a chair and asked himto be seated. Then a long, awkward silence ensued, which was broken byWilliams:--

"You said you wished to see me. Is there any way in which I can serveyou?"

"Yes, " she murmured, speaking with difficulty. "My father and Tom are introuble, and I wanted to ask you if anything could be done to--to--" sheceased speaking, and in a moment Williams said:--

"I have held the house off for four or five months, and I cannot inducethem to wait longer. Their letters are imperative. I wish I had broughtthem. "

"Then nothing can save them?" asked Rita. The words almost choked her, because she knew the response they would elicit. She was asking him toask her to marry him. 

"Rita, there is one thing might save them, " replied Roger of the cravenheart. "You know what that is. I have spoken of it so often I am almostashamed to speak again. " Well he might be. 

"Well, what is it? Go on, " said Rita, without a sign of faltering. Shewanted to end the agony as soon as possible. 

"If you will marry me, Rita--you know how dearly I love you; I need nottell you of that. Were you not so sure of my love, I might stand betterwith you. You see, if you will marry me my father could not, in decency, prosecute Tom or ruin your father. He would be compelled to protect themboth, being in the family, you know. "

"If you will release Tom and save my father from ruin I will . .. Willdo . .. As . .. You . .. Wish, " answered the girl. Cold and clear were thewords which closed this bargain, and cold as ice was the heart that solditself. 

Williams stepped quickly to her side, exclaiming delightedly, "Rita, Rita, is it really true at last?"

He attempted to kiss her, but she held up her hand warningly. 

"No, " she said, "not till I am your wife. Then I must submit. Till thenI belong to myself. "

"I have waited a long time, " answered this patient suitor, "and I canwait a little longer. When shall we be married?"

"Fix the time yourself, " she replied. 

"I am to leave Christmas morning by the Napoleon stage for home, and ifyou wish we may be married Christmas Eve. That will give you four daysfor preparation. "

"As you wish, " was the response. 

"I know, Rita, you do not love me, " said Williams, tenderly. 

"You surely do, " she interrupted. 

"But I also know, " he continued, "that I can win your love when you aremy wife. I know it, or I would not ask you to marry me. I would notaccept your hand if I were not sure that I would soon possess yourheart. I will be so loving and tender and your life will be soperfect--so different from anything you have ever known--that you willsoon be glad you gave yourself to me. It will not be long, Rita, notlong. "

"Perhaps you are right, " she answered with her lips; but in her heartthis girl, who was all tenderness and love, prayed God to strike himdead before Christmas Eve should come. 

Williams again took his chair, but Rita said, "I have given you mypromise. I--I am--I fear I am ill. Please excuse me for the rest of theevening and--and leave me, I beg you. "

Williams took his leave, and Rita went into the sitting room, wherefather, mother, and Tom were waiting for the verdict. 

"You are saved, " said Rita, as if she were announcing dinner. 

"My daughter! my own dear child! God will bless you!" exclaimed thetender mother, hurrying to embrace the cause of her joy. 

"Don't touch me!" said Rita. "I--I--God help me! I--I fear--I--hateyou. " She turned to the stairway and went to her own room. For hours shesat by the window, gazing into the street, but toward morning shelighted a candle and told Dic the whole piteous story in a dozen pagesof anguish and love. 

 * * * * *

After receiving Sukey's letter, Dic left home for a few days to engagehorses to take east with him in the spring. He did not return until latein the afternoon of the day before Christmas. 

On the morning of that day--the day before Christmas--Jasper Yates, Sukey's father, came to Billy Little's store in great agitation. TomBays had been there the day before and had imparted to Billy the news ofRita's forthcoming wedding. She had supposed that Dic would tell him andhad not written; but Dic was away from home and had not received herletter. 

I cannot describe to you the overpowering grief this announcementbrought to the tender bachelor heart. It stunned him, crushed him, almost killed him; but he tried to bear up manfully under the weight ofhis grief. He tried, ah, so hard, not to show his suffering, andMaxwelton's braes, was sung all day and was played nearly all night; butthe time had come to Billy when even music could not soothe him. Therewas a dry, hard anguish at his heart that all the music of heaven or ofearth could not soften. Late in the night he shut his piano in disgustand sat before the fire during the long black hours without even thecomfort of a tear. 

When Tom imparted the intelligence of Rita's wedding, he also askedBilly for a loan of four hundred dollars. As an inducement, he explainedthat he had forged the name of Mr. Wallace to a note calling for thatsum, and had negotiated the note at an Indianapolis bank. Rita'smarriage would settle the Williams theft, but the matter of the forgerycalled for immediate adjustment in cash. Billy refused the loan; but hegave Tom fifty dollars and advised him to leave the state. 

"If you don't go, " said Billy, savagely, "you will be sent to thepenitentiary. Rita can't marry every one you have stolen from. What didyou do with the money you stole from me--Dic's money? Tell me, or I'llcall an officer at once. I'll arrest you myself and commit you. I'm ajustice of the peace. Now confess, you miserable thief. "

Tom turned pale, and, seeing that Billy was in dreadful earnest, beganto cry: "There was five of us in that job, " he whispered, "and, Mr. Little, I never got none of the money. Con Gagen and Mike Doles got itall. I give them the sacks to keep for a while after I left the store. They promised to divide, but they run away soon afterwards, and ofcourse we others were afeared to peach. I didn't know you knowed it. ConGagen put me up to it. "

"Well, I do know it. I recognized you when you climbed out the window, and did not shoot you because you were Rita's brother. I said nothingof the robbery for the same reason, but I made a mistake. Leave mystore. Get out of the state at once. If you are here Christmas Day, I'llsend you where you belong. "

Tom took the fifty dollars and the advice; and the next day--the daybefore Christmas, the day set for Rita's wedding--Sukey's father enteredBilly's store, as I have already told you, in great agitation. 

After Yates had talked to Billy for three or four minutes, the latterhurriedly closed the store door, donned the Brummel coat, and wentacross the road to the inn where the Indianapolis coach was waiting, andtook his place. 

At six o'clock that evening Dic arrived at Billy Little's store from hissouthern expedition. Finding the store door locked, he got the key fromthe landlord of the inn, in whose charge Billy had left it, went to thepost-office, and rejoiced to find a letter from Rita. He eagerly openedit--and rode home more dead than alive. Rita's wedding would take placethat night at eight o'clock. The thing was hopeless. He showed theletter to his mother, and asked that he might be left alone with hissorrow. Mrs. Bright kissed him and retired to her bed in the adjoiningroom, leaving Dic sitting upon the hearth log beside the fire. 

Dic did not blame Rita. He loved her more dearly than ever before, ifthat were possible, because she was capable of making the awfulsacrifice. He well knew what she would suffer. The thought of heranguish drowned the pain he felt on his own account, and his sufferingfor her sake seemed more than he could bear. Billy Little, he supposed, had gone to the wedding, and for the first time in Dic's life he wasangry with that steadfast friend. Dic knew that the sudden plunge fromjoy to anguish had brought a benumbing shock, and while he sat besidethe fire he realized that his suffering had only begun--that his realanguish would come with the keener consciousness of reaction. 

At four o'clock that same afternoon Billy was seated in Rita's parlor, whispering to her. "My dear girl, I bring you good news. You can't saveTom. He forged Wallace's name to a note for four hundred dollars, andpassed it at the bank six weeks ago. He wanted to borrow the money fromme to pay the note, but I did not have it. I gave him fifty dollars, andhe has run away--left the state for no one knows where. He carried offtwo of Yates's horses, and, best of all, he carried off Sukey. Allreasons for sacrificing yourself to this man Williams are now removed, save only your father's debt. That, Fisher tells me, has been renewedfor sixty days, and at the end of that time your father and Fisher willagain have it to face. You could not save them, Rita, if you were tomarry half the men in Boston. Even if this debt were paid--cancelled--instead of renewed, your father would soon be as badlyoff as ever. A bank couldn't keep him in business, Rita. Every one hedeals with robs and cheats him. He's a good man, Rita, kind, honest, andhard working, but he is fit only to farm. I hate to say it, but in manyrespects your father is a great fool, very much like Tom. It is easierto save ten knaves than one fool. A leopard is a leopard; a nigger is anigger. God can change the spots of the one and the color of the other, but I'm blessed if I believe even God can unmake a fool. Now my deargirl, don't throw away your happiness for life in a hopeless effort tosave your father from financial ruin. "

"But I have given my word, Billy Little, " replied the girl, to whom apromise was a sacred thing. "I believe my father and mother would die ifI were to withdraw. I must go on, I must; it is my doom. It is onlythree hours--oh, my God! have mercy on me--" and she broke down, weeping piteously. Soon she continued: "The guests are all invited, andoh, I can't escape, I can't! I have given my word; I am lost. Thank you, dear friend, thank you, for your effort to help me; but it is too late, too late!"

"No, it is not too late, " continued Billy; "but in three hours it willbe too late, and you will curse yourself because you did not listen tome. "

"I know I shall; I know it only too well, " replied the weeping girl. "Iwill not ask you to remain for the--the tragedy. "

"I would not witness it, " cried Billy, "for all the gold in the world!When I'm gone, Rita, remember what I've said. Do not wait until it istoo late, but come with me; come now with me, Rita, and let theconsequences be what they will. They cannot be so evil as those whichwill follow your marriage. You do not know. You do not understand. Comewith me, girl, come with me. Do not hesitate. When I have left you, itwill be too late, too late. God only can help you; and if you walkopen-eyed into this trouble, He will _not_ help you. He helps those whohelp themselves. "

"No, Billy Little, no; I cannot go with you. I have given my word. Ihave cast the die. "

With these words Billy arose, took up his hat, stick, and gloves, wentout into the hall, and opened the front door to go. 

"When I'm gone, Rita, remember what I have said and what I'm about tosay, and even though the minister be standing before you, until you havespoken the fatal words, it will not be too late. You are an innocentgirl, ignorant of many things in life. Still, every girl, if she butstops to think, has innate knowledge of much that she is supposed not toknow. When I'm gone, Rita, _think_, girl, _think_, think of this night;this night after the ceremony, when all the guests have gone and youare alone with him. Kill yourself, Rita, if you will, if there is noother way out of it--kill yourself, but don't marry that man. For thesake of God's love, don't marry him. Death will be sweet compared tothat which you will suffer if you do. Good-by, Rita. Think of thisnight, girl; think of this night. "

"Good-by, Billy Little, good-by, " cried the girl, while tears streamedover her cheeks. As she closed the door behind him she covered her facewith her hands and moaned: "I cannot marry him. How can I kill myself?How can I escape?"

Meanwhile Madam Jeffreys had donned her black silk dress, made expresslyfor the occasion, and was a very busy, happy woman indeed. She did notknow that Tom had run away, but was expecting him home from Blue by thelate stage, which would arrive about seven o'clock. 

Billy left for home on the five o'clock stage, but before he left he hada talk with Rita's father. 

Soon after Billy's departure, Miss Tousy and a few young lady friendscame to assist at the bride's toilet. It was a doleful party ofbridesmaids in Rita's room, you may be sure; but by seven o'clock shewas dressed. When the task was finished, she said to her friends:--

"I am very tired. I have an hour before the ceremony, and I should liketo sit alone by the window in the dark to rest and think. Please leaveme to myself. I will lock the door, and, Miss Tousy, please allow no oneto disturb me. "

"No one shall disturb you, my dear, " answered Miss Tousy, weeping as shekissed her. Then the young ladies left the room, and Rita locked thedoor. 

Ten minutes later Mr. Bays entered from Tom's room, which wasimmediately back of Rita's. A stairway descended from Tom's room to theback yard. 

[Illustration: "'HERE, ' REPLIED THE GIRL. "]

Mr. Bays kissed Rita, and hastily whispered: "My great-coat, cap, andgloves are on Tom's bed. Buck is saddled in the stable. Don't ever letyour mother know I did this. Good-by. I would rather die than see youmarry this man and lose Dic. Don't let your mother know, " and he hurriedfrom the room. 

Rita went hurriedly into Tom's room and put on the great-coat, made ofcoonskins, a pair of squirrel-skin gloves, and a heavy beaver cap withcurtains that fell almost to her shoulders. She also drew over her shoesa pair of heavy woollen stockings; and thus arrayed, she ran down thestairway to the back yard. Flurrying to the stable, she led out "OldBuck, " Mr. Bays's riding horse, and galloped forth in the dark, coldnight for a twenty-six mile ride to Billy Little. 

Soon after Rita's departure the guests began to assemble. At ten minutesbefore eight came Williams. Upon his arrival, Mrs. Bays insisted thatRita should be called, so she and Miss Tousy went to Rita's door andknocked. The knock was repeated; still no answer. Then Mrs. Baysdetermined to enter Rita's room through Tom's, --and I will draw a veilover the scene of consternation, confusion, and rage that ensued. 

 * * * * *

Near the hour of two o'clock in the morning another scene of this dramawas enacted, twenty-six miles away. Billy Little was roused from hisdreams--black nightmares they had been--by a knocking on his store door, and when he sat up in bed to listen, he heard Rita's voice calling:--

"Billy Little, let me in. "

Billy ran to unlock the front door, crying: "Come in, come in, God blessmy soul, come in. Maxwelton's braes _are_ bonny, bonny, bonny. Tell me, are you alone?"

"Yes, Billy, I'm alone, and I fear they will follow me. Hide mesomewhere. But you'll freeze without your coat. Go and--"

"Bless me, I haven't my coat and waistcoat on. Excuse me;excuse--Maxwelton's--I'll be out immediately. " And the little old fellowscampered to his bedroom to complete his toilet. Then he lighted acandle, placed wood on the fire, and called Rita back to his sanctumsanctorum. She was very cold; but a spoonful of whiskey, prescribed byDr. Little, with a drop of water and a pinch of sugar, together with abit of cheese and a biscuit from the store, and the great crackling fireon the hearth, soon brought warmth to her heart and color to her cheeks. 

"What are you going to do with me now you've got me? They will come herefirst to find me, " she asked, laughing nervously. 

"We'll go to Dic, " said Billy, after a moment's meditation. "We'll go toDic as soon as you are rested. "

"Oh, Billy Little, I--I can't go to him. You know I'm not--not--youknow. "

"Not married? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes. "

"I'm mighty thankful you are not. Dic's mother is with him. It will beall perfectly proper. But never mind; I have another idea. I'll think itover as we ride. "

After Rita had rested, Billy donned the Beau Brummel coat and saddledhis horse, and the pair started up Blue to awaken Dic. He needed noawakening, for he was sitting where we left him, on the hearth, gazinginto a bed of embers. 

When our runaway couple reached Dic's house, Billy hitched his horse, told Rita to knock at the front door, and took her horse to the stable. 

When Dic heard the knock at that strange hour of the night, hecalled:--

"Who's there?"

"Rita. "

Dic began to fear his troubles had affected his mind; but when he hearda voice unmistakably hers calling, "Please let me in; I have brought youa Christmas gift, " he knew that he was sane, and that either Rita or herwraith was at the door. When she entered, clad in her wedding gown, coonskin coat and beaver cap, he again began to doubt his senses andstood in wonder, looking at her. 

"Aren't you glad to see me, Dic?" she asked, laughing. Still he did notrespond, and she continued, "I have ridden all night to bring you aChristmas gift. "

"A Christmas gift?" he repeated, hardly conscious of the words he spoke, so great had been the shock of his awakening from a dream of pain to areality of bliss. "Where--where is it?"

"Here, " replied the girl, throwing off the great-coat and pressing herhands upon her bosom to indicate herself. Then Dic, in a flood ofperceptive light and returning consciousness, caught the pricelessChristmas gift to his heart without further question. 

In a moment Billy Little entered the door that Rita had closed. 

"Here, here, break away, " cried Billy, taking Rita and Dic each by theright hand. As he did so Dic's mother entered from the adjoining room, and Billy greeted her with "Howdy, " but was too busy to makeexplanations. 

"Now face me, " said that little gentleman, speaking in tones of commandto Rita and Dic. 

"Clasp your right hands. " The hands were clasped. "Now listen to me. Diccon Bright, do you take this woman whom you hold by the hand to beyour wedded wife?"

Dic's faculties again began to wane, and he did not answer at once. 

"The answer is, 'I do, ' you stupid, " cried Billy, and Dic said, "I do. "

"Do you, Rita Fisher Bays, --Margarita Fisher Bays, --take this man whomyou hold by the right hand to be your husband?"

Rita's faculties were in perfect condition and very alert, so sheanswered quickly, "I do. "

"Then, " continued our worthy justice of the peace, "by virtue ofauthority vested in me by the laws of the state of Indiana, I pronounceyou husband and wife. I kiss the bride. "

After kissing Rita, and shaking hands with Dic and Mrs. Bright, Billyhurried out through the door, and the new-made husband and wife watchedhim as he mounted and rode away. He was singing--not humming, butsinging--at his topmost pitch, "Maxwelton's braes are bonny, where earlyfalls the dew. " He had never before been known to complete the stanza. His voice could be heard after he had passed out of sight into theforest, and just as the sun peeped from the east, turning the frost dustto glittering diamonds and the snow-clad forest to a paradise in white, the song lost itself among the trees, and Dic, closing the door, ledRita to his hearth log. 

 * * * * *

Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall

By CHARLES MAJOR

_Author of "When Knighthood Was in Flower, " etc. _

With eight full-page illustrations by HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY

Cloth 12mo $1. 50

"Dorothy Vernon is an Elizabethan maid, but a living, loving, lovablegirl. .. . The lover of accuracy of history in fiction may rest contentedwith the story; but he will probably care little for that once he hasbeen caught by the spirit and freshness of the romance. "--_The Mail andExpress. _

"Dorothy is a splendid creation, a superb creature of brains, beauty, force, capacity, and passion, a riot of energy, love, and red blood. Sheis the fairest, fiercest, strongest, tenderest heroine that ever woke upa jaded novel reader and made him realize that life will be worth livingso long as the writers of fiction create her like. .. . The story hasbrains, 'go, ' virility, gumption, and originality. "--_The BostonTranscript. _

"Dorothy is a fascinating character, whose womanly whims and cunningways in dealing with her manly, honest lover and her wrathful father arecleverly portrayed. The interest is maintained to the end. Some mightcall Dorothy a vixen, but she is of that rare and ravishing kind whohave tried (and satisfied) men's souls from the days of Mother Eve tothe present time. "--_The New York Herald. _

"A romance of much delicacy, variety, strength, and grace, in which arerevealed the history of four lovers who by their purely human attributesare distinct types. "--_Evening Journal News_, Evansville. 

"As a study of woman, the incomprehensible, yet thoroughly lovable, Dorothy Vernon clearly leads all recent attempts in fiction. Dorothy isa wonderful creature. "--_Columbus Evening Dispatch. _

"Dorothy is a feminine whirlwind, very attractive to her audience ifsomewhat disconcerting to her victims, and the story, even in these dayswhen romance has become a drug, makes good reading. "--_New York Life. _

 * * * * *

The Bears of Blue River

By CHARLES MAJOR

_Author of "Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall, " etc. _

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. B. FROST AND OTHERS

Cloth 12mo $1. 50

"The book is thoroughly healthy, and it is infused through and throughwith the breath of the forests. It is a delightful book toread. "--_Charleston Sun-News. _

"The book is especially adapted to boys, but the well-rounded style ofthe author, combined with a little natural history, makes it at onceinteresting and instructive to young and old alike. "--_Plymouth Weekly. _

"This is not a mere 'boy's book'; it is a work of art, appealing to themost cultured reader. "--_Christian World. _

"Though the story may have been written for boys, it is even better funfor older people and sportsmen, as a well-written, spirited book of sostrenuous a life. "--_Literary World. _

 * * * * *

The Mettle of the Pasture

By JAMES LANE ALLEN

Author of "The Choir Invisible, " "A Kentucky Cardinal, "etc. , etc. 

Cloth 12mo $1. 50

"'The Mettle of the Pasture' contains more characters and a greatervariety of them, it has more versatility, more light and shade, morehumor, than any of his previous books. The story, too, is wider in scopeand the central tragedy draws irresistibly to it. .. . 

"'The Mettle of the Pasture' is a novel of greatness; it is so far Mr. Allen's masterpiece; a work of beauty and finished art. There can be noquestion of its supreme place in our literature; there can be no doubtof its wide acceptance and acceptability. More than any of his books itis destined to an enviable popularity. It does not take extraordinaryprescience to predict an extraordinary circulation for it. " --JAMES MACARTHUR in a review in the August _Reader_. 

"It may be that 'The Mettle of the Pasture' will live and become a partof our literature; it certainly will live far beyond the allotted termof present-day fiction. Our principal concern is that it is a notablenovel, that it ranks high in the entire range of American and Englishfiction, and that it is worth the reading, the re-reading, and thecontinuous appreciation of those who care for modern literature at itsbest. "--_The Boston Transcript. _

"In 'The Mettle of the Pasture' Mr. Allen has reached the high-watermark thus far of his genius as a novelist. The beauty of his literarystyle, the picturesque quality of his description, the vitality, fulness, and strength of his artistic powers never showed to betteradvantage. .. . Its reader is fascinated by the picturesque descriptions, the humor, the clear insight, and the absolute interest of hiscreations. "--_The Brooklyn Eagle. _

 * * * * *

The Call of the Wild

By JACK LONDON

Author of "The Children of the Frost, " etc. , etc. 

Illustrated Cloth 12mo $1. 50

All those who have read it believe that JACK LONDON'S new story, "TheCall of the Wild, " will prove one of the half-dozen memorable books of1903. This story takes hold of the universal things in human and animalnature; it is one of those strong, thrilling, brilliant things which arebetter worth reading the second time than the first. Entertainingstories we have in plenty; but this is something more--it is a piece ofliterature. At the same time it is an unforgettable picture of the wholewild, thrilling, desperate, vigorous, primeval life of the Klondikeregions in the years after the gold fever set in. It ranks beside thebest things of its kind in English literature. 

The tale itself has for its hero a superb dog named Buck, a crossbetween a St. Bernard and a Scotch shepherd. Buck is stolen from hishome in Southern California, where Judge Miller and his family havepetted him, taken to the Klondike, and put to work drawing sledges. First he has to be broken in, to learn "the law of club and fang. " Hissplendid blood comes out through the suffering and abuse, the starvationand the unremitting toil, the hardship and the fighting and the bittercold. He wins his way to the mastership of his team. He becomes the bestsledge dog in Alaska. And all the while there is coming out in him "thedominant primordial beast. "

But meantime, all through the story, the interest is almost as much inthe human beings who own Buck, or who drive him, or who come in contactwith him or his masters in some way or other, as in the dog himself. Heis merely the central figure in an extraordinarily graphic andimpressive picture of life. 

In none of his previous stories has Mr. LONDON achieved so strong a gripon his theme. In none of them has he allowed his theme so strongly togrip him. He has increased greatly in his power to tell a story. Thefirst strong note in the book is the coming out of the dog's good bloodthrough infinite hardship; the last how he finally obeyed "the call ofthe wild" after his last and best friend, Thornton, was killed by theIndians. 

It has been very greatly praised during its serial run, Mr. MABIEwriting in _The Outlook_ of "its power and its unusual theme. .. . Thisremarkable story, full of incident and of striking descriptions of lifeand landscape in the far north, contains a deep truth which is embeddedin the narrative and is all the more effective because it is neverobtruded. "

 * * * * *

People of the Whirlpool

From the Experience Book of a Commuter's Wife

_By the Author of"The Garden of a Commuter's Wife"_

With Eight Full-page Illustrations

Cloth 12mo $1. 50

"The book is in every way a worthy companion to its very popularpredecessor. "--_The Churchman. _

"Altogether the story is fascinating, holding the attention with itscharm of narrative and its pictures of real life. "--_Grand RapidsHerald. _

"The whole book is delicious, with its wise and kindly humor, its justperspections of the true values of things, its clever pen pictures ofpeople and customs, and its healthy optimism for the great world ingeneral. "--_Philadelphia Telegraph. _

 * * * * *

Anne Carmel

By GWENDOLEN OVERTON

Author of "The Heritage of Unrest"

With Illustrations by ARTHUR I. KELLER

Cloth 12mo $1. 50

"A novel of uncommon beauty and depth . .. In every way an unusualbook. "--_Louisville Times. _

"One of the few very important books of the year. "--_The Sun_, New York. 

"Is so far above the general run of the fiction of to-day as to bestrongly attractive, just because of this contrast, but it is, foritself, something to move heart and brain to quick action and deepadmiration. "--_Nashville American. _

 * * * * *

The Heart of Rome

By F. MARION CRAWFORD

Author of "Saracinesca, " "In the Palace of the King, ""Cecilia, " "Ave Roma Immortalis, " etc. 

Cloth 12mo $1. 50

This striking title is perfectly descriptive of the book. Mr. Crawford, who has studied Rome in all its phases and has been writing novels andserious books about it for twenty years, has undertaken to put "theheart of Rome" into his latest novel. Many authors have undertaken to dothis, but in almost every case the result, however it may have beenpraised for various features, has been adjudged in the endunsatisfactory. The author of "Saracinesca" has here written hisstrongest and best work; a novel in which, around an absorbing lovestory, are described the manifold elements that go to make up the wholeof the Eternal City as it exists at the present time. It is said bythose who have read the story that it will stand as a picture of Romanand Italian life without a peer. Mr. Crawford has been living in Italymost of the year in order to be close to the atmosphere and the life ofthe city which he has here depicted. 

 * * * * *

The Literary Sense

By E. NESBIT

Author of "The Red House, " "The Would-Be-Goods, " etc. 

Cloth 12mo $1. 50

This is a collection of very clever and original short stories, by anauthor whose work has attracted much favorable attention here and inEngland. The stories deal with lovers' meetings, partings, misunderstandings or reconciliations. They are little tragedies orlittle comedies, and sometimes both. The situations are strong andingeniously conceived, and each tale has a turn or twist of its own. There is throughout a quiet vein of humor and a light touch even wherethe situation is strained. In a way the stories are held together, because most or all of them have a bearing on the idea which is setforth in the first story--the one that gives the book its title. In thatstory the girl loses her lover because, instead of acting simply andnaturally, she tries to act as if she were in a book, to follow her"literary sense"; in other words, she has something of the sametemperament that distinguished Mr. Barrie's "Sentimental Tommy. " Thisidea appears and reappears in the other stories, notably in that called"Miss Eden's Baby, " which in its way is a little masterpiece. 

 * * * * *

On the We-a Trail

By CAROLINE BROWN

Author of "Knights in Fustian"

Cloth 12mo $1. 50

This story incidentally portrays the vicissitudes and the lives of theAmerican pioneers in the "Great Wilderness, " as the country west of theAlleghanies was generally known. The capture and recapture of FortSackville, at Vincennes on the Wabash, are important features among thecentral incidents. 

The action begins in mid-wilderness and culminates with the fall of thefort under the assault of George Rogers Clark. Here the lovers arereunited after months of separation and adventures. They were firstparted by the savages, who murdered the heroine's entire family saveherself. Driven into the forest, she is taken captive by the Indians. She makes her escape. Later she is taken to the fort by one ofHamilton's _coureurs de bois_, and adopted into the family of thecommandant. The lover meantime wanders from Kaskaskia to Detroit inpursuit of the tribe which has taken captive his sweetheart, and hasvarious adventures by the way, many of which take place on the famousWe-a Trail. The action of the story is practically confined to Indiana, the author's native state; and it forms an important addition to theincreasing number of novels dealing with the early life of that regionof the country. 

 * * * * *

The Black Chanter

and Other Highland Tales

By NIMMO CHRISTIE

Cloth 12mo $1. 50

This is a remarkable group of stories by a new writer. They are allScotch, and deal with Scotland at a remote period--about the twelfthcentury. All the tales except one--"The Wise Woman, " which is the bestof all--deal with fighting, and the pipers appear in almost all. Theyare stories rather for men than for women, because they deal with arough time in a direct way; but they are so clever that women whomvirility attracts will like them. The striking originality of thesestories augurs well for the author's future. The tales consist largelyin legends, traditions, and dramatic incidents connected with the oldlife of Scottish clans. Each tale has at the end an unexpected turn orquick bit of action, and these endings are almost invariably tragic. Thestyle is well suited to the character of the stories, which are wild, weird, and queer. They have a true imaginative vein. 

 * * * * *

Blount of Breckenhow

By BEULAH MARIE DIX

Author of "The Making of Christopher Ferringham, " "SoldierRigdale, " and "Hugh Gwyeth"

Cloth 12mo $1. 50

Its scene is laid in England in the years 1642-45. It is not ahistorical novel, nor a romance, nor an adventure story; it is the storyof a brave man and a noble woman as set forth in the letters of aprosperous family of Yorkshire gentry. James Blount, the hero, comes byhis father's side of a race of decayed northern gentry, and by hismother's side from the yeomanry. Entering the King's army as a privatetrooper, he wins a commission; but he never wins social recognition fromhis brother officers, and he is left much alone. He meets Arundel Careweand loves her. The moment when he is about to tell his love he learnsthat she is betrothed to his captain, and only friend, BevillRowlestone. Blount keeps silent till near the end of the story. Meanwhile Arundel is married to Bevill, who is a delightfulseventeenth-century lover, but not wholly satisfactory as a husband. 

Arundel is in garrison with Bevill at a lonely village through the firstdreary winter of their married life. Bevill neglects what he has won, but Blount in all honor is very tender and thoughtful of her. On thenight when Arundel's child is born, Bevill makes a gross error ofjudgment and shifts a body of troops which exposes his whole position. He entreats Blount, who is his subaltern, to shoulder the blame. For thesake of Arundel and her child, Blount does so. The matter proves veryserious. Blount is tried by court-martial, publicly degraded, and kickedout of the army. All trace of him is lost for some eighteen months. Then, when Arundel and her child are in great danger in their besiegedcountry house, Blount, who is serving again as a private trooper, appears and rescues her. The book does not teem with battle andviolence; only twice do the people in the story come within sound of theguns. 

 * * * * *

McTodd

By CUTCLIFFE HYNE

Author of "Captain Kettle" and "Thompson's Progress"

Cloth 12mo $1. 50

Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne's "McTodd" enriches literature with a new andfascinating figure. The author established himself with his "CaptainKettle" books, and he has made his popularity considerably more surethrough his latest story, "Thompson's Progress. " McTodd, the engineer, was quite as popular a hero in the last Captain Kettle book as thatfiery little sailor, and Mr. Hyne now makes him the chief character in abetter story. The author's invention never flags, and the new story isfull of incidents and experiences of the liveliest and most fascinatingkind. Besides drawing a better character, the author has made hisexperiences more like those of real people, and has constructed a storywhich is well knit, forceful, and absorbing. He has outgrown thecrudities observable in his previous books, and it is expected that hisnew creation will give him a much better place in literature and willgreatly strengthen his hold on the popular approval. 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

66 Fifth Avenue, New York

Transcriber's note:

A number of instances of 'Dic' being misspelt as 'Dick' have beencorrected. 

Printer's errors have been corrected, all other inconsistenciesare as in the original.