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

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

A flush came to Rita's cheek, and she moved uneasily when she saw Sukey whispering to Dic; but he did not suspect that Rita cared a straw what Sukey said. Neither did it occur to him that Rita would wish him to remain 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 to be wished. He did not wish to subject himself to the charge of ungallantry; and Sukey was, as you already know, fair to look upon, and her offer was as generous as she could make under the circumstances. So he 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 no effort to capture the Redoubtable. Such apathy was not only an infringement of the etiquette of the game, but might, if the injured party 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 catastrophe ensued. Meantime, the wall was growing uncomfortable to Rita. She had known in a dimly conscious way that certain things always happened at country frolics, but to see them startled her, and she began to feel very miserable. Her tender heart fluttered piteously with a hundred longings, chief among which was the desire to prevent further catastrophes between Dic and Sukey.

Compared to Sukey, there was no girl in the circle at all entitled to be ranked 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 painful to the girl by the wall. If Rita had been in ignorance of her real sentiments for Dic, that ignorance had, within the last few minutes, given place to a knowledge so luminous that it was almost blinding. The room seemed to become intensely warm. Meantime the play went on, and the process of making Doug "sick" continued with marked success. Sukey always favored Dic, and he returned in kind. This alternation, which was beyond all precedent, soon aroused a storm of protests.

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

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

The order of events was immediately changed, but occasionally Sukey broke away from time-honored precedent and repeated her favors to Dic. Doug was rapidly growing as "sick" as his most inveterate enemy could have desired. There was another person in the room who was also very wretched—one whom Dic would not have pained for all the Sukey Potiphars in Egypt. The other person was not only pained, she was grieved, confused, frightened, desperate. She feared that she would cry out and ask Dic not to favor Sukey. She did not know what to do, nor what she might be led to do, if matters continued on their present course.

Soon after Tom's reprimand, Sukey found the duty of dropping the handkerchief again devolving upon her pretty self. She longed with all her 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's breast. She would choose one whom he knew she despised, and would trust to luck and her swift little feet to take her around the circle before the dropee could catch her.

Wetmore had been an active member, though a passive participant, in the game, since its beginning. When a young lady "It" walked back of him, he would 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 the next. Repeated disappointments had lulled his vigil, and when Sukey, the girl of all others for whom he had not hoped, dropped the sacred linen behind his reverend form, he was so startled that he did not seize the precious moment. He was standing beside Doug Hill, and the handkerchief fell 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 opportunity to himself. At the same moment Brother W. also determined to embrace it, and, if possible, "It." Each stooped at the same instant, and their heads 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 with great violence upon the floor. At that unfortunate moment Sukey, who had taken speed from eagerness, completed her trip around the circle, and being unable to stop, fell headlong over the figure of the self-made parson. She had not seen Doug's part in the transaction, and being much disturbed in mind and dress, turned upon poor Wetmore and flung at the worthy shepherd the opprobrious words, "You fool."

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

One's partner in this game was supposed to favor one now and then, when opportunity presented; but Wetmore's partner, Miss Tompkinson, having waited in vain for favors from that gentleman, quitted the game when Sukey called him, "You fool." Wetmore thought, of course, he also would be compelled to drop out; but, wonder of wonders, Rita, the most beautiful girl in the room, rose to her feet and said:—

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



As Rita had expected, the handkerchief soon fell behind her, and without the least trouble she caught the young fellow who had dropped it, for the 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 do with the handkerchief she did not know, but she started desperately around the circle. After the fourth or fifth trip the players began to laugh. Dic's heart was doing a tremendous business, and he felt that life would be worthless if the handkerchief should fall from Rita's hand behind any one but him. Meanwhile the frightened girl walked round and round 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 burden again and of course must drop it. After another long weary walk an inspiration came to her; she would drop the handkerchief behind Tom. She did so. Tom laughed, and all agreed with one accord that it was against the rules of the game to drop the handkerchief behind a brother or sister. Then Rita again took up her burden, which by that time was a heavy one indeed. She had always taken her burdens to Dic, so she took this one to him and dropped it.

"I knew she would," screamed every one, and Rita started in dreadful earnest on her last fatal trip around the circle. A moment before the circle had been too small, but now it seemed interminable, and poor Rita found herself in Dic's strong arms before she was halfway home. She almost hated him for catching her. She did not take into consideration the facts that she had invited him and that it would have been ungallant had he permitted her to escape, but above all, she did not know the desire in his heart. She had surprised and disappointed him by entering the game; but since it was permitted, he would profit by the surprise and snatch a joyful moment from his disappointment. But another surprise awaited him. When a young lady was caught a certain degree of resistance, purely for form's sake, was expected, but usually the young lady would feel aggrieved, or would laugh at the young man were the resistance taken seriously. When Dic caught Rita there was one case, at least, where the resistance was frantically real. She covered her face with her hands and supposed he would make no effort to remove them. She was mistaken, he acted upon the accepted theories of the game. She was a baby in strength compared with Dic, and he easily held her hands while he 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, released her at once and she walked sullenly to a chair. According to the rude etiquette of the time, she had insulted him.

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

Dic was wounded, and poor Rita felt that now she had driven him from her forever. Her eyes followed him about the room with wistful longing, and although they were eloquent enough to have told their piteous little story 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 need not 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 by yourself. Even should nothing harm you, the howling of a wolf would frighten you almost to death."

She had no intention of riding home alone. She knew she would die from fright before she had ridden a hundred yards into the black forest, so she said demurely:—

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

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

Had Dic ever hoped to gain more than a warm friendship from the girl that hope had been shattered for all time, and never, never, never would he obtrude his love upon her again. As a matter of fact, he had not obtruded it upon her even once, but he had thought of doing it so many times 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 soon evaporated, and he was glad she had refused to pay the forfeit. He would be content with the friendship that had been his since childhood, and would never again risk losing it. What right had he, a great, uncouth "clodhopper," to expect even friendship from so beautiful and perfect a creature as the girl who rode beside him; and, taking it all in all, the fault, thought he, lay entirely at his door. In this sombre mood he resolved that he would remain unmarried all his life, and would be content with the incompleted sweet of loving. He would put a guard upon himself, his acts, his words, his passion. The latter was truly as noble and pure as man ever felt for woman, but it should not be allowed to estrange his friend. She should never know it; no, never, never, never.

Rita's cogitations were also along the wrong track. During her silent ride homeward the girl was thinking with an earnestness and a rapidity that had never before been developed in her brain. She was, at times, almost unconscious that Dic was riding beside her, but she was vividly conscious of the fact that she would soon be home and that he also would be there. She determined to do something before parting from him to make amends for her conduct at the social. But what should she do? Hence the earnest and rapid intellection within the drooping head. She did not regret having refused to kiss Dic. She would, under like circumstances, again act in the same manner. She regretted the circumstances. To her, a kiss should be a holy, sacred thing, and in her heart she longed for the time when it would be her duty and her privilege to give her lips to the one man. But kissing games seemed to her little less than open and public shame.

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

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

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

"Yes," murmured the girl, hanging her head, while she meditatively smoothed 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 thinking of the weather, but Dic stuck faithfully to the blessed topic.

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

"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 to drop the subject of the weather and to say something that would give her an opportunity to speak. Her manner, however, was most unassuring, and convinced Dic that he had offended beyond forgiveness, while his distant, respectful formality and persistency in the matter of the weather almost convinced the girl that he was lost to her forever. Thus they stood before each other, as many others have done, a pair of helpless fools within easy reach of paradise. Dic's straightforward habits of thought and action came to his aid, however, and he determined to 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 the pain I feel. When you dropped the handkerchief behind me, I thought—I know I was wrong and should have known better at the time—but I thought—"

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

Had the serene yellow moon burst into a thousand blazing suns, Dic could not 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 whatever he wished to ask, "Yes" would be her answer, so she gave it, and Dic continued:—

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

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

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 sweet word.

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

"I was sure you were angry," she said, "and I thought you would not forgive 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 dislike you. When I thought that—that you did not care for me, I was so grieved that life seemed almost worthless, but I love you so dearly, Rita—" but that was just what he had determined never, never to tell her. He stopped midway in his unintentional confession, surprised that the girl did not indignantly leave him. Her heart beat wofully. Breathing suddenly became harder work than churning. She sat demurely by his side on 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 the moment to think. After a long pause she determined to give him a fresh start.

"I was in the wrong, Dic, and if you wish I'll apologize to you before all who saw me. But I was frightened. I should not have gone into the game. It may be right for other girls—I would not say that it is not right—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 middle ground. They must be holy and sacred, or they are sinful, and I—I did not want it to—to happen then, because—because—" there she stopped speaking. She had unintentionally used the word "then," with slight emphasis; 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 also feared she might fall backward off the log.

"Because—because," came in soft whispers. The beautiful head was drooped, and the face was hidden from even the birds and the moon, while Dic's disengaged hand, out of an abundance of caution lest she might fall, clasped hers.

"Because—why, Rita?" he pleaded.

Softly came the response, "Because I wanted to be alone with—with—you when 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 aught she cared. It was holy and sacred now, and she felt no shame: she was proud. The transfer of herself had been made. She belonged to him, and he, of course, must do with his own property as he saw fit. It was no longer any affair of hers.

The victory of complete surrender is sometimes all-conquering; at any rate, Dic was subjugated for life. His situation was one that would be hard to improve upon in the way of mere earthly bliss. Heaven may furnish something better, and if it does, the wicked certainly have no conception of what they are going to miss. Tom, for example, would never have put buttons in the offering. Doug would not gamble and drink. Poor, painted Nanon would starve rather than sin. Old man Jones, in the amen corner, would not swindle his neighbor; nor would Wetmore, the Baptist, practise the holy calling of shepherd, having in his breast the heart of a wolf. We all, saving a woman here and there, have our sins, little and great, 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 in heaven as there is sin on earth, save for the hypocrite. There may be forgiveness even for him, but I trust not.

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

There was little said between our happy couple for many minutes after the explosion; but like a certain lady, who long ago resided for a time in a beautiful garden, the girl soon began to tempt the man: not to eat apples, 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 of another sort. Had Rita been Eve, there would have been no fall.

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

"Why, Rita," he responded confidently, "of course I'll go. There is more reason 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 tell you a great secret, Rita, but you must promise you will never tell it to any one."

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

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

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

"Oh, it must be, Dic," cried the girl, delightedly. "To think that you will be a lawyer. I have always known that you would some day be a great man. 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 is possible for you—even the presidency, and I'll help you. I will not be a millstone, Dic. I'll help you. We'll work together—and you'll see I'll help you."

Accordingly, she began to help him at once by putting her arm coaxingly over his shoulder, and saying:—

"But if you are going to do all this you should not waste your time leading 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, drawing away from him with an injured air, whereupon Dic, of course, vowed that he 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 to answer, and he undertook it very lamely.

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

"No, I don't know, Dic. Why are you so mysterious? What others—who—oh!" And she hid her face upon his breast, while her arms stole gently about his neck.

"You see," remarked Dic, speaking softly to the black waves of lustrous hair, "I must take Iago's advice and put money in my purse. I have always hoped to be something more than I am. Billy Little, who has been almost a father to me, has burned the ambition into me. But with all my yearning, life has never held a real purpose compared with that I now have in you. The desire for fame, Rita, the throbbing of ambition, the lust for gold and dominion, are considered by the world to be the great motives of human action. But, Rita, they are all simply means to one end. There is but one great purpose in life, and that is furnished to a man by the woman he loves. Billy Little gave me the thought. It is not mine. 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 New York?" continued Miss Persistency.

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

"We'll discuss it at another time," he answered evasively, as he tried to turn her face up toward him. But her face would not be turned, and while 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. If you do not, I shall not like you, and you shall not—" She did not finish the sentence, and Dic asked gently:—

"I shall not—what, Rita?"

"Anything," came the enlightening response from the face hidden on his breast. "Besides, you will break my heart, and if you go, I'll know you don't care for me. I'll know you have been deceiving me." Then the face came up, and the great brown eyes looked pleadingly into his. "Dic, I've leaned on you so long—ever since I was a child—that I have no strength of my own; but now that I have given myself up to you, I—I cannot stand alone, even for a day. If you go away from me now, it will break my heart. I tell you it will."

Dic felt her tears upon his hand, and soon he heard soft sobs and felt their gentle convulsions within her breast. Of course the result was inevitable; the combatants were so unevenly matched. Woman's tears are the most potent resolvent know to chemistry. They will dissolve rocks of resolution, and Dic's resolutions, while big with intent, were small in flintiness, though he had thought well of them at the time they were formed. He could not endure the pain inflicted by Rita's tears. He had not 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 any rate, the girl being so young, they were not deliberately intended to be useful. 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 getting away entirely from the theory of utility. With evident intent to crowd the battle upon a wavering foe, the tears came fast and furious.

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

Next morning Dic went to see Billy Little and told him he had come to have a talk. Billy locked the store door and the friends repaired to the river. There they found a shady resting-place, and Billy, lighting his pipe, 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 for unmixed good. If I did, I should not find it except once in a while in a woman. What have you been doing? Go on." Billy leaned forward on his elbows, placed the points of his fingers together, and, while waiting for Dic to begin, hummed his favorite stanza concerning the braes of Maxwelton.

"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 and looked 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. You might 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 hoped that winter would hold a little longer, and that I might get you off to New York before spring's arrival."

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

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

"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 for her, that you were breaking her heart, and wouldn't let you kiss her till you gave her your promise. Oh, bless your soul, I know exactly how it came about. Maxwelton's braes are um, um, um, um, yes, yes."

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

"Of course I have not seen her. How could I? It all happened last night after 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 the store. You've told me all I want to know; but I don't blame you much after all. You couldn't help it. No man could. But you'll die plowing corn. 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 it permitted our race to progress beyond the pastoral age. Stick to your ploughing, Dic. It's good, wholesome exercise, and Rita will furnish everything else needful to your happiness."

They walked silently back to the store. Dic, uninvited, entered and sat down on a box. Billy distributed the morning mail and hummed Maxwelton Braes. Then he arranged goods on the counter. Dic followed the little old fellow with his eyes, but neither spoke. The younger man was waiting for his friend to speak, and the friend was silent because he did not feel like talking. He loved Dic and Rita with passionate tenderness. He had almost brought them up from infancy, and all that was best in them bore the stamp of his personality. Between him and Dic there was a feeling near akin to that of father and son, but unfortunately Rita was not a boy. Still more unfortunately the last year had added to her already great beauty a magnetism that was almost mesmeric in its effect. There had also been a ripening in the sweet tenderness of her gentle manner, and if you will remember the bachelor heart of which I have spoken, you will understand that poor Billy Little couldn't help it at all, at all. God knows he would have helped it. The fault lay in the girl's winsomeness; and if Billy's desire to send Dic off to New York was 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 the most boyish act in the world is to fall in love. Billy had never misunderstood Rita's tenderness and love for him. There was no designing coquetry in the girl. She had always since babyhood loved him, perhaps better even than she loved her parents, and she delighted to show him her affection. Billy had never been deceived by her preference, and of course was careful that she should not observe the real quality of his own regard for her. But the girl's love, such as she gave, was sweet to him—oh, so sweet, this love of this perfect girl—and he, even he, old and gray though he was, could not help longing for that which he knew was as far beyond his reach as the bending rainbow is beyond the hand of a longing child. He was more than fifty in years, but his heart was young, and we, of course, all agree that he was very foolish indeed—which truth he knew quite as well as we.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Billy's bachelor apartment—or apartments, as he called his single room—was back of the store. There were his bed,—a huge, mahogany four-poster,—his library, his bath-tub, a half-dozen good pictures in oil and copper-plate, a pair of old fencing foils,—relics of his university days,—a piano, and a score of pipes. Under the bed was a flat leather trunk, and on the floor a rich, though worn, velvet carpet. Three or four miniatures on ivory rested on the rude mantel-shelf, and in the middle of the room stood a mahogany table covered with Blackwood's Magazines, pamphlets, letters, and books. In the midst of this confusion on the table stood a pair of magnificent gold candlesticks, each holding a half-burned candle, and over all was a mantle of dust that would have driven a woman mad. Certainly the contents of Billy's "apartments" was an incongruous collection to find in 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 for a bit. If Mrs. Hawkins comes in, give her this bottle of calomel and this bundle of goods. The calomel is a fippenny bit; the goods is four shillin', but I don't suppose she'll want to pay for them. Don't take coonskins. 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 the customer is poor and has no money, but I draw the line on coonskins. The Hawkinses always have coonskins. I believe they breed coons, but they can't trade their odoriferous pelts to me. If she has them, tell her to take 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's the calomel and the goods. Get the cash or charge them. There's a letter in the C box for Seal Coble. Give it to Mrs. Hawkins, and tell her to hand it to Seal as she drives past his house. Tell her to read it to the old man. He doesn't know a from x. I doubt if Mrs. Hawkins does. But you can tell her to read it—it will flatter her. I'll return when I'm ready. Meantime, I don't want to be disturbed by any one. Understand?"

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

Billy sat down in the arm-chair, leaned his head backward, and looked at the ceiling for a few minutes; then, resting his elbows on his knees, he buried 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 of letters, two teakwood boxes, ten or twelve inches square and three or four inches deep, beautifully mounted in gold, and a dozen books neatly wrapped in tissue paper, made up the contents. These articles seemed to tell of a woman back somewhere in Billy's life; and if they spoke the truth, there must have been grief along with her for Billy. For although he was created capable of great joy, by the same token he could also suffer the deepest grief.

Out of the trunk came one of the gold-mounted boxes, and out of the box came a package of letters neatly tied with a faded ribbon. Billy lifted the package to his face and inhaled the faint odor of lavender given forth; then he—yes, even he, Billy Little, quaint old cynic, pressed the dainty bundle to his lips and breathed a sigh of mingled sorrow and relief.

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

He opened the package, and, after carefully reading the letters, bound them again with the ribbon, and took from the box a small ivory jewel case, an inch cube in size. From the ivory box he took a heavy plain gold ring and went over to the chair, where he sat in bachelor meditation, 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 a few minutes, called Dic back to him, and said:—

"You are going to have one of the sweetest, best girls in all the world for your wife," said he. "You are lucky, Dic, but she is luckier. When you first told me of—of what happened last night, I was disappointed because I saw your career simply knocked end over end. No man, having as sweet a wife as Rita, ever amounted to anything, unless she happened to be ambitious, and Rita has no more ambition than a spring violet. Such a woman, unless she is ambitious, takes all the ambition out of a man. She becomes sufficient for him. She absorbs his aspirations, and gives him in exchange nothing but contentment. Of course, if she is ambitious and sighs for a crown for him, she is apt to lead him to it. But Rita knows how to do but one thing well—first conjugation, present infinitive, amare. She knows all about that, and she will bring you mere happiness—nothing else. By Jove, I'm sorry for you. You'll only be happy."

"But, Billy Little," cried Dic, "you have it wrong. Don't you see that she will be an inspiration? She will fire me. I will work and achieve greater things for her sake than I could possibly accomplish without her."

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

"Well, you know, that was her first request, and—and, you must understand—"

"Yes, I understand. I know she will coax you out of leaving her side long enough to plow a corn row if you are not careful. There'll be happy times 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 if she wanted it, before you knew you had a face. It's their God-given privilege to coax; but bless your soul, Dic, what a poor world this would 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 very pleasant."

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

"No," responded Dic, "I can't afford one now, and Rita doesn't expect it. 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 for that—but she shan't wait. I have one here," said Billy, drawing forth the ivory box. "I value it above all my possessions." His voice broke piteously. "It is more precious to me ... than words can ... tell or ... money can buy. It brought me ... my first great joy ... my first great grief. I give it to you, Dic, that you may give it to Rita. Egad! I believe 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, I say, don't thank me. Get out of here, you young scoundrel; to come in here and take my ring away from me! Jove! I'll have the law on you, the law! Good-by."

"I fear I should not have given them the ring," mused Billy when Dic had gone.... "It might prove unlucky.... It came back to me because she was forced to marry another.... I wonder if it will come back to Dic? Nonsense! It is impossible.... Nothing can come between them.... But it was a fatal ring for me.... I am almost sorry ... but it can bring no trouble to Dic and Rita ... impossible. But I am almost sorry ... go off, Billy Little; you are growing soft and superstitious ... but it would break her heart. I wonder ... ah! nonsense. Maxwelton's braes are bonny, um, um, um, um, um, um." And Billy first tried to sing his grief away, 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 quite forgot Billy Little, while he anticipated the pleasure he would take in giving the golden token to Rita. He did not intend to be selfish, but selfishness 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, sat on the porch with the family. Twenty-four hours earlier sitting on the porch with the family would have seemed a delightful privilege, and the moments would have been pleasure-winged. But now Mrs. Bays's profound and frequently religious philosophizing was dull compared to what might be said on the log down by the river bank.

Tom, of course, talked a good deal. Among other things he remarked to Dic:—

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

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

"You hope she'll always treat you that-a-way?" asked Tom, derisively. "I bet 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 makes one 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 at all, and therefore made no answer. The demand was then made of Tom, but in 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, and again insisted:—

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

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

"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 thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long'—"

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

"Yes, you do, Tom," answered his mother, meekly. "And this disobedient girl shall mind me, too." Rita had never in all her life disobeyed a command from either father or mother. She was obedient from habit and inclination, and in her guileless, affectionate heart believed that a terrific natural cataclysm of some sort would surely occur should she even think of disobeying.

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

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

Tom said, "Hello, Billy Little," Mr. Bays said, "Howdy," and Mrs. Bays said majestically: "Good evening, Mr. Little. You have come just in time to see the ungratefullest creature the world can produce—a disobedient daughter."

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

Rita's eyes flashed a look of gratitude upon her friend. Dic might not be able to understand the language of those eyes, but Billy knew their vocabulary from the smallest to the greatest word.

"I wouldn't believe it either," said Mrs. Bays, "if I had not just heard her 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 to her own mother, Mr. Little, 'I won't;' said it to her own mother who has toiled and suffered and endured for her sake all her life long; to her own mother who has nursed her and watched over her and tried to do her duty according to the poor light that God has vouchsafed—and—and I've been 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 I may drop any moment." (Billy secretly wished that Kennedy had fixed the moment.) "And when I asked her to tell me what she did last night at the social, she answered, 'I can't and won't.' I should have known better than 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 not want 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, and the 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 is brazen enough to own up to it."

Tom thought the scene very funny and laughed boisterously. Had Tom been scolded, 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: "Now you'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 on the ground, hat in hand.

"Tell me this instant," cried Mrs. Bays, rising from her chair and going over to the girl, who shrank from her in fear. "Tell me, or I'll—I'll—"

"I can't, mother," the girl answered tremblingly. "I can't tell you before 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." Rita began to weep, and answered gently:—

"Yes, mother, I did, but I did not—did not—" A just and injured wrath gathered on the face of Justice.

"Didn't I command you not?"

"I'll tell you all about it, Mrs. Bays," interrupted Dic. "I coaxed her to go in." (Rita's heart thanked him for the lie.) "The others all insisted. One of the boys dragged her to the centre of the room and she just had to go into the game. She only remained a short time, and what Tom 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 the inquisitor.

"The game stopped when she went out—"

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

"Oh, please let me stay," sobbed Rita, but Mrs. Bays pointed to the door and 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 to meddle with my children. I know my duty, and I'll do it. Lord knows I wish I could shirk it as some people do, but I can't. I must do my duty when the Lord is good enough to point it out, or my conscience will smite me. There's many a person with my heart would sit by and let her child just grow up in the wilderness like underbrush; but I must do my duty, Mr. Little, in the humble sphere in which Providence has placed me. 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 and my husband will tell you I live up to it." She looked for confirmation to her spouse, who said regretfully:—

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

"There," cried triumphant Justice. "You see, I don't boast. I despise boasting." She took up her knitting, put on her glasses, closed her lips, 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 to spend the night with you, and if you are going home, I'll walk and lead my 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 I want to—"

"Oh, Dic's no company; he's always here. I don't know where he finds time 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 sure to cause trouble for Rita.

When Billy and Dic went around the house to fetch Billy's horse, Rita was sitting at the window upstairs. She smiled through her tears and tossed a note to Dic, which he deciphered by the light of the moon. It was 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 and Bright's.

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

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

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

"What will you do, Dic?" asked Billy. "Such a woman is utterly unmanageable. You see, the trouble is, that she believes in herself and is honest by a species of artificial sincerity. Show me a stern, hard woman who is bent on doing her duty, her whole duty, and nothing but her duty, 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. Billy Little, I want to thank you—you must let me tell you what I think, or I'll burst."

"Burst, then," returned Billy. "I'd rather be kicked than thanked. I knew how Rita and you would feel, or I should not have given you the ring. Do you suppose I would have parted with it because of a small motive? 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 Billy Little humming under his breath, "Maxwelton's braes are bonny." Dic soon joined in the sweet refrain, and, each encouraging the other, they swelled their voices and allowed the tender melody to pour forth. I can almost see them as they walked up the river path, now in the black shadow of the forest, and again near the gurgling water's edge, in the yellow light of the moon. The warm, delicious air was laden with the odor of trees and sweetbrier, and to the song the breath of the south wind played an accompaniment of exquisite cadence upon the leaves. I seem to hear them singing,—Billy's piping treble, plaintive, quaint, and almost sweet, carrying the tenor to Dic's bass. There was no soprano. The concert was all tenor and bass, south wind, and rustling leaves. The song helped Dic to express his happiness, and enabled Billy to throw off the remnants of his heartache. Music is a surer antidote to disappointment, past, present, and future, than the philosophy of all the Stoics that ever lived; and if all who know the truth of that statement were to read these pages, Billy Little would have many millions of sympathizers.

Dic did not neglect Rita's note, but read it many times after he had lighted the candle in the loft where he and Billy were to sleep. Long after Billy had gone to bed Dic sat up, thinking of Rita, and anon replenishing 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 the candle. It's filling the room with bugs. Here is a straddle-bug of some sort that's been trying to saw my foot off."

"In a moment, Billy Little," answered Dic. The moment stretched into many minutes, until Billy, growing restive, threw his shoe at the candle and felled it in darkness to the floor. Dic laughed and went to bed, and Billy fell into so great a fit of laughter that he could hardly check it. 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 by half-past two, and five minutes later Rita appeared. The step-off was at a deep bend in the river where the low-hanging water-elm, the redbud, and the dogwood, springing in vast luxuriance from the rich bottom soil, were covered by a thick foliage of wild grape-vines.

"The river path," used only as a "horse road" and by pedestrians, left the river at the upper bend, crossing the narrow peninsula formed by the winding stream, and did not intrude upon the shady nook of raised ground at 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 side of the river. This path was little used, save by hunters, the west side of the river being government land, and at that time a vast stretch of unbroken forest. Rita had chosen the step-off for her trysting-place because of its seclusion, and partly, perhaps, for the sake of its beauty. She and Dic could be seen only from the opposite side of the river, 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 be nothing she would wish to conceal in meeting Dic; but the instinct of all animate nature is to do its love-making in secret.

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

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

"Isn't it wonderful, Dic?" said the girl, looking up to him with a childish wistfulness of expression that would always remain in her eyes. "Isn't it wonderful that this good fortune has come to me? I can hardly realize 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 is the richest present on earth."

"Ah, but you are so generous that you take me. I cannot understand it all yet; I suppose I shall in time. But what have you brought that will make 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, very honestly. Rita knew no other way of doing anything, and never so much as thought 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 not look till Dic should say "open." "Open" was said, and the girl exclaimed:—

"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 than a child in years, and I know you will love Dic better because within his man's heart was still the heart of his childhood. The great oak of the forest year by year takes on its encircling layer of wood, but the layers of a century still enclose the heart of a sprig that burst forth upon a spring morning from its mother acorn.

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

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

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

"But you give it to me," she said. "It was really yours, and you give it to me. I am almost glad it comes from Billy Little. He has been so much to me. You are by nature different from other men, but the best difference we owe to Billy Little." The pronoun "we" was significant. It meant that she also was Billy Little's debtor for the good he had brought 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 he possessed, and told me it had brought him his sweetest joy and his bitterest grief. I think he gave it to a sweetheart long years ago, and she was compelled to return it and to marry another man. I am only guessing. I don't know."

"Perhaps we had better not keep it," returned the girl, with a touch of her forest-life superstition. "It might bring the same fate to us. I could not bear it, Dic, now. I should die. Before you spoke to me—before that night of Scott's social—it would have been hard enough for me to—to—but now, Dic, I couldn't bear to lose you, nor to marry another. 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 his sweetheart"—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 was beginning to comprehend, said a great deal more than can be expressed in mere words.

"Then what save death can separate us?" asked Dic. "We would offend Billy 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 she glanced 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 the opposite side of the river.

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

Dic and Rita looked up quickly and saw the huge figure of Doug Hill standing on the opposite bank with a gun over his shoulder and a bottle of whiskey in his uplifted hand. By his side was his henchman, Patsy Clark. The situation was a trying one for Dic. He could not fight the ruffian 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 worthy Nimrod passed up the river. Dic and Rita were greatly frightened, and when Doug passed out of sight into the forest they started home. They soon reached the path and were walking slowly down toward Bays's, when they were again startled by the disagreeable voice of the Douglas. This time the voice came from immediately back of them, and Dic placed himself behind Rita.

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



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

"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 gun against a tree, stepped quickly past Dic, and seized Rita around the waist. He was drawing her head backward to help himself when Dic knocked him down. Patsy Clark then sprang upon Dic, and, in imitation of his chief, fell to the ground. Doug and Patsy at once rose to their feet and rushed toward Dic. Rita screamed, as of course any right-minded woman would have done, and, clasping her hands in terror, looked on fascinated and 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. Though tall and strong, Dic was by no means the equal of Doug in the matter of bulk, and in a grappling match Doug could soon have killed him. Dic fully understood this, and, being more active than his huge foe, endeavored to keep him at arm's length. In this he was successful for a time; but at last the grapple came, and both men fell to the ground—Doug Hill on top. Poor Rita was in a frenzy of terror. She could not even scream. She could only press her hands to her heart and look. When Dic and Doug fell to the ground, Patsy Clark, believing himself safe, rose to a sitting posture, and Doug cried out to him:—

"Give me your knife, Patsy, give me your knife." Patsy at once responded by placing his hunting-knife in Doug's left hand. Dic saw his imminent danger and with his right hand clasped Doug's left wrist in a grasp that could not be loosened. After several futile attempts to free his wrist, Doug tossed the knife over to his right side. It fell a few inches beyond his reach, and he tried to grasp it. Rita saw that very soon he would reach the knife, and Dic's peril brought back her presence of mind. Doug put forth terrific efforts to reach the knife, and, despite Dic's resistance, soon had it in his grasp. In getting the knife, however, Doug gave Dic an opportunity to throw him off, and he did so, quickly springing to his feet. Doug was on his feet in a twinkling, and rushed upon Dic with uplifted knife. Dic knew that he could not withstand the rush, and thought his hour had come; but the sharp crack of a rifle broke the forest silence, and the knife fell from Doug's nerveless hand, his knees shook under him, his form quivered spasmodically for a moment, and he plunged forward on his face. Dic turned and saw Rita standing back of him, holding Doug's rifle to her shoulder, a tiny curl of blue smoke issuing from the barrel. The girl's face turned pale, the gun fell from her hands, her eyes closed, and she would have fallen had not Dic caught her in his arms. He did not so much as glance at Doug, but at once carried the unconscious Rita home with all the speed he could make.

"Now for goodness' sake, what has she been doing?" cried Mrs. Bays, as Dic entered the front door with his almost lifeless burden. "That girl will 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 frenzy of grief that bore a touch of jealousy. In health and happiness Rita for her own good must bow beneath the rod; but in sickness or in death Rita was her child, and no strange hand should minister to her. A blessed philosopher's stone had for once transmuted her hard, barren sense of justice to glowing love. She carried the girl into the house and applied restoratives. After a little time Rita breathed a sigh and opened her eyes. Her first word was "Dic!"

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

"What is that?" she asked sternly.

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

"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 few moments before, though he did not fear the apostle of justice and duty as 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 was eighteen, when she could legally choose for herself. Out of his confidence came calmness, and he asked,

"Why shall not Rita be my wife? She shall want for nothing, and I will try 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 a sufficient 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 and base intent to flatter. "No man or woman has ever had injustice at your hands, and I, who am almost your son, ask that justice which you would not refuse to the meanest person on Blue."

The attack was unfair. Is it ever fair to gain our point by flattering another's weakness? Dic's statement of the case was hard to evade, so Mrs. Margarita answered:—

"The girl's too young to marry. I'll never consent. I'll have nothing of the 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 Rita to faint?"

Rita hung her head and began to weep convulsively.

"Rita and I," answered Dic, "were walking home down the river path. We had been sitting near the step-off. Doug Hill and Patsy Clark came up behind us, and Doug tried to kiss Rita. I interfered, and we fought. He was about to kill me with Patsy's hunting-knife when—when—when I shot him. Then Rita fainted, and I feared she was dead, so I brought her home and 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 of it, but I was the cause, and I shall take the blame. You had better not speak of this matter to any one till we have consulted Billy Little. I can bear the blame much better than Rita can. When the trial comes, you and 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 is best, and if you will do as we direct, all may turn out better than we now hope. He was about to kill me, and I had a right to kill him. I do not know the law certainly, but I fear you had no right to kill him in my defence. I have read in the law books that a man may take another's life in the defence of one whom he is bound to protect. I fear you had no 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 take one 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 ride up with us."

Five minutes later, Dic, Kennedy, and Billy Little were galloping furiously 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 shirt had been torn away, and Patsy was washing the bullet wound in the breast and 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'll see 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 upon the 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, but Rita had not. At any rate, don't you know that they might as well kill Rita at once as to try her? She couldn't live through a trial for murder. It would kill her or drive her insane. I'll plead guilty. That will stop all questioning."

"Yes," replied Billy, deep in revery, and stroking his chin; "perhaps you are right. But how about Hill and Clark? They will testify that Rita did 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 mere unexplained 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 speak your 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't enter a plea of guilty. You must be tried. I believe I have a plan that may 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 am good for something, I hope."

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

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

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

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

"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 and s-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 are wrong, and—by the way, Patsy, I want you to do a few little odd jobs about 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 come down to the store, I will pay you twenty dollars wages in advance, and later on I will give you another twenty. You are a good fellow, and I want to help you; but I am sure you are wrong in this case. I know it was 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. Damned if 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 at first, that Rita fired the shot?"

"Sa-sa-say, B-Billy Little, you couldn't make it another t-t-twenty later 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 crazy drunk and ha-ha-half blind with blood where Dic knocked him, and he didn'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 trust Patsy? I-I'm not as big a f-fool as I look. I-I let p-people think I'm a fool because when p-people think you're a f-fool, it's lots easier t-t-to work 'em. See?"

* * * * *

Billy left Doug hovering between life and death, and hurried back to Dic. "Patsy says you took the gun from where it was leaning against the tree and shot Hill. I suppose he doesn't know exactly how it did happen. I told him you said that was the way of it, and he assents. He says Doug doesn't know who fired the shot. We shall be able to leave Rita entirely out of the case, and you may, with perfect safety, enter a plea 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 into mutterings: "Billy Little, you are coming to great things. A briber, a suborner of perjury, a liar. I expect soon to hear of you stealing. Burglary is a profitable and honorable occupation. Go it, Billy Little.—And for this you came like a wise man out of the East to leaven the loaf of the West—all for the sake of a girl, a mere child, whom you are foolish enough to—nonsense—and for the sake of the man she is to marry." Then the grief of his life seemed to come back to him in a flood, and he continued almost bitterly: "I don't believe I have led an evil life. I don't want to feel like a Pharisee; but I don't recollect having injured any man or woman in the whole course of my miserable existence, yet I have missed all that is best in life. Even when I have not suffered, my life has been a pale, tasteless blank with nothing but a little poor music and worse philosophy to break the monotony. The little pleasure I have had from any source has been enjoyed alone, and no 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, and this is one of the times. Billy Little, you must be suffering for the sins of an ancestor. I wonder what he did, damn him."

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

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



THE TRIAL

CHAPTER VII

THE TRIAL

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

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

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

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

Patsy and Doug had each done a great deal of talking, and time and again had asserted that Dic had deliberately shot Doug Hill after the fight was over. Mr. Switzer's only hope seemed to be to clear Dic on cross-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, she will carry the lie through to the end without faltering. Every instinct of her nature comes to her help; but a man sooner or later bungles a lie if you make him angry and keep at him."

Doug was the first witness called. He testified that after the fight was over Dic snatched up the gun and said, "I'm going to kill you;" that he then fired the shot, and that afterward Doug remembered nothing. The story, being simple, was easily maintained, and Mr. Switzer's cross-examination failed to weaken the evidence. Should Patsy Clark cling 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, and in 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's departure Rita saddled her horse and rode after him. Mrs. Bays forbade her going, but for the first time in her life the girl sullenly refused to 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 at or near the hour of three o'clock P.M.?"

Answer.—"Don't know the day, b-but if you mean the d-day Doug and D-Dic had their fight, I-I was up on B-Blue about halfway b-between Dic Bright'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 take place, in the presence of the defendant Dic Bright, during that fight."

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

"We'll get the truth out of this fellow on cross-examination," whispered Mr. 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 when we seed—"

State's Attorney.—"Never mind what you saw at that time. Answer my question. 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 a minute 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 the h-h-whole world, on the op-opposite side of the river, and he wa-wa-was a-kissin' her."

State's Attorney.—"Never mind that, but go ahead. Tell it your own way."

"I object," interposed Mr. Switzer. "The witness must confine himself to the 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-he wa-wa-wanted one hisself and would g-g-go over after it."

State's Attorney.—"Did you not understand my question? What did you see and hear? What occurred during the fight?"

Answer.—"Well, g-good L-L-Lord! a-ain't I tryin' to t-tell ye? When we crossed the river and g-got to the step-off, Rita and D-Dic had went away and D-Doug and me st-started after 'em down the path toward B-Bays's. When we g-got up t-to 'em D-Doug he says, says 'ee, 'I-I've come 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-he puts 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 him d-down. Then D-Doug he-he gets up quick-like and they clinches and falls, and D-Doug on top. Then Doug he-he says, says 'ee to me, 'G-Give me your n-knife, Patsy,' jes' that-a-way, and I ups and gives him my knife, but he d-drops it and some way D-Dic he throws Doug o-off and gets 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 him right through. He-he trembled-like for a minute and his knees shuk and he shivered all over and turned white about the mouth like he was awful sick, and then he d-dropped on his face, shot through and through."

The confusion in the courtroom had been growing since the beginning of Patsy'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 Bays fired 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 I mean to say."

State's Attorney.—"Now, Mr. Clark, I'll ask you if you did not tell me and many other citizens of this community that the defendant, Dic Bright, fired the shot?"

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

"You are right, Mr. Switzer," answered the Court, "unless on the ground of surprise; but I overrule your objection. Proceed, Mr. State's Attorney."

"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 the one you have just made?"

Answer.—"Don't try to re-re-re-reconcile 'em. Can't. I-I wa-wa-was talkin' 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 charge against me."

"Your plea will not be accepted," answered the Court. "I am beginning to see 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 and returned with her to the courtroom. She was directed to take the witness stand, which she did as calmly as if she were taking a seat at her father'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 the ground that she could not be compelled to give evidence that would incriminate herself. The judge admitted the validity of Mr. Switzer's objection; but after a moment spent in private consultation with the State's attorney, he said:—

"The State and the Court pledge themselves that no prosecution will be instituted against Miss Bays in case her answers disclose the fact that she 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 will be blessed of God."

Rita blushed and looked toward Dic, as if to say, "You hear what the judge says?" But Dic had heard, and thought the judge wise and excellent to 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 did not seem to be happy; for he, beyond a doubt, was crying, though he said he had a bad cold and that colds always made his eyes water. He started to 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 the courthouse door, the high court of the Chief Justice seized its daughter and whisked her off without so much as giving her an opportunity to say a word of farewell. Rita looked back to Dic, but she was in the hands of the high court, which was a tribunal differing widely from the nisi prius organization she had just left, and by no means to be trifled with.