"You have not promised him?" asked Dic in alarm.

"Indeed, I have not, and I never shall. He has tried, with mother's help, to force himself upon me, and I have been frightened almost to death for fear he would succeed. Oh, take me now, Dic. Take me at once and save me from him."

"I would, Rita, but you are not yet eighteen, and we must have the consent of your parents before we can marry. That, you know, your mother would refuse. When you are eighteen—but that will be almost a year from now—I will take you home with me. Do not fear. Give me your love, and trust to me for the rest."

"Now I feel safe," she cried, snatching up Dic's hand. "You are stronger than mother. I saw that the evening before you left, when we were all on the porch and you spoke up so bravely to her. You will meet her face to face and beat down her will. I can't do it. I become helpless when she attacks me. I am miserably weak. I sometimes hate myself and fear I should not marry you. I know I shall not be able to make you a good wife."

Dic expressed an entire willingness to take the risk. "But why did you accept a ring from him?"

"I did not," responded Rita, with wide-open eyes. "He offered me a diamond when he asked me to—to—but I refused it. I gave him back his watch, too; but mother does not know I did. She would be angry. She thinks 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 you that—that lie? I don't like to use the word, but, Dic, she lied. She once saw your ring upon my finger, before I could hide it from her, but I did not tell her who had given it to me. I told her nothing. I don't believe 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." After she had spoken, a shadowy little cloud came upon her face. "You were over to see Sukey Christmas night," she said, looking very straight into the 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.—the Boston 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 of the spirit she had shown, "I just flew at him savagely. Oh, I can be fierce 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 proudly upon the fact of her successful retreat to bed, and meekly telling of what she called her jealousy and wickedness. She had asked forgiveness of God, and now she would ask it of Dic, evidently believing that if God and Dic would forgive her wicked jealousy, no one else had any right to complain. She was justly proud of the manner in which she had accomplished the retreat movement, and really felt that she was becoming dare-devilish to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled by an undutiful daughter.

"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 are the one perfect human being in all the world—and it is useless for me to try to tell you how much you are to me. When I am alone, I am better able to realize what I feel, but I cannot speak it."

"Oh, Dic, is it really true?" asked the girl. "Neither can I tell how—how—" but those emotions which cannot be spoken in words, owing to the poverty of our language, must be expressed otherwise. God or Satan taught the proper method to Adam and Eve, and it has come down to us by patristic succession, so that we have it to-day in all its pristine glory and expressiveness. Some have spoken against the time-honored custom, and claim to mark its decadence. Connecticut forbade it by law on Sundays, and frowned upon it "Fridays, Saturdays, and all"; but when it dies, the Lord will whitewash this old earth and let it out as a moon to shine upon happier worlds where the custom still lives.

Rita and Dic did not disturb Mrs. Bays, and she, unconscious of his presence, did not disturb them until Mr. Bays returned.

When Mrs. Bays learned that Dic had been in the kitchen an hour, she felt that the highest attribute of the human mind had been grossly outraged. But her husband was about to ask a favor of Dic, and she limited her expression of dissent to an exhibition of frigid, virtuous dignity, worthy of the king's bench, or Judge Anselm Fisher himself.

When Bays came home, Dic and Rita went into the front room and took their old places on the ciphering log. Mr. and Mrs. Bays sat on the hearth before the fire. Mrs. Bays brought a chair and indicated by a gesture that Rita should occupy it; but with Dic by her side that young lady was brave and did not observe her mother's mute commands. Amid the press of other matters in the kitchen, Rita had not remembered to warn Dic not to lend her father the money. When that fluttering heart of hers was in great trouble or joy, it was apt to be a forgetful little organ, and regret in this instance followed forgetfulness. The regret came after she was seated with Dic on the hearth log, and, being in her mother's presence, dared not speak.

Mr. Bays was genuinely glad to see Dic, and listened with delight to the narrative of his trip. When an opportunity arose, Tom, Sr., said:—

"I have a fine opportunity to go into business with Jim Fisher. I want to borrow three thousand dollars, and I wonder if you will be willing to lend me your money?"

"Yes," answered Dic, eagerly, "I am glad to lend it to you." He welcomed the proposition as a blind man would welcome light. He was glad to help his lifelong friend; but over and above that motive Mr. Bays's request for money seemed to mean Rita. It certainly could mean nothing else; and if the family moved to Indianapolis, it would mean Rita in the cosey log-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 winter and cool in summer; but the beautiful girl would transmute the log walls to jasper, the hewed floors to beaten gold, and would create a paradise on the banks of Blue. The thought almost made him dizzy. He had never before 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, as you choose."

Rita, unable to repress her desire to speak, exclaimed: "Oh, Dic, please don't," but Mrs. Bays gazed sternly over her glasses at her daughter and suppressed the presumptuous, forward girl. The old lady, seeing Dic's eagerness to lend the money, seized the opportunity to lessen her obligation in the transaction and to make it appear that she was conferring a favor upon Dic. If she and Mr. Bays would condescend to borrow his money, she determined that Dic should fully appreciate the honor they were doing him. Therefore, after a formulative pause, she spoke to her daughter:—

"Mind your own affairs. Girls should be seen and not heard. Some girls are seen altogether too much. Your father and Dic will arrange this affair between themselves without your help. It is purely an affair of business. Dic, of course, wishes to invest his money; and if your father, after due consideration, is willing to help him, I am sure he should feel obliged to us, and no doubt he will. He would be an ungrateful person indeed if he did not. I am sure your father's note is as good as the bank. He pays his just debts. He is my husband and could not do otherwise. No man lives who has not at all times received his dues 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 same way. His maxim was, 'Justice to all and confusion to sinners.' He died beholden to no man. Neither have I ever been beholden to any one. Dic is fortunate, indeed, in finding so good an investment for his money, at interest; very fortunate indeed."

"I don't want interest," said the too eager Dic.

"Indeed, that is generous in you," returned Mrs. Bays, though she was determined that Dic should not succeed in casting the burden of an obligation upon her shoulders. "But of course you know your money will be safe, and that is a great deal in these days of weak banks and robbers. If I were in Mr. Bays's place, I should pause and consider the matter carefully and prayerfully before assuming responsibility for anybody's money. If it should be stolen from him, he, and not you, would lose it. I think it is very kind in him to undertake the responsibility."

That phase of the question slightly dimmed its rosiness; but Dic still hoped that lending the money would make smoother his path to Rita. At first he had not foreseen that he, and not the Bayses, would rest under an 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's loan and was thankful, despite the good wife's effort to convince him he was conferring a favor. Her remarks had been much more convincing to Dic than to her husband. The latter could not entirely throw off the feeling that 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 money until it was needed by her husband.

"He certainly would not ask us to be responsible for his money till we can use it," she observed, in an injured tone, to her daughter. One would have supposed from her attitude that an imposition was being put upon her, though she, herself, being accustomed to bear the burdens of others, would bow her neck beneath this yoke and accept the responsibility of Dic's money. She not only convinced herself that such was the proper view to take of the transaction, but succeeded fairly well in impressing even Rita with that belief. Such an achievement required generalship of the highest order; but Mrs. Bays possessed that rare quality to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled.

The loan was to bear no interest, Dic hoping to heighten the sense of obligation in Mr. Bays. He succeeded; but of course the important member of the family still felt that Dic was beholden to her. She could not, however, with either safety or justice, exclude from her house the man who was to lend the much-needed money. While she realized the great favor she was conferring on Dic, and fully understood the nature of the burden she was taking upon herself solely for his sake, she had no thought of shrinking from her duty;—not she. The money had not been delivered, and Dic, if offended, might change his mind and foolishly refuse her sacrifice. It might not be entirely safe to presume too largely upon his sense of obligation—some persons are devoid of gratitude—until the money was in hand. For these reasons Dic was tolerated, and during the next ten days spent his evenings with Rita, though mother and father Bays did not migrate to the kitchen, in accordance with well-established usage on Blue, and as they had done when Williams came a-wooing. Dic cared little for the infringement, and felt that old times had come again. Rita, growing bold, braved her mother's wrath, and continued each evening to give him a moment of his own. 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 the kitchen, whence she, of course, was afraid to fetch them alone. The most guileless heart will grow adroit under certain well-known conditions; and even Rita, the simplest of girls, easily made opportunities to give Dic these little moments from which she came back rosy, while that lucky young man was far from discontented.

Rita paid each evening for Dic's moment when the door closed on him, and continued payment during the next day till his return. But she considered the moment a great bargain at the price, continued her purchases, and paid the bills on demand to incarnate Justice. The bills were heavy, and had not Rita been encased by an armor of trusty steel, wrought from the links of her happiness, her soft, white form would have been pierced through and through by the tough, ashen shafts of her mother's relentless cruelty.

We are apt to feel pain and suffering comparatively. To one who has experienced a great agony, smaller troubles seem trivial. Rita had experienced her great agony, and her mother's thrusts were but needle pricks compared with it.

* * * * *

Arrangements were quickly made for moving to Indianapolis, and at the end of ten days all was ready for the money to be delivered. Dic again asked for Rita, and Mr. Bays was for delivering the girl at once. His new venture at Indianapolis had stimulated his sense of self-importance, and he insisted, with a temerity never before dared, that Dic, whom he truly loved, should have the daughter whom they each loved. But the Chief Justice would agree to nothing more than an extension of the armistice, and graciously consented that Dic might visit the family at Indianapolis once in a while.

After Dic had agreed to lend the money, he at once notified Billy Little, in whose strong-box it was stored. Dic, in the course of their conversation, expressed to Billy the sense of obligation he felt to the Bayses.

"I declare," vowed Billy, "that old woman is truly great. When she goes to heaven, she will convince St. Peter that she is doing him a favor by entering the pearly gates. Neither will she go in unless everything suits her. There is not another like her. Archimedes said he could lift the world with a lever if he had a fulcrum. Undiluted egotism is the fulcrum. 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 who believes his own lie can lie convincingly. Egad! Dic, it would have been beautiful to see that self-sufficient old harridan attempting to convince you that she was conferring a favor by taking your money. You will probably never see a fippenny bit of it again. And without interest! Jove! I say it was beautiful. Had she wanted your liver, I suppose 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 trip had not effaced all traces of unsophistication.

In those days of weak strong-boxes and numerous box-breakers, men hesitated to assume the responsibility of taking another's gold for safe-keeping. There could be no profit to Billy Little in Dic's gold. He took it to keep for him only because he loved him. The sum total of Billy's wealth, aside from his stock of goods valued at a thousand dollars, consisted of notes, secured by mortgages, amounting to four thousand 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's strong-box with Dic's twenty-six hundred dollars. Each sum of gold was contained in a canvas shot-bag. Of course news of Dic's wealth had spread throughout the town and country, and had furnished many a pleasant hour of conversation among persons with whom topics were scarce.

Late one night Billy Little's slumbers were disturbed by a noise in the store, and his mind at once turned to the gold. He rose quickly, seized his shot-gun, and opened the door leading into the storeroom just in time to see two men climb out through the open window near the post-office boxes. Billy ran to the window and saw the men a hundred yards away. He climbed out and hurried in pursuit, but the men were soon out of sight, and Billy returned shivering to the store. He could see by the dim light from the window that the doors of his strong-box were standing open. There was no need to examine the box. Billy well knew the gold 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 ran through his favorite repertoire, closing the concert with "Annie Laurie." Then he went to bed and slept like an untroubled child till morning.

The safe had been unlocked by means of a false key. There were no visible signs of robbery, and Billy Little determined to tell no one of his loss. The first question that confronted him in the morning was, what should be done about the loss of Dic's gold? That proposition he quickly settled. He went across the road to the inn, got his breakfast, returned to his room, donned his broadcloth coat, made thirty years before in London, took from his strong-box notes to the amount of twenty-six hundred dollars, and left for Indianapolis by the noon stage. At Indianapolis he sold the notes and brought back Dic's gold. This he kept 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 be taken to Indianapolis. Dic had offered to drive one team, and Tom was to drive the other. Mr. Bays had preceded the family by a day or two; but before leaving he and Dic had gone to Billy Little's store for the money. Dic, of course, knew nothing of the robbery. Billy had privately advised his young friend to lend the money payable on demand.

"You should buy a farm when a good opportunity offers," said he. "Land hereabouts will increase in value a hundred per cent in ten years. You should not tie up your money for a long time."

Billy made the same representation to Bays, and that gentleman, eager to get the money on any terms, agreed with him. Little's real, though unspoken, 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 help in winning Rita from the icy dragoness. Therefore, the note was drawn payable on demand. When Mrs. Bays learned that fact, she named over to her spouse succinctly the various species of fool of which he was the composite representative. The satisfaction she felt in unbosoming herself was her only reward, for the note remained collectible on demand.

The weather was very cold, and the snow-covered road would be rough. So it had been determined that Rita and her mother should travel to Indianapolis by the stage coach. But when the wagons were ready to start, at sun-up, Mrs. Bays being in bed, Rita basely deserted that virtuous 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 wagon to save the seven shilling stage fare. She knew she was making a heavy purchase of "moments," and was sure she would be called upon for instant payment that night when she should meet her mother. She was willing to pay the price, whatever it might be, for the chariot of Phoebus would have been a poor, tame conveyance compared with the golden car whereon she rode.

The sun was barely above the horizon, and the crisp, cold air was filled with glittering frost dust when the wagons crossed Blue on the ice at the ford below Bays's barn. The horses' breath came from their nostrils like steam from kettle-spouts, and the tires, screaming on the frozen snow, seemed to laugh for joy. It would have been a sad moment for Rita had she not been with Dic; but with him by her side she did not so much as 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, and he so wrapped and enveloped Rita in a pair of soft bearskin robes that the cold could not come near her. He covered her head, mouth, nose, and cheeks 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 the curtains of the cap under her chin, he received a flashing answer from the eyes that would have warmed him had he been clothed in gossamer and the mercury freezing in the bulb.

If I were to tell you all the plans that were formulated upon that wagon while it jolted and bumped over the frozen ruts of the Michigan road; if I were to write down here all the words of hope and confidence in the fickle future; if I were to tell you of the glances, touches, and words of love that were given and spoken between sun-up and sun-down upon this chariot of the gods—I will say of the blind god—I should never finish writing, 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 forget that 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 on Sundays; a whole week apart! You have never been from me so long since I can remember till you went to New York. I told you trouble would come from that trip; but you will come to me Sundays—by Saturday night's stage?"

"Yes, every Sunday."

"Surely? You will never fail me? I shall die of disappointment if you fail 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 go near her."

"No, I don't ask that. I fear I am very selfish. You will be lonely when I am gone and—and you may go to see Sukey—and—and the other girls once in a while. But you won't go too often to see Sukey and—and you won'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 if I would not let you go at all. I don't entirely trust her, though I am sure I am wrong and wicked to doubt her; but I trust you, and would trust you with any one."

"I, too, trust you, Rita. It will be impossible for you to mistreat Williams, 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 from coming 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 the bearskins to cover her face. But as I said, I cannot tell you all the plans and castles they built, nor shall I try.

The wise man buildeth many castles, but he abideth not therein, lest they crumble about his ears and crush him. Castles built of air often fall of stone. Therefore, only the foolish man keeps revel in the great hall 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 distance before noon. Mr. Bays and Tom received him with open arms. Rita would have done likewise in a more literal sense could she have had him alone for a moment. But you can see her smiles and hear her gentle heart beats, even as Dic saw and heard them. A bunch of cold, bony fingers was given to Dic by Mother Justice. When he arrived Williams was present awaiting dinner, and after Mrs. Bays had given the cold fingers, she said:—

"I suppose we'll have to try to crowd another plate on the table. We didn't expect an extra guest."

Rita endured without complaint her mother's thrusts when she alone received them, but rebelled when Dic was attacked. In the kitchen she told her mother that she would insult Williams if Mrs. Bays again insulted Dic. The girl was so frightened by her own boldness that she trembled, 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 they were almost as effective as heart failure in subduing the insolent, disobedient, ungrateful, sacrilegious, wicked daughter for whom the fond mother had toiled and suffered and endured, lo! these many years.

When Rita and her mother returned to the front room to invite the guests to 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's spirit, and gloried in his exhibition of self-respect. When Mrs. Bays saw 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 the table than she had supposed. But Dic took his hat and started toward the door. 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 you took a meal with us. It will seem like old times again. Put down your hat."

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." I wish 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 eyes took 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 of the wrath to come.

Dinner was a failure. Mrs. Bays thought only of the note payable on demand, and feared that her offensive conduct to Dic might cause its instant maturity. If the note had been in her own hands under similar circumstances, and if she had been in Dic's place, she well knew that serious results would have followed. She judged Dic by herself, and feared she had made a mistake.

There were but two modes of living in peace with this woman—even in semi-peace. Domineer her coldly, selfishly, and cruelly as did Tom, and she would be a worm; or submit to her domineering, be a worm yourself, and she would be a tyrant. Those who insist on domineering others usually have their way. The world is too good-natured and too lazy to combat them. Fight them with their own weapons, and they become an easy prey. Tom was his mother's own son. He domineered her, his father, and Rita; but, like his mother, his domineering was inflicted only upon those whose love for him made them unresisting.

But I have wandered from the dinner. Rita sat by Williams, but she did not eat, and vouchsafed to him only such words as were absolutely necessary to answer direct questions.

Williams was a handsome fellow, and many girls would have been glad to answer his questions volubly. He, like Mrs. Bays, was of a domineering nature, and clung to a purpose once formed with the combative tenacity of a bull-dog or the cringing persistency of a hound. Success in all his undertakings was his object, and he cared little about the means to desired ends. Such a man usually attains his end; among other consummations, 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 her daughter's conduct. "Her actions may seem peculiar to a stranger, but she could only feel for him the affection she might give to a brother."

"Brother!" exclaimed Rita, in accent of contempt, though she did not look up from her plate. The young lady was growing rebellious. Wait for the reckoning, girl! Rita's red flag of rebellion silenced Mrs. Bays for the time being, and she attempted no further explanations.

Poor father Bays could think of nothing but Dic eating dinner at the tavern. Rita trembled in rebellion, and was silent. After a time the general chilliness penetrated even Williams's coat of polish, and only the 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 his mother said:—

"Tom, my son, your words grieved me, and I—"

"Oh, shut up," answered De Triflin'. "Your heart'll bust if you talk too much. Do you want to make Dic sue us for the money we owe him, and throw us out of business? Don't you know we would have to go back to Blue if Dic asked for his money? If you hain't got any sense, you ought to keep your mouth shut."

"Tom, you should be ashamed," said Rita, looking reproachfully at her brother.

"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 to answer 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 go away. He has more pride than—than the other. I suppose Mr. Williams will stay. Tom, if you find an opportunity, I want you to tell Dic to stay—tell him I want him to stay. He must stay with me until Williams goes, even if it is all night. Please do this for me, brother, and I'll do 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 at him. They were at the tavern, and laughed at Dic's country ways."

Tom lied about the Tousy girls. They were splendid girls, and their laughter had not been at Dic's country ways. In fact, the eldest Miss Tousy had asked Tom the name of his handsome friend.

Tom left Rita, and her tears fell unheeded as she finished the after-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 at seeing Dic.

At two o'clock Williams left, and the remainder of the afternoon richly compensated the girl for her earlier troubles. Tom went out, and about four o'clock Mr. Bays went for a walk while Justice was sleeping upstairs. During the father's absence, Dic and Rita had a delightful half hour to themselves, during which her tongue made ample amends for its recent silence, and talked such music to Dic as he had never before heard. She had, during the past ten days, made memoranda of the subjects upon which she wished to speak, fearing, with good reason, that she would forget them all, in the whirl of her joy, if she trusted to memory. So the memoranda were brought from a pocket, and the subjects taken up in turn. To Dic that half hour was well worth the ride to Indianapolis and home again. To her it was worth ten times ten days of waiting, and the morning with its wretched dinner was forgotten.

Mrs. Margarita, stricken by Tom's words, had been thinking all the afternoon of the note payable on demand, and had grown to fear the consequences of her conduct at dinner-time. She had hardly grown out of the feeling that Dic was a boy, but his prompt resentment of her cold reception awakened her to the fact that he might soon become a dangerous man. Rita's show of rebellion also had an ominous look. She was nearing the dangerous age of eighteen and could soon marry whom she chose. Dic might carry her off, despite the watchfulness of open-eyed Justice, and cause trouble with the note her husband had so foolishly given. All these considerations moved Margarita, the elder, to gentleness, and when she came downstairs she said:—

"Dic, I am surprised and deeply hurt. We always treat you without ceremony, as one of the family, and I didn't mean that I didn't want you to 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 in Rita's eyes was more than he could resist, and he remained.

How different was the supper from the dinner! Rita was as talkative as one could ask a girl to be, and Mrs. Bays would have referred to the relative virtues of hearing and seeing girls, had she not been in temporary 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 the genial warmth, unbent to as great a degree as the daughter of Judge Anselm Fisher might with propriety unbend, and was actually pleasant—for her. After supper Dic insisted that Mrs. Bays should go to the front room, and that he should be allowed, as in olden times, when he 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 dishes while 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 large pan, Dic, while Rita's back was turned, poured water over them, and, of course, they all had to be dried again. Rita laughed, and began her task anew.

"Who would have thought," she whispered, shrugging her shoulders, "that washing dishes could be such pleasant work."

Dic acknowledged his previous ignorance on the subject. He was for interrupting the work semi-occasionally, but when the interruptions became too frequent, she would say: "Don't, Dic," and laughingly push him away. She was not miserly. She was simply frugal, and Dic had no good reason to complain. After every dish had been washed and dried many times, 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 you to stay till he goes."

"Very well," responded Dic. "I don't like that sort of thing, but if you wish, 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 cosey ciphering 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 the belligerent forces, in accordance with established custom in all tournaments.

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 could foretell the victor, though any one could easily have pointed out the poor victim. After ten o'clock the conversation was conducted almost entirely by Williams and Dic, with a low monosyllable now and then from Rita when addressed. She, poor girl, was too sleepy to talk, even to Dic. Soon after twelve o'clock the knight from Blue, pitying her, showed signs of surrender; but she at once awoke and mutely gave him to understand that she would hold him craven should he lower his lance point while life lasted. The clock struck one.

The champions had exhausted all modern topics and were beginning on old Rome. Dic wondered what would be the hour when they should reach Greece and Egypt in their backward flight. But after the downfall of Rome, near the hour of two, Sir Roger was unhorsed, and went off to his castle and to bed. Then Rita bade Dic good-by, after exacting from him a solemn promise to return the next Sunday.

Rita thought Dic's victory was a good omen, and drew much comfort from it. She tried to lie awake to nurse her joy, but her eyes were so heavy that she fell asleep in the midst of her prayer.

Dic saddled his horse and started home. The sharp, crisp air was delicious. The starlit sky was a canopy of never ceasing beauty, and the 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 he stabled his horse at home, just as the east was turning gray and the sun-blinded stars were blinking, he said to himself:—

"A fifty-two-mile ride and twenty-four hours of happiness,—anticipation, realization, and memory,—cheap!"

He slept for two or three hours and hunted all day long. Tuesday's stage brought a letter from Rita, and it is needless to speak of its electrifying 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 be despised.

Dic went to town Tuesday evening and sat before Billy Little's fire till ten o'clock, telling our worthy little friend of recent events. They both laughed over the "sitting-out" tournament.

"It begins to look as if you would get her," remarked Billy, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees. He was intensely jealous of Williams, and was eager to help Dic in any manner possible.

"I hope you are right, Billy Little," replied Dic. "When persons agree as 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 have greater 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. One doesn't have to be a Methodist, a Baptist, or a Roman Catholic to be religious. But bless my soul, Dic, I don't want to preach." He leaned forward looking into the fire, took his pipe from his mouth and, as usual, 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 who is near to her. Notwithstanding her mother's cruelty and hypocrisy, Rita loves her passionately and believes she is the best and greatest of women. She stands in fear of her, too, and when the diabolical old fiend quotes Scripture, no matter how irrelevantly, or has heart trouble, the girl loses self-control and would give up her life if her mother wanted it. Rita is a coward, too; but that is a sweet fault in a woman, and I would not have her different in any respect. I believe Mrs. Bays has greater respect for me since I lent the money. I could see the good effect immediately."

"Her respect would not have been so perceptible had you taken a note payable in one or two years. Hold that demand note as a club over the old woman, and perhaps you will get the girl."

"Was that your reason for advising me to take the note payable on demand?" 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 in two years," said Dic.

Billy took a small piece of paper, wrote a line or two, and handed it to Dic, saying:—

"Sign this and deliver it to Williams when you take Bays's note due in two 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. After all, it is a shame that I should take her to my poor log-cabin when she might have a mansion in Boston and all that money can buy. If I were an unselfish man, I should release my claims to her." A silence of several moments ensued, during which Billy drew the leather trunk from under the bed and took a fresh letter from the musty package we have already seen. He drew his chair near to the candle, slipped the letter from its envelope, and slowly read its four pages to himself. After gazing at the fire for several minutes in meditation he said:—

"I received a Christmas gift, Dic. It came from England. I got it this morning. It is the miniature of an old friend. I have not seen or heard from her in thirty years. I also have a letter. If you wish, you may be the 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 deeply interested in all that touches you."

"I believe I know," answered Billy, handing him the letter across the table. 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 that worthy 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 as a gourd. Here is her miniature. I'll not send her mine; she might laugh."

Dic took the picture and saw a sweet, tender face, fringed by white curls, 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 the miniature 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 to come 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 about unselfishly surrendering Rita to Williams. I tell you, Dic, a fool conscience is more to be dreaded than a knavish heart."

"You are always right, Billy Little, though, to tell you the truth, I had no intention whatever of surrendering Rita to any one," returned Dic.

"I know you hadn't. Of course I knew you could not even have spoken about 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 journeyings to Indianapolis. With no abatement in affection, the period of his visits changed from weekly to fortnightly, and then to monthly. Meantime, Williams was adroitly plying his suit; and by convincing Rita that he had abandoned the role of lover for that of friend, he succeeded in regaining her confidence. As agent for his father's products, he had an office at Indianapolis, and large sums of money passed through his hands. He and Tom became great cronies, for it was Williams's intention to leave no stone unturned, the turning of which might assist him in winning Rita. His passion for the girl became almost desperate at times, and her unmistakable coldness added fuel to the flame. He well knew she did not love him; but, like many another mistaken man, he believed he could teach her that great lesson if she were his wife, and could not believe that she entertained either a serious or a lasting sentiment for so inferior a person as Diccon Bright. Williams had invariably found smooth sailing with other young ladies; and head winds in Rita's case caused the harbor to appear fairer than any other for which he had ever trimmed his sails.

Soon after Rita's entrance into Indianapolis society she became popular with the fair sex and admired of the unfair; that condition, in my opinion, being an unusual triumph for any young woman. To that end Williams was of great assistance. A rich, cultured society man of Boston was sure to cut a great figure among the belles and mothers of a small frontier town. The girl whom Williams delighted to honor necessarily assumed importance in the eyes of her sisters. In most cases they would have disliked her secretly in direct ratio to the cube of their outward respect; but Rita was so gentle and her beauty was so exquisite, yet unassertive, that the girl soon numbered among her friends all who knew her. There were the Tousy and the Peasly girls, the Wright girls and the Morrisons, to say nothing of the Smiths, Browns, and Joneses, many of whom were the daughters of cultured parents. If any one nowadays believes that Indianapolis—little spot in the wilderness though it was—lacked refined society during the thirties, he is much mistaken. Servants were scarce, and young ladies of cultured homes might any day be called upon to cook the dinner or the supper, and afterward to "do up" the work; but they could leave the kitchen after preparing a good meal, walk into the parlor and play Beethoven and Mozart with credit to themselves and their instructors, and pleasure to their audience. They could 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 earnestly upon the serious subject of frocks and frills. As to beauty—but that is a benediction granted to all times and places, creating more or less trouble everywhere.

The Tousy girls, having wealth, beauty, and numbers—there were five of them, ranging in years from fifteen to twenty-five—led the social march; and they at once placed the stamp of unqualified approval upon our little country girl from Blue. The eldest of the Tousy brood was, of course, Miss Tousy; then came Sue, Kate, and the others, both of whom, naturally, had names of their own. Miss Tousy will soon make her appearance again in these pages for a short time. Her own romance I should like to tell you some day.

* * * * *

The firm of Fisher and Fox thrived famously during the first few months of their partnership, and that Tom might not be ashamed of Rita when in society, Mrs. Bays consented that she should have some new gowns, hats, and wraps. All this fine raiment pleased Dic for Rita's sake, and troubled him for his own.

The first he saw of the new gowns was on a certain bright Sunday afternoon in spring. Rita's heart had been divided between two desires: she longed to tell Dic in her letters of her beautiful new gowns, but she also wished to surprise him. By a masterful effort she took the latter course, and coming downstairs after dinner upon the Sunday mentioned she burst suddenly upon Dic in all her splendor. Her delight was so intense that she could not close her lips for smiling, and Dic was fairly stunned by her grandeur and beauty. She turned this way and that, directing him to observe the beautiful tints and the fashionable cut 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 joy so long as it should last. Dic agreed with her, and told her with truth that he had never seen a fashion so sweet and winsome. Then he received his reward, after being cautioned not to disturb the bonnet, and they started out for a walk in the sunshine.

Dic's garments were good enough,—he had bought them in New York,—but Rita's outfit made his clothes look poor and rusty. Ever since her residence in Indianapolis he had felt the girl slipping away from him, and this new departure in the matter of dress seemed to be a further departure in the matter of Rita. In that conclusion he was wrong. The girl had been growing nearer to him day by day. Her heart belonged to him more entirely than it had even on the banks of Blue, and she longed for the sycamore divan and the royal canopy of elm. Still, she loved her pretty gowns.

"I am almost afraid of you," said Dic, when he had closed the gate and was taking his place beside her for the walk.

"Why?" asked Rita, delightedly. Her heart was full of the spring and Dic; 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't realize they are mine."

"But they are," she said, flashing up to him a laughing glance from her eyes. "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. "I have 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 afraid of you, and I hope I always shall be. The night of Scott's social I was simply frightened to death, and before that night for a long, long time I was in constant fear of you. I was afraid you would speak of—you know—and I was afraid you would not. I did not know what terrible catastrophe would happen if you did speak, and I did not know what would happen to me if you did not. So you see I have always been afraid of you," 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 and big and masterful; that is what frightens me. Perhaps I enjoy fearing you just a bit."

"But you are so much grander than I," returned Dic, "that you seem to be farther from me than ever before."

"Farther?" she asked in surprise.

"Yes, you seem to be drifting from me ever since you came to Indianapolis," he returned.

"Ah, Dic, I have been feeling just the reverse," and her eyes opened wide as she looked into his without faltering. There was not a thought in all their gentle depths she would not gladly have him know. A short silence ensued, during which she was thinking rapidly, and her thoughts produced these remarkable words:—

"You should have taken me long ago." Dic wondered how he might have taken her; but failing to discover any mistake, he went on:—

"I am going to New York again this spring and,—and you will be past eighteen when I return. You can then marry me without your mother's consent, if you will. Will you go home with me when I return?"

The eyes and the face were bent toward the ground, but the lips whispered distinctly, "Yes, Dic," and that young man bitterly regretted the publicity of their situation.

Soon our strollers met other young persons, and Dic was presented. All were dressed in holiday attire, and the young man from Blue felt that his companion and her friends outshone him completely. Rita was proud of him, and said as much in reply to Dic's remark when they resumed their walk.

"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 can afford it, you might order a long coat for Sunday. Polished shoes would look well, too; but I am satisfied with you as you are. I only suggest these purchases because you seem to feel uncomfortable."

After Rita's suggestion he did feel uncomfortable. He had earned no money since his return from New York, and Rita's fine feathers had been purchased by the proceeds of his twenty-six hundred dollars invested in her father's business. Therefore, hat, coat, and shoes were not within his reach unless he should go into debt, and that he had no thought of doing.

With her husband's increasing prosperity, Mrs. Bays grew ever more distant in her manner toward Dic. Rita, having once learned that rebellion did not result in instant death to her or to her parent, had taken courage, and governed her treatment of Williams by her mother's conduct toward Dic. Therefore Justice, though stern, was never insulting.

After Rita's suggestion bearing upon the coat, Dic, though ardently desiring to see her, dreaded to go to Indianapolis, and at that time his visits became monthly, much to Rita's grief. She complained in her letters, 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 tremendous impression. Returning home from his visits to Sukey, Tom frequently spoke significantly of Dic's visits to that young lady's ciphering log, and Rita winced at her brother's words, but said nothing. Miss Yates probably multiplied the number of Dic's visits by two or more in speaking of them to Tom, having in mind the double purpose of producing an effect upon that young man and also upon his sister. But there was too much truth in her boasting, since our hero certainly submitted himself to Sukey's blandishments and placed himself under the fatal spell of her dimples with an increasing frequency which was to be lamented. Especially was it lamented by Billy Little. Sukey was so perfect a little specimen of the human animal, and her heart was so prone to tenderness, that she became, upon intimate acquaintance, the incarnation of that condition into which the right sort of people pray kind Providence to lead them not. The neighborhood gossips and prophets freely predicted that Rita would marry Williams, in which case it was surmised Miss Yates would carry her dimples into the Bright family. This theory Sukey encouraged by arch glances and shy denials.

Tom had become a great dandy, and considered himself one of the commercial features of the Indiana metropolis. He would have his old home friends, including Sukey, believe that he directed the policy of Fisher and Fox, and that he was also the real business brain in the office of Roger Williams, where he occupied the position of confidential clerk. He was of little real value to Williams, save in the matter of wooing Tom's sister. Tom knew that he held his clerkship only by the tenure of Rita's smiles, and Williams, by employing him, gained an ally not at all to be despised.

On a certain Monday morning, after Rita had the day previous shown marked preference to Dic, Williams said:—

"Tom, father orders me to cut down expenses, and I fear I shall be compelled to begin with your salary. I regret the necessity, but the governor's orders are imperative. We will let it stand as it is for this month and will see what can be done afterward."

This gentle hint was not lost on Thomas. He went home that day to dinner, and Rita felt the heavy hand of her brother's displeasure.

"You are the most selfish, ungrateful girl living," said Tom, who honestly 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 with Williams. 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 that country jake."

"Isn't Dic your friend?" asked Rita.

"No, of course he ain't," replied Tom. "Do you think I'd take him out calling, 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 mistreat Williams on Dic's account, he shan't come into this house. Do you understand? 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 to kick Dic."

"Well, I'll tell you now, Sis," said Tom, threateningly, "you treat Williams right. If you don't, your big, jakey friend will suffer."

"It is on Dic's capital that father is making so much money," responded Rita. "Had it not been for him we would still be on Blue. I certainly wish 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 Williams nearly four times that amount, and he isn't a man who will stand much foolishness. Father is not making so much money, either, as you think for, and the first thing you know, with your smartness, you will ruin him and me both, if you keep on making a fool of yourself. But that wouldn'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. Poor Rita was beginning to feel that she was a monster of selfishness. Her father came feebly to her defence.

"I don't believe the girl lives," said Thomas, Sr., "who is less selfish than Rita. But Fisher and I do owe Williams a great deal of money, and are 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 I hope all the family will treat him well, for he is the kind of man who might take out his spite upon me, for the sake of getting even with somebody else."

Rita's heart sank. Her father, though a weak vassal, had long been her only ally.

Had Williams not been a suitor for her hand, Rita would have found him agreeable; and if her heart had been free, he might have won it. So long as he maintained the attitude of friend and did not conflict with Dic's claims, he was well received; but when he became a lover—a condition difficult to refrain from—she almost hated and greatly feared him. Despite her wretchedness, she accepted his visits and invitations for her father's sake, and at times felt that she was under the spell of a cruel wizard from Boston. With all these conditions, the battle of Dic's wooing, though he held the citadel,—Rita's heart,—was by no means an even fight. There were other causes operating that might eventually rout him, even from that citadel.

One evening, while sitting before Billy Little's fire, Dic's campaign was discussed in detail. The young man said:—

"Rita and I are to be married soon after I return from New York. If her mother consents, well and good; if she refuses, we will bear up manfully under her displeasure and ignore it. I have often thought of your remark about Mrs. Bays as a mother-in-law."

"She certainly would be ideal," responded Billy. "But I hope you will get 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, Billy Little, if I were to lose that girl, I believe I should go mad."

"No, you wouldn't," returned his friend. "You would console yourself with 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 big universe is concentrated in one small bit of humanity. Her little body encompasses it all. Sukey Yates could be nothing to me, even though I cared nothing for Rita. She has too many other friends, as she calls them, and probably is equally generous to all."

"If you care for Rita, you should remain away from Sukey," remarked Billy. "She may be comprehensive in her affections, and she may have been—to state it mildly—overtender at times; but when a girl of her ardent temperament falls in love, she becomes dangerous, because she is really very attractive to the eye."

"I don't go there often, and I'll take your advice and remain away. I have 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, but I'll explain. I have, of course, been unable to explain to Rita, and I'm a selfish brute to go to Sukey's at all. Rita has never complained, but there is always a troubled look in her eyes when she jestingly speaks of Sukey as my 'other girl.' Well, it's this way: Sukey often comes to see mother, who prefers her to Rita, and if she comes in the evening, of course I take her home. I believe I have not deliberately gone over to see her three times in all my life. Sometimes I ride home from church with her and spend part of the evening. Sukey is wonderfully pretty, and her health is so good that at times she looks like a little nymph. She is, in a way, entertaining too. As you say, she appeals to the eye, and when she grows affectionate, her purring and her dimples make a formidable array not at all to be despised. You are right. She is the same to a score of men, and I could not fall in love with her were she the only girl on earth. I should be kicked for speaking so of her or of any 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 with her. 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 the excuse on my part of caring for her. An honest man will not deliberately lead himself into temptation."

Upon the Sunday previous to Dic's intended departure for New York he visited Rita. He had made this New York trip once before, and had returned safely, therefore its terrors for Rita were greatly reduced. Her regret on account of the second expedition was solely because she would be separated from Dic for three or four months, and that bitterness was sweetened by the thought that she would have him always after his return.

"How shall I act while you are away?" she asked. "Shall I continue to receive Mr. Williams, or shall I refuse to see him? You must decide for me, and I'll act as you wish. You know how unhappy mother will be if I refuse to see him and—and, you know she will be very severe with me. I would not care so much for that, although her harshness hurts me terribly. But mother's in bad health—her heart is troubling her a great deal of late—and I can't bear to cause her pain. On the other hand, it tortures me when that man comes near me, and it must pain you when I receive him kindly. I can't bear to pain you and—and at times I fear if I 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 her fidelity. There might be many sorts of evil in that heart, for all she knew.

"Indeed, there is not," said Dic, tenderly. "If by any chance we should ever be separated,—if we should ever lose each other,—it will not be because of your bad faith."

"But, Dic," cried Rita, "that terrible 'if.' It is the first time you ever 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 treat him kindly. Tom is his clerk, and I should hate to see Tom lose his position. Tom is a mighty good fellow. You say your father owes Williams a large debt. He might, if he chose, act ugly. Therefore, you must act prettily. Poor Williams! I'm sorry for him. We will give them all the slip 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 young man's ardor, fired it to a degree previously unknown in the cool-blooded Williams family. He had visited his cultured home for the purpose of dilating upon the many charms of body, soul, and mind possessed by this fair girl of the wilderness. His parents, knowing him to be a young man of 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 the head of the agricultural firm, in case he should marry. They were wise enough 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 was the girl of girls.

Williams did not tell his parents that up to that time his wooing had been in vain, and they, with good reason, did not conceive it possible that any girl in her right mind would refuse their son. Roger was willing, Roger's parents were willing, Rita's parents were eager for the match; every person and everything needful were on his side, save one small girl. Roger thought that trifling obstacle would soon yield to the pressure of circumstances, the persuasion of conditions, and the charm of his own personality. He and the conditions had been warring upon the small obstacle for many months, and still it was as small as ever—but no smaller. The non-aggressive, feather-bed stubbornness of insignificant obstacles is often very irritating to an enterprising soul.

Williams was a fine, intellectual fellow, and his knowledge of human nature had enabled him to estimate—at least to approximate—the inestimable value of the girl he so ardently desired. Her rare beauty would, he thought, grace a palace; while her manifold virtues and good common-sense would accomplish a much greater task, and grace a home. Added to these reasons of state was a passionate love on the part of Williams of which any woman might have been proud. Williams was, ordinarily, sure-footed, and would have made fewer mistakes in his wooing had his love been less feverish. He also had a great fund of common-sense, but love is inimical to that rare commodity, and under the blind god's distorting influence the levelest head will, in time, become conical. So it happened that, after many months of cautious manoeuvring, Williams began to make mistakes.

For the sake of her parents and Tom, Rita had treated Williams with quiet civility, and when she learned that she could do so without precipitating a too great civility on his part, she gathered confidence and received him with undisguised cordiality. Roger, in his eagerness, took undue hope. Believing that the obstacle had become very small, he determined, upon occasion, to remove it entirely, by one bold stroke. Rita's kindness and Roger's growing hope and final determination to try the issue of one pivotal battle, all came into being during the period when Dic had reduced his visits to one month. The final charge by the Boston 'vincibles was made on the evening following Dic's visit last-mentioned.

An ominous quiet had reigned in the Williams camp for several months, and the beleaguered city, believing that hostilities had ceased, was lulled into a state of unwatchfulness, which, in turn, had given great hope to the waiting cohorts.

Upon the Monday evening referred to, the girl commanding the beleaguered forces received the enemy, whom she wished might be her friend, into her outworks, the front parlor. Little dreaming that a perfidious Greek was entering her Trojan gates, she laughed and talked charmingly, hoping, if possible, to smooth the road for her father and Tom by the help of her all-powerful smiles. Poor and weak she considered those smiles to be; but the Greek thought them wondrous, and coveted them as no Greek ever coveted Troy. Feeling that Williams sought only her friendship, and being more than willing to give him that, she was her natural self, and was more winsome and charming than she had ever before appeared to him. Her graciousness, which he should have been wise enough to understand but did not, her winsomeness and beauty, which he should have been strong enough to withstand but was not, and his love, which he tried to resist but could not, induced him upon that evening to make an attack.

Many little items of local interest had been discussed, foreign affairs were touched upon, books, music, and the blessed weather had each been duly considered, and short periods of silence had begun to occur, together with an occasional smothered yawn from Rita. Williams, with the original purpose of keeping the conversation going and with no intent to boast, said:—

"My father has purchased a new home in Boston beyond the Common, over on the avenue, and has offered to give me his old house. He has determined to retire from the firm and I am to take his place. I shall start for Boston Christmas Day"—here his self-control forsook him—"and, Rita, if you 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, is easily awakened, and Williams, misunderstanding her silence, continued:—

"I do not mean to boast, but I cannot help telling you that your home in Boston, if you will go with me, will be one of the most beautiful in the city. All that wealth can buy you shall have, and all that love and devotion can bring you shall possess. Other girls would jump at the chance—" (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, and Williams, stepping quickly to her side, grasped her hand. He had lost his wonted self-control and was swept forward by the flood of his long-pent-up emotions.

"Mr. Williams, I beg you will not—" cried Rita, endeavoring to withdraw her hand.

"You shall listen to me," he cried, half in anger, half pleadingly. "I have 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 the equal of any other man, and you shall treat me fairly."

The girl, in alarm, struggled to free herself from his grasp, but he held her and continued:—

"No other man can give you the love I feel for you, and you shall respond to it."

"It is impossible, Mr. Williams," she said pleadingly. "You do not know all. I am sorry, so sorry, to give you pain." Her ever ready tears began to 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 promised to be his wife this long time."

Her words were almost maddening to Williams, and he retorted as if he were, in truth, mad.

"That country fellow? You shall never marry him! I swear it! He is a poor, supercilious fool and doesn't know it! He has nothing in this world, and has never seen anything beyond the limits of his father's farm."

"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 speak ill of him," said Rita, with cold dignity.

"He is not to be your husband," cried Williams, angrily. "You shall be mine—mine; do you hear? Mine! I will have you, if I must—" he caught the girl in his arms, and pressing her head back upon the bend of his elbow, kissed her lips to his heart's content and to his own everlasting undoing. 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 I wish you to let me leave the room."

"Rita, forgive me," he pleaded. "I tell you I was insane when I—I did that. You have almost driven me mad. You can surely forgive me when you know that my act was prompted by my love. Your heart is ready with forgiveness 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 marry you, Mr. Williams, if you were a king, or if I should die by reason of refusing you. I cannot now be even your friend. I shall tell my father and brother what you have done, and they will order you out of this house. I will tell Dic, and he will kill you!" Her eyes, usually so gentle, were hard and cold, as she continued: "There is the door. I hope you will never darken it again."

She again started to leave the room, and he again detained her. He knew that disgrace would follow exposure, and, being determined to silence her at any cost, said angrily:—

"If you tell your father, I will take from him his store, his home, his farm. He owes me more than all combined are worth. If you will not listen to me through love, you shall do so from fear. I am sorry, very sorry, for what happened. I know the consequences if you speak of it. No one can be made to understand exactly how it happened, and I will protect 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 and mother into the street. They will be penniless in their old age. Your brother Tom is a thief. He has been stealing from me ever since he came to my office. Only last night I laid a trap for him and caught him in the act of stealing fifty dollars. He took the money and lost it at Welch's gambling saloon. He has taken, in all, nearly a thousand dollars. I have submitted to his thefts on your account. I have extended your father's notes because he is your father. But if you tell any one that I—I kissed you to-night, or if you repeat what I have told concerning your father and brother, your parents go to the street, and Tom 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, but it 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 be my friend?"

"Yes."

"If you will forgive me," he continued, recovering his senses, "and will allow me the sweet privilege of your friendship, I promise never again to speak of my love until you have given me permission. Shall it be a compact?"

"Yes," murmured the girl.

"Will you give me your hand?" he asked. She offered the hand, and he clasping it, said:—

"You have much to forgive, but your heart is full of gentleness, and you have 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 was doing, dressed for the night. During the first few minutes after she had extinguished the candle and had crept into bed, she could not think coherently, but soon consciousness came in an ingulfing flood. Williams's kisses seemed to stick to her. She rubbed her lips till they were raw, but still the clinging pollution seemed to penetrate to her soul. Her first coherent thought, of course, was of Dic. No man but he had ever, till that night, touched her lips, and with him a kiss was a sacrament. Now he would scorn her. The field of her disaster seemed to broaden, as she thought of it, and with the chastity of her lips she felt that she had lost everything worth having in life. Abandoning her pillow, she covered her head with the counterpane, and drawing her knees to her breast, lay trembling and sobbing. Dic was lost to her. There seemed to be no other possible outcome to the present situation. She feared Williams as never before, and felt that she was in his clutches beyond escape. The situation seemed hopeless beyond even the reach of prayer, her usual refuge, and she did not pray. She knew of her father's debt to Williams, and had always feared that Tom was not to be trusted. She was convinced without evidence other than Williams's words that he had told the truth, and she knew that ruin and disgrace for her father and Tom waited upon a nod from the man whom she hated, and that the nod waited upon her frown.

The next morning Rita's face lacked much of its wonted beauty. Her eyes were red and dim, the cheeks were pale and dim, her lips were blue and dim, and all the world, seen by her eyes, was dark and dim. The first thing 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 a wounded 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 to pledge Dic to secrecy, and then to tell him of her disgrace. She wrote to him, begging him to come to her at once; and he lost no time in going.

He arrived at the Bays house an hour past noon, and Rita soon had him to herself in the front parlor. When they entered the room and were alone he 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 never repeat 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 piteous story.

"Monday evening Mr. Williams came to call upon me. You know you said I must receive him kindly. I did so. And he again asked me to—to—you know—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 me by the hand and would not let me go. Then he told me again how desperately he cared for me; and when I answered angrily and tried to escape, he held me and—and—oh, Dic, I can't tell you. I thought I could, but I can't. I—I loathe myself." She bent her head forward, and covering 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. He held me to him as you sometimes do,—but, oh, it was so different. I was helpless, and he bent back my head and kissed me on the lips till I thought 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 stealing from him." Here she began to weep. "He will ruin father and send Tom to the penitentiary if he learns that I have told you this. He told me he would, and I promised I would tell no one; but my duty to you is higher than my duty to keep my promise. Now you know why I held you off when we came 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 falling snow is not purer than you, and truth itself is not truer than your heart. I go to New York soon, and when I return all your troubles will cease."

"They have ceased already, Dic," she murmured, placing her head upon his breast, while tears fell unheeded over her cheeks. "I thought an hour ago I should never again be happy, but I am happy already. Dic, you are a 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 that interview is not at all necessary to this story.

Dic left Rita late in the afternoon and met Williams on the street down town. They could not easily pass each other without exchanging words, so they stopped and spoke stiffly about the weather, past, present, and future. Dic tried to conceal all traces of resentment, and partially succeeded. Williams, still smarting from his troubles and mistakes with Rita, and hating Dic accordingly, concealed his feelings with poor success. The hatred of these men for each other was plain in every word and act, and in a few moments, Williams, unable longer to bear the strain, said:—

"This sham between us is disgusting. Let us settle our differences as gentlemen 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 could not go into a fight in cold blood and—and for many reasons I do not wish to fight you."

"I supposed you would decline. I knew you to be a coward," sneered Williams, growing brave upon seeing Dic's disinclination.

"No," responded Dic, calmly looking into Williams's face, "I have nothing to fear from you. You could not stand against me even for one minute."

"But you misunderstand me," said Williams. "I do not wish to fight with my fists. That is the method of ruffians and country bullies. I am not surprised at your mistake."

Dic laughed softly and replied: "I do not know why your words don't anger me. Perhaps because I pity you. I can afford to be magnanimous and submit 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 of gentlemen. I challenge you to meet me in a duel. Now do you understand—understand?"

Williams was nervous, and there was a murderous gleam in his eyes. Dic's heart throbbed faster for a moment, but soon took again its regular beat. 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 for a moment with a smile on his lips and continued: "Suppose we let the girl decide this between us. But perhaps I am again showing my ignorance of gentlemanly methods. Do gentlemen force their attentions upon unwilling ladies?"

"Oh, if you refuse," retorted Williams, ignoring his question, "I can slap your face now in the public streets."

"Don't do it, Williams," responded Dic, looking to the ground and trying to remain calm.

"Why?" Williams asked.

"Because—I will fight you if you insist, without the occasion of a street 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 an invitation to dinner. "I have always supposed that this sort of an affair should be arranged between gentlemen by their friends; but of course I don't know how gentlemen act under these circumstances. Perhaps you don't consider me a gentleman, and you certainly must have some doubts in your mind concerning yourself; therefore, it may be proper for us to arrange this little matter with each other."

"I suppose you would prefer seconds," returned Williams. "They might prevent a meeting."

After a few moments of silence Dic said, "If we fight, I fear another person's name will be dragged into our quarrel."

"You may, if you wish, find plenty of excuses," returned Roger. "If you wish to accept my challenge, do so. If not, say so, and I will take my own course."

"Oh, I'll accept," returned Dic, cheerily. "As the challenged party, if we 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 two hundred yards?" asked Dic, with an ugly smile on his face.

"I should be delighted," responded the other. "I expected you to choose hoes or pitchforks."

"I think it fair to tell you," said Dic, "that I can hit a silver dollar four times out of five shots at two hundred yards, and you will probably do well to hit a barn door once out of ten at that distance. I will let you see me shoot before I definitely choose weapons. Afterwards, if you prefer some other, I will abide your choice."

"I am satisfied with your choice," responded Williams, who prided himself upon his rifle-shooting, in which accomplishment Dic had underrated his antagonist.

"We must adopt some plan to prevent people from connecting another person with this affair," suggested Dic. "If you will come down to Bays's farm for a day's hunting, I will meet you there, and the result may be attributed by the survivor to a hunting accident."

"The plan suits me," said Williams. "I'll meet you there to-morrow at noon. I'll tell Tom I have an engagement to go squirrel-hunting with you."

Dic rode home, and of course carried the news of his forthcoming duel to Billy Little.

"There are worse institutions in this world than the duel," remarked Billy, much to his listener's surprise. "It helps to thin out the fools."

"But, Billy Little, I must fight him," responded Dic. "He insists, and will 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 delighted if he happens to put a bullet through you, and will surely be happy for life if you kill him."

"It is his doing, Billy Little," said Dic, with an ugly gleam in his eyes, "and I would not balk him. Billy Little, I would fight that man if I knew I should hang for it the next day. I'll tell you—he grossly insulted Rita Monday evening. He held her by force and kissed her lips till she was hardly conscious."

"Good God!" cried Billy, springing to his feet and trembling with excitement. "Fight him, Dic! Kill him, Dic! Kill the brute! If you don't, by the good God, I will."

"You need not urge me, Billy Little. I'm quite willing enough. Still I hope I shall not kill him."

"You hope you will not kill him?" demanded Billy. "If you do not, I will. Where do you meet?"

"He will be at Bays's house to-morrow noon, and we will go up to my cleared eighty, half a mile north. There we will step off a course of two hundred yards and fire. Whatever happens we will say was the result of a hunting accident."

Billy determined to be in hiding near the field of battle, and was secreted in the forest adjoining the cleared eighty an hour before noon next day. Late in the morning Dic took his rifle and walked down to the Bays's house. I shall not try to describe his sensations.

Williams was waiting, and Dic found him carefully examining his gun. The gun contained a bullet which, Dic thought, with small satisfaction, might within a short time end his worldly troubles, and the troubles seemed more endurable than ever before. Sleep had cooled his brain since his conversation with Billy, and he could not work himself into a murderous state of mind. He possessed Rita, and love made him magnanimous. He did not want to fight, though fear was no part of his reluctance. The manner of his antagonist soon left no doubt in Dic's mind that the battle was sure to come off. Something in Williams—perhaps it was his failure to meet his enemy's eyes—alarmed Dic's suspicions, and for a moment he feared treachery at the hands of his morose foe; but he dismissed the thought as unworthy, and opening the gate started up the river path, taking the lead. He was ashamed to show his distrust of Williams, though he could not entirely throw it off, and the temptation to turn his head now and then to watch his following enemy was irresistible. They had been walking but a few minutes when Dic, prompted by distrust, suddenly turned his head and looked into the barrel of a gun held firmly to the shoulder of our gentleman from Boston. With the nimbleness of a cat, Dic sprang to one side, and a bullet whistled past his face. One second later in turning his 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 might see 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 the powder. 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 not miss. Throw me your bullet pouch."

Williams, whose face looked like a mask of death, threw the bullet pouch to 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 had tried 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 the ground, and loved it because he had won it single-handed in a battle royal with nature; but nature was a royal foe that, when conquered, gave royal spoils of victory. The rich bottom soil had year by year repaid Dic many-fold for his labor. He loved the land, and if fate should prove unkind to him, he would choose that spot of all others upon which to fall.

"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 is in 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 toward the 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 the forest ten yards to the south, and simultaneously the sharp crack of a rifle behind him. At the same instant his left leg gave way under him and he fell to the ground, supposing he had stepped into a muskrat hole. After he had fallen he turned quickly toward Williams and saw that gentleman hastily reloading his gun. Then he fully realized that his antagonist had shot him, though he was unable to account for the voice he had heard from the forest. That mystery, too, was quickly explained when 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 had fallen from his own hands when he went down, and the little fellow looked the picture of determined ferocity. Williams dropped his gun. Dic was sitting upright where he had fallen, and Billy, handing him the weapon, said:—

"Kill him, Dic; kill him as you would a wolf. I'm afraid if I shoot I'll miss him, and then he will reload and kill you."

Williams was a hundred and forty yards away, but Dic could easily have pierced his heart. He took the gun and lifted it to his shoulder. Williams stood motionless as a tree upon a calm day. Dic lowered his gun, but after a pause lifted it again and covered Williams's heart. He held the gun to his shoulder for a second or two, then he threw it to the ground, saying:—