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

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

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

"Oh, I know what it is now," she cried delightedly, but she would not look till Dic should say "open." "Open" was said, and the girl exclaimed:--

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

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

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

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

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

"But you give it to me," she said. "It was really yours, and you give it to me. I am almost glad it comes from Billy Little. He has been so much to me. You are by nature different from other men, but the best difference we owe to Billy Little." The p.r.o.noun "we" was significant. It meant that she also was Billy Little's debtor for the good he had brought to Dic, since now that wonderful young man belonged to her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, but what can come between us? Your parents, I hope, won't object.

Mine won't, and we don't--do we?" said Dic, argumentatively.

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

"Then what save death can separate us?" asked Dic. "We would offend Billy Little by returning the ring, and it looks pretty on your finger.

Don't you like it, Rita?"

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

"You don't feel superst.i.tious about it, do you?" he asked.

"N-o-o."

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

"Y-e-s."

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

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

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

Dic and Rita looked up quickly and saw the huge figure of Doug Hill standing on the opposite bank with a gun over his shoulder and a bottle of whiskey in his uplifted hand. By his side was his henchman, Patsy Clark. The situation was a trying one for Dic. He could not fight the ruffian in Rita's presence, and he had no right to tell him to move on.

So he paid no attention to Doug's hail, and in a moment that worthy Nimrod pa.s.sed up the river. Dic and Rita were greatly frightened, and when Doug pa.s.sed out of sight into the forest they started home. They soon reached the path and were walking slowly down toward Bays's, when they were again startled by the disagreeable voice of the Douglas. This time the voice came from immediately back of them, and Dic placed himself behind Rita.

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

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'I'VE COME TO GET MY KISS,' SAID DOUG."]

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

"Oh, you guess not?" said Doug, apparently much amused. "You guess not?

Well, we'll see, Mr. Fine-hair; we'll see." Thereupon, he rested his gun against a tree, stepped quickly past Dic, and seized Rita around the waist. He was drawing her head backward to help himself when Dic knocked him down. Patsy Clark then sprang upon Dic, and, in imitation of his chief, fell to the ground. Doug and Patsy at once rose to their feet and rushed toward Dic. Rita screamed, as of course any right-minded woman would have done, and, clasping her hands in terror, looked on fascinated and almost paralyzed. Patsy came first and again took a fall. This time, from necessity or inclination,--probably the latter,--he did not rise, but left the drunken Douglas to face Dic single-handed and alone. Though tall and strong, Dic was by no means the equal of Doug in the matter of bulk, and in a grappling match Doug could soon have killed him. Dic fully understood this, and, being more active than his huge foe, endeavored to keep him at arm's length. In this he was successful for a time; but at last the grapple came, and both men fell to the ground--Doug Hill on top. Poor Rita was in a frenzy of terror. She could not even scream. She could only press her hands to her heart and look.

When Dic and Doug fell to the ground, Patsy Clark, believing himself safe, rose to a sitting posture, and Doug cried out to him:--

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

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

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

With a wild scream Mrs. Bays s.n.a.t.c.hed Rita from Dic's arms in a frenzy of grief that bore a touch of jealousy. In health and happiness Rita for her own good must bow beneath the rod; but in sickness or in death Rita was her child, and no strange hand should minister to her. A blessed philosopher's stone had for once trans.m.u.ted her hard, barren sense of justice to glowing love. She carried the girl into the house and applied restoratives. After a little time Rita breathed a sigh and opened her eyes. Her first word was "Dic!"

"Here I am, Rita," he softly answered, stepping to her bedside and taking her hand. Mrs. Bays, after her first inquiry, had asked no questions, and Dic had given no information. After Rita's return to consciousness tears began to trickle down her mother's furrowed cheek, and, ashamed of her weakness, she left the room. Dic knelt by Rita's bed and kissed her hands, her eyes, her lips. His caresses were the best of all restoratives, and when Mrs. Bays returned, Rita was sitting on the edge of the bed, Dic's arm supporting her and her head resting on his shoulder. Mrs. Bays came slowly toward them. The girl's habitual fear of her mother returned, and lifting her head she tried to move away from Dic, but he held her. Mrs. Bays reached the bedside and stood facing them in silence. The court of love had adjourned. The court of justice was again in session. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up Rita's hand and pointed to the ring.

"What is that?" she asked sternly.

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

"Never!" cried the old woman, out of the spirit of pure antagonism.

"Never!" she repeated, closing her lips in a spasm of supposed duty.

Rita's heart sank, and Dic's seemed heavier by many pounds than a few moments before, though he did not fear the apostle of justice and duty as did Rita. He hoped to marry Rita at once with her mother's consent; but if he could not have that, he would wait until the girl was eighteen, when she could legally choose for herself. Out of his confidence came calmness, and he asked,

"Why shall not Rita be my wife? She shall want for nothing, and I will try to make her happy. Why do you object?"

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

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

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

"You are a good woman, Mrs. Bays," continued Dic, with a deliberate and base intent to flatter. "No man or woman has ever had injustice at your hands, and I, who am almost your son, ask that justice which you would not refuse to the meanest person on Blue."

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