"No, you'll not die unmarried. You will marry Williams," said Billy, looking earnestly into her eyes.

"I shall not."

"If you wish to throw Dic over and marry Williams, you should openly avow it, and not seize this misfortune of Dic's as an excuse."

"Oh, Billy Little, you don't think me capable of that, do you?" answered Rita, reproachfully.

"Do you give me your word you will not marry Williams?" asked Billy, eagerly.

"Yes, I give you my word I will not marry him, if--if I can help it,"

she answered, and poor Billy collapsed. He took his handkerchief from his pocket to dry the perspiration on his face, although the room was cold, and Rita drew forth her handkerchief to dry her tears.

"Dic loves you, Rita. He is one man out of ten thousand. He is honest, true, and pure-minded. He has sinned, I know; but he has repented. One sin doesn't make a sinner, and repentance is the market price of mercy.

I know a great deal of this world, my girl, and of its men and women, and I tell you Dic is as fine a character as I know. I don't know a man that is his equal. Don't let this one fault condemn him and yourself to wretchedness."

"I shall not be wretched," she replied, the picture of woe, "for I don't--don't care for him. I'm surprised, Billy Little, that I do not, and I think less of myself. There must be something wrong about me. I must be wicked when my--my love can turn so easily to indifference. But I do not care for him. He is nothing to me any more. You may be sure I speak the truth and--and although I am glad to have you here, I don't want you to remain if you continue to speak of--of him."

The situation certainly was confusing, and Billy, in a revery, resorted to Maxwelton's braes as a brain clarifier. Soon wild thoughts came to his mind, and wilder hopes arose in his bachelor heart. This girl, whom he had loved for, lo, these many years, was now free of heart and hand.

Could it be possible there was hope for him? Pat with this strange thought spoke Rita:--

"You say he is a splendid man, pure and true and honest; but you know, Billy Little, that measured by the standard of your life, he is not. I used to think he was like you, that you had made him like yourself, and I did love him, Billy Little. I did love him. But there is no one like you. You are now my only friend." Tears came to her eyes, and she leaned toward Billy, gently taking his hand between her soft palms. Tumult caused the poor bachelor heart to lose self-control, and out of its fulness to speak:--

"You would not marry me?" he asked. The words were meant as a question, but fortunately Rita understood them as a mere statement of a patent fact, spoken jestingly, so she answered with a laugh:--

"No, of course not. I could not marry you, Billy Little. But I wish you were young; then, do you know, I would make you propose to me. You should not have been born so soon, Billy Little. But if I can't have you for my husband, I'll have you for my second father, and _you_ shall not desert me."

Her jest quickly drove the wild hopes out of the bachelor heart, and Billy trembled when he thought of what he had tried to say. He left the house much agitated, and returned to see Miss Tousy. After a consultation with that lady covering an hour, he went to the tavern and took the stage for home.

Next day, in the midst of Dic's struggles for peace, and at a time when he had almost determined to marry Sukey Yates, a letter came from Miss Tousy, asking him to go to see her. While waiting for the stage, Dic exhibited Miss Tousy's letter, and Billy feigned surprise.

Two or three days previous to the writing of Miss Tousy's letter, Rita had told that sympathetic young lady the story of the trouble with Dic.

The confidence was given one afternoon in Miss Tousy's cosey little parlor.

"When is your friend Mr. Bright coming to see you?" asked Miss Tousy.

"You are welcome to meet him here if you cannot receive him at home."

"He will not come again at all," answered Rita, closely scanning her hands folded on her lap.

"Why?" asked her friend, in much concern, "has your mother at last forced you to give him up?"

"No, mother knows nothing of it yet--nothing at all. I simply sent his ring back and don't want to--to see him again. Never."

"My dear girl, you are crazy," exclaimed Miss Tousy. "You don't know what you are doing--unless you have grown fond of Mr. Williams; but I can't believe that is true. No girl would think twice of him when so splendid a fellow as Dic--Mr. Bright--was--"

"No, indeed," interrupted Rita, "that can never be true. I would never care for any man as I cared for--for him. But I care for him no longer.

It is all over between--between--it is all over."

From the hard expression of the girl's face one might easily have supposed she was speaking the truth; there was no trace of emotion.

"But, Rita! This will never do!" insisted Miss Tousy. "You don't know yourself. You are taking a step that will wreck your happiness. You should also consider him."

"You don't know what he has done," answered Rita, still looking down at her folded hands.

"I don't _care_ what he has done. You did not make yourself love him, and you cannot throw off your love. You may for a time convince yourself that you are indifferent, but you are simply lying to yourself, my dear girl, and you had better lie to any one else--the consequences will be less serious. Never deceive yourself, Rita. That is a deception you can't maintain. You may perhaps deceive all the rest of the world so long as you live--many a person has done it--but yourself--hopeless, Rita, perfectly hopeless."

"I'm not deceiving myself," answered the wilful girl. "You don't know what he has done."

"I don't _care_," retorted Miss Tousy warmly. "If he were my lover, I--I tell you, Rita Bays, I'd forgive him. I'd keep him. He is one out of a thousand--so big and handsome; so honest, strong, and true."

"But he's not true; that's the trouble," answered Rita, angrily, although there had been a soft, tell-tale radiance in her eyes when Miss Tousy praised him.

"Ah, he has been inveigled into smiling upon another girl," asked Miss Tousy, laughing and taking Rita's hand. "That is the penalty you must pay for having so splendid a lover. Of course other girls will want him.

I should like to have him myself--and, Rita, there are lots of girls bold enough or weak enough to seek him outright. You mustn't see those little things. Frequently the best use a woman can make of her eyes is to shut them."

In place of shutting her eyes, Rita began to weep, and Miss Tousy continued:--

"This man loves you and no other, my sweet one. That's the great thing, after all. No girl can steal his heart from you--of that you may be sure."

"But I say you don't know," sobbed Rita. "I will tell you." And she did tell her, stumbling, sobbing, and blushing through the narrative of Dic's unforgivable perfidy.

Miss Tousy whistled in surprise. After a moment of revery she said: "She is trying to steal him, Rita, and she is as bad as she can be. If you will give me your promise that you will never tell, I'll tell you something Sue Davidson told me." Rita promised. "Not long since your brother Tom called on Sue and left his great-coat in the hall. Sue's young sister got to rummaging in Tom's great-coat pockets, for candy, I suppose, and found a letter from this same Sukey Yates to Tom. Sue told me about the letter. It breathed the most pa.s.sionate love, and implored Tom to save her from the ruin he had wrought. So you see, Dic is not to blame." She paused, expecting her listener to agree with her; but Rita sighed and murmured:--

"He is not excusable because others have been wicked."

"But I tell you I wouldn't let that little wretch steal him from me,"

insisted Miss Tousy. "That's what she's trying to do, and you're helping her. When she was here I saw plainly that she was infatuated with him, and was bound to win him at any price--at any cost. She had no eyes nor dimples for any one else when he was by; yet he did not notice her--did not see her smiles and dimples. Don't tell me he cares for her.

He had eyes for no one but you. Haven't you seen how other girls act toward him? Didn't you notice how Sue Davidson went at him every chance she got?"

"No," answered Rita, still studying her folded hands, and regardless of her tear-stained face.

"I think Sue is the prettiest girl in town, excepting you," continued Miss Tousy, "and if she could not attract him, it would be hopeless for any one else to try."

"Nonsense," murmured Rita, referring to that part of Miss Tousy's remark which applied to herself.

"No, it isn't nonsense, Rita. You are the prettiest girl I ever saw--but no matter. She is pretty enough for me to hate her. She is the sort of pretty girl that all women hate and fear. She obtrudes her prettiness--keeps her attractions always _en evidence_, as the French say. She moistens her lips to make them tempting, and twitches the right side of her face to work that dimple of hers. She is so attractive that she is not usually driven to seek a man openly; but Dic--I mean Mr.

Bright--did not even see her smiles. Every one else did; and I will wager anything you like she has written love-notes to him--real love-notes. He would, of course, be too honorable to tell. He's not the sort of man who would kiss and tell--he is the sort women trust with their favors--but I'll wager I'm right about Sue Davidson." She was right, though Dic's modesty had not permitted him to see Miss D.'s notes in the light Miss Tousy saw them.

"He is not the man," continued Miss Tousy, "to blame a girl for a fault of that sort, even in his own mind, and he would not explain at a woman's expense to save his life. With a man of his sort, the girl is to blame nine times out of ten. I wouldn't give a fippenny bit for a man no other girl wanted. There is a large cla.s.s of women you don't know yet, Rita. You are too young. The world has a batch of mawkish theories about them, but there are also a few very cold facts kept in the dark,--lodge secrets among the s.e.x. Dic is modest, and modesty in an attractive man is dangerous--the most dangerous thing in the world, Rita. Deliver me from a shy, attractive man, unless he cares a great deal for me. Shyness in a man is apt to make a girl bold."

"It did not make me bold," said Rita, with a touch of fire.

"Not in the least?" asked Miss Tousy, leaning over the girl's lap, looking up into her face and laughing. "Now come, Rita, confess; you're as modest as a girl has any good reason to be, but tell me, didn't you--didn't you do your part? Now confess."

"Well, I may have been a little bold, I admit, a very little--just at--you know, just at one time. I _had_ to be a little--just a little--you see--you know, outspoken, or--you know what I mean. He might not have--oh, you understand how such things happen."

The hands in the lap were growing very interesting during these remarks, and the tear-stained cheeks were very hot and red.

"Yes, yes, dear," said Miss Tousy, leaning forward and kissing the hot cheeks, "yes, yes, sweet one. I know one just _has_ to help them a bit; but that is not boldness, that is charity."