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

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

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

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

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

"No," she responded very softly.

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

She would not contradict the statement. She was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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