t look for
unmixed good. If I did, I should not find it except once in a while in a
woman. What have you been doing? Go on." Billy leaned forward on his
elbows, placed the points of his fingers together, and, while waiting
for Dic to begin, hummed his favorite stanza concerning the braes of
Maxwelton.

"Well," responded Dic, "I've concluded not to go to New York."

Billy's face turned a shade paler as he took his pipe from his lips and
looked sadly at Dic. After a moment of scrutiny he said:--

"I had hoped to get you off before it happened. It's _all_ off now. You
might as well throw Blackstone into Blue."

"What do you mean?" queried Dic. "Before what happened?"

"Before Rita happened," responded Billy.

"Rita?" cried Dic in astonishment. "How did you know?"

"How do I know that spring follows winter?" asked Billy. "I had hoped
that winter would hold a little longer, and that I might get you off to
New York before spring's arrival."

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

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

"But you see, Billy Little, it was this way."

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

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

"Of course I have not seen her. How could I? It all happened last night
after the social, and it is now only seven A.M."

"Billy Little, I believe you are a mind reader," said Dic, musingly.

"No, I'm not," replied Billy, with asperity. "Let's go back to the
store. You've told me all I want to know; but I don't blame you much
after all. You couldn't help it. No man could. But you'll die plowing
corn. Perhaps you'll be happier in a corn field than in a broader one.
Doubtless the best thing one can do is to drift. With all due reverence,
I am almost ready to believe that Providence made a mistake when it
permitted our race to progress beyond the pastoral age. Stick to your
ploughing, Dic. It's good,