ily at its mate. The mate,
after a brief pause, continued in a different tone:--

"That is, I don't care. You and mother fix it between you. I don't know
anything about such matters." Mr. Bays leaned forward with his elbows on
his knees and examined his feet as if he had just discovered them. After
a close scrutiny he continued:--

"Rita's the best girl that ever lived. I don't care where you look,
there's not another like her in all the world. She has never caused me a
moment of pain--" Rita moved her chair to her father's side and took his
hand--"she has brought me nothing but happiness, and I would--" He
ceased speaking, and no one has ever known what Mr. Bays "would," for at
that interesting point in his remarks his worthy spouse interrupted
him--

"Nothing brings you pain. You shirk it and throw it all on me. Lord
knows the girl has brought trouble enough to me. I have toiled and
worked and suffered for her. I bear the burdens of this house, and if my
daughter is better than other girls,--I don't say she is, and I don't
say she isn't,--but if she is better than other girls, I say it is
because I have done my duty by her."

Truth compels me to admit that she had done her duty toward the girl
with a strenuous sincerity that often amounted to cruelty, but in the
main she had done her best for Rita.

Dic had unintentionally turned the tide of battle on Mr. Bays, and that
worthy sufferer, long used to the anguish of defeat, and dead to the
shame of cowardice, rose from his chair and beat a hasty retreat to his
old-time sanctuary, the barn. Dic did not retreat; single-handed and
alone, he took lance in hand and renewed the attack with adroit thrusts
of flattery and coaxing. After many bouts a compromise was reached and
an armistice declared between the belligerent powers until Dic should
return from New York. This armistice was virtually a surrender of the
Bays forces, so that evening when Dic started home Rita accompanied him
to the gate beneath the dark shadow of a drooping elm, and the gate's
the place for "a' that and a' that."

Next morning bright and early Dic went to town to see Sampson, the
horse-dealer. He found him sitting on the inn porch.

"Well, you're going to take the horses for me, after all?" asked that
worthy descendant of one of the tribes.

"Billy Little said you would give me five hundred dollars. That is a
very large sum. You first offered me only one hundred."

"Yes," returned Sampson; "