lt of these conditions, Rita and Williams walked up the river
on the following afternoon--Sunday. More by accident than design they
halted at the step-off and rested upon the same rocky knoll where she
and Dic were sitting when Doug Hill hailed them from the opposite bank
of the river. The scene was crowded with memories, and the girl's heart
was soon filled with Dic, while her thoughts were busy with the events
of that terrible day. Nothing that Williams might say could interest
her, and while he talked she listened but did not hear, for her mind was
far away, and she longed to be alone.

One would suppose that the memory of the day she shot Doug Hill would
have been filled with horror for her, but it was not. This gentle girl,
who would not willingly have killed a worm, and to whom the sight of
suffering brought excruciating pain, had not experienced a pang of
regret because of the part she had been called upon to play in the
tragedy of the step-off. When Doug was lying between life and death, she
hoped he would recover; but no small part of her interest in the result
was because of its effect upon Dic and herself. Billy Little had once
expressed surprise at this callousness, but she replied with a touch of
warmth:--

"I did right, Billy Little. Even mother admits that. I saved Dic's life
and my own honor. I would do it again. I am sorry I _had_ it to do, but
I am glad, oh so glad, that I had strength to do it. God helped me, or I
could never have fired the shot. You may laugh, Billy Little--I know
your philosophy leads you to believe that God never does things of that
sort--but I know better. You know a great deal more than I about
everything else, but in this instance I am wiser than you. I know God
gave me strength at the moment when I most needed it. That moment taught
me a lesson that some persons never learn. It taught me that God will
always give me strength at the last moment of my need, if I ask it of
Him, as I asked that day."

"He gave it to you when you were born, Rita," said Billy.

"No," she replied, "I am weak as a kitten, and always shall be, unless I
get my strength from Him."

"Well," said Billy, meaning no irreverence, "if He would not give to
you, He would not give to any one."

"Ah, Billy Little," said the girl, pleased by the compliment--you see
her pleasure in a compliment depended on the maker of it--"you think
every one admires me as much as you do." Billy knew that was impossible,
but