ived through a moment of terrible ordeal and have been equal to its
demands. But do we know by what process their force operates upon us?
We are fascinated by a noted duellist who has killed his score of men.
We are drawn by a certain charm that lurks in his iron nerve and gleams
from his cold eyes. The toreador has his way with the Spanish dons and
senoritas alike. The high-rope dancer and the trapeze girl attract us by
a subtle spell. Is it an unlabelled force in nature? I can but ask the
question. I do not pretend to answer.

Whatever the force may be, Rita possessed it; and, linked with her
gentleness and beauty, its charm was irresistible.

Here, at last, was the rich man from the city who could give Rita the
fine mansion, carriages, and servants she deserved. Now that these great
benefactions were at her feet, would Dic be as generous as when he told
Billy Little that Rita was not for him, but for one who could give her
these? Would he unselfishly forego his claim to make her great, and
perhaps happy? Great love in a great heart has often done as much,
permitting the world to know nothing of the sacrifice. I have known a
case where even the supposed beneficiary was in ignorance of the real
motive. Perhaps Billy Little could have given us light upon a similar
question, and perhaps the beneficiary did not benefit by the mistaken
generosity, save in the poor matter of gold and worldly eminence; and
perhaps it brought years of dull heartache to both beneficiary and
benefactor, together with hours of longing and conscience-born shame
upon two sinless hearts.

After Rita had told her story, Roger's chatty style of conversation
suddenly ceased. He made greater efforts to please than before, but the
effort seemed to impair his power of pleasing. Rita, longing to be
alone, had resolved many times to return to the house, but before acting
upon that resolve she heard a voice calling, "Rita!" and a moment
afterward a pair of bright blue eyes, a dimpled rosy face, and a plump
little form constructed upon the partridge model came in sight and
suddenly halted.

"Oh, excuse me," said our little wood-nymph friend, Sukey Yates. "I did
not know I was intruding. Your mother said you had come in this
direction, and I followed."

"You are not intruding," replied Rita. "Come and sit by me. Mr.
Williams, Miss Yates."

Miss Yates bowed and blushed, stammered a word or two, and sat by Rita
on the rocky bench. She was silent and shy