rch watching for Dic. But the sun and her heart went
down, and Dic did not come.

The plaintive rain cry of a whippoorwill from the branches of a dead
tree across the river, and the whispering "peep, peep, peep," of the
sleepy robins in the foliage near the house, helped to deepen her
feeling of disappointment, and she was thoroughly miserable. She tried
to peer through the gloaming, and feared her father and mother would
mark her troubled eagerness and guess its cause. But her dread of their
comments was neutralized by the fear that Dic would not come.

Opportunity is the touchstone of fate, save with women. With them it is
fate itself. Had Dic appeared late that evening, there would have been a
demonstration on Rita's part, regardless of who might have seen, and the
young man would have discovered an interesting truth. Rita, deeply
troubled, discovered it for herself, and thought surely it was plain
enough for every one else to see.

When darkness had fallen, she became reckless of concealment, and walked
a short way up the river in the hope of meeting Dic. The hooting of an
owl frightened her, but she did not retreat till she heard the howling
of a wolf. Then she ran home at full speed and went to bed full of the
most healthful suffering a heart can know--that which it feels because
of the pain it has given another.

[Illustration: "SHE CHANGED IT MANY TIMES."]

Thus Dic missed both opportunity and demonstration. The next evening he
missed another opportunity, and by the morning of the third day our
little girl, blushing at the thought, determined to write to him and ask
his forgiveness. There was one serious obstacle to writing: she had
neither paper nor ink, nor money with which to buy them. Hitherto she
had found little use for money, but now the need was urgent. Tom always
had money, and she thought of begging a few pennies from him. No! Tom
would laugh, and refuse. If she should ask her mother, a string of
questions would ensue, with "No" for a snapper. Her father would
probably give her money, if she asked for it; but her mother would ask
questions later. She would ride to town, one mile south on Blue, and ask
credit of her old friend, Billy Little, to the extent of a sheet of
paper and a small pot of ink. For a pen she would catch a goose, pluck a
quill, and ask Billy to cut it. Billy could cut the best pen of any one
on Blue.

Dinner over, she caught the goose after an exciting chase, plucked the
quill