s hard work, and
dinner was a barbarous institution. Rita had no appetite, and to
sympathize with those who are hungry one must be hungry.

Innumerable very long minutes had woven themselves into mammoth hours
when Rita, having no table in her room, found herself lying on the floor
writing her momentous letter. It was not to be a love-letter; simply an
appeal for forgiveness to a friend whom she had wantonly injured.

"Dear old Billy Little," she said to herself, when she opened the
package. "What pretty paper--and he has given me six sheets in place of
one--and a little pot of ink--and a sand-box! I wonder if the quill is a
good one! Ah, two--three quills! Dear old Billy Little! Here is enough
paper to last me for years." In that respect she was mistaken. She
experienced difficulty with effort number one, but finished the letter
and read it aloud; found it wholly unsatisfactory, and destroyed it. She
used greater care with the next, but upon reading it over she found she
had said too much of what she wished to leave unsaid, and too little of
what she wanted to say. She destroyed number two with great haste and
some irritation, for it was almost a love-letter. The same fate befell
numbers three, four, and five. After all, Billy's liberal supply of
paper would not last for years. If it proved sufficient for one day, she
would be satisfied. Number six, right or wrong, must go to Dic, so she
wrote simply and briefly what was in her heart.

"DEAR FRIEND DIC: My words were not intended for you. I was angry
with Tom, as I had good reason to be, though he spoke the truth. I
did put on my ribbon because I saw you coming, and I have cried
every night since then because of what I said to you, and because
you do not come to let me tell you how sorry I am. You should have
given me a chance. I would have given you one. RITA."

It was a sweet, straightforward letter, half-womanly, half-childish, and
she had no cause to be ashamed of it; but she feared it was bold, and
tears came to her eyes when she read it, because there were no more
sheets of paper, and modest or bold it must go to Dic.

Having written the letter, she had no means of sending it; but she had
entered upon the venture, and was determined to carry it through. Mrs.
Bays and her husband had driven to town, and there was no need for _ex
post facto_ resolutions. When the letter had been properly directed and
duly sealed, the girl saddled h