tremble; but let the powers at home also tremble. Like many of us, she was brave for to-morrow's battle, since to-morrow never comes.

Rita was not in the humor to listen to Sukey's good-natured prattle, so her visit was brief, and she soon rode home, her heart full of trouble and rebellion. But the reward for virtue, which frequently fails to make its appearance, waited upon our heroine. When she was about to dismount at the home gate, her father called to her:—

"While you're on your horse, Rita, you might ride to town and ask Billy Little if there's a letter. The mail came in three days ago."

The monster, Rebellion, at once disappeared, and the girl, conscience-smitten, resolved never, never to entertain him again. She rode down the river path through the forest, happy after many days of wretchedness.

Billy Little's store building consisted of two log-built rooms. The long front room was occupied by the store and post-office. The back room, as Billy said, was occupied by his piano and himself. When he saw Rita, clothed in dainty calico and smiles, gallop up to the hitching-post, his heart was filled with joy, his face beamed with pleasure, and his scalp was suffused by a rosy hue. Billy's smooth-shaven face was pale, the blood never mounting to his cheeks, so he made amends as best he could and blushed with the top of his head.

"Good evening to you, Rita," he said, as he lifted her to the ground and hitched her horse. "I am delighted to see you. You come like the rosy sun after a rainy day."

"The sun doesn't come after the day, Billy Little," retorted the laughing girl. "You probably mean the pale moon, or a poor dim little star."

"I know what I mean," answered the little old fellow in tones of mock indignation, "and I'll not allow a chit of a girl to correct my astronomy. I'm your schoolmaster, and if I say the sun comes after the day, why after the day it comes. Now, there!" he continued, as they entered the store. "Turn your face to the wall and do penance. Such insolence!"

The girl faced the wall, and after a moment she looked laughingly over her shoulder at him. "If you'll let me turn around, I'll admit that the sun comes at midnight, if you say it does, Billy Little."

"Midnight it is," said Billy, sternly. "Take your seat."

She ran laughing to Billy, and clasping his arm affectionately, said with a touch of seriousness:—

"It comes whenever you say it does, Billy Little. I'd believe you before I'd believe myself."

Poor old bachelor heart! Look to your breastworks; the enemy is at hand.

"Now I've noticed," said cynical Billy, "that whenever the feminine heart wants something, it grows tender. What do you want?"

"I want a letter, Billy Little. Father sent me down to fetch it, if there is one."

"Yes, there's one here," he answered, going back of the glass-covered pigeon-holes. "There's one here from Indianapolis. It's from your Uncle Jim Fisher. I suppose he's after your father again to sell his farm and invest the proceeds in the Indianapolis store. Precious fool he'll be if he does."

"Indeed, he would not be a fool," retorted the girl. "I'm just wild for father to move to Indianapolis. I don't want to grow up in the country like a ragweed or mullein stalk, and I—" ("Like a sweetbrier or a golden-rod," interrupted Billy) "and I don't want you to advise him not to go," she continued, unmindful of Billy's flowers of poesy.

"Well, here's the letter. Do you want anything else?"

"N-o-o-no."

"Then, for once, I've found a disinterested female in a coaxing mood," replied this modern Diogenes. He came from behind the counter, pretending to believe her, and started toward the door.

"How's Dic?" he asked. "I haven't seen him for a fortnight. I've been wondering what has become of him." The girl's face turned red—painfully so to Billy—as she replied:—

"I—I haven't seen him either for—for a very long time—three days." She stopped talking and Billy remained silent. After a long pause she spoke up briskly, as if she had just remembered something.

"Oh, I almost forgot—there is something I want, and—and after all, you're right. I want—I want—won't you—will you—I say, Billy Little, won't you let me have a sheet of writing paper and a pot of ink, and won't you cut this pen for me?"

Billy took the quill and turned to go behind the counter. The girl was dancing nervously on her toes. "But say, Billy Little, I can't pay you for them now. Will—will—you trust me?"

Billy did not reply, but went to the letter-paper box.

"You had better take more than one sheet, Rita," he said softly. "If you're going to write a love-letter to Dic, you will be sure to spoil the first sheet, perhaps the second and third."

Billy's head blushed vividly after he had spoken, for his remark was a prying one. The girl had no thought of writing a love-letter, and she resented the insinuation. She was annoyed because she had betrayed her purpose in buying the paper. But she loved Billy Little too dearly to show her resentment, and remained silent. The girl, Billy, and Dic differing as much as it is possible for three persons to differ, save in their common love for books and truth, had been friends ever since her babyhood, and Billy was the only person to whom she could easily lay bare her heart. Upon second thought she concluded to tell him her trouble.

"It was this way, Billy Little," she began, and after stumbling over many words, she made a good start, and the little story of her troubles fell from her lips like crystal water from a babbling spring.

After her story was finished—and she found great relief in the telling—Billy said:—

"Of course I'll trust you. I'd trust you for the whole store if you wanted to buy it. I'd trust you with my soul," he added after a pause. "There's not a false drop of blood in your veins."

"Ah, Billy Little," she answered, as she took his hand caressingly for an instant, and her eyes, with their wonderful capacity for expression, said the rest.

"So, you see, I do want to write a letter to Dic," she said, dropping his hand; "but it is not to be a love-letter. I could not write one if I wished. I was very wicked. Oh, Billy Little, I honestly think, at times, I'm the worst girl that ever lived. Something terrible will happen to me for my wickedness, I'm sure. Mother says it will."

"Yes, something terrible—terrible, I'm sure," returned Billy, musingly.

"And I want to apologize to him," she continued, "and tell him I didn't mean it. Isn't it right that I should?"

"Oh, yes—yes," answered Billy, starting out of his revery. "Of course, yes—Maxwelton's braes are bonny—um—um—um—um—um—yes, oh yes."

When vexed, pleased, or puzzled, Billy was apt to hum the opening line of "Annie Laurie," though the first four words were all that received the honor of distinct articulation. The remainder of the stanza he allowed to die away under his breath. Rita was of course familiar with the habit, but this time she could not tell which motive had prompted the musical outburst. Billy himself couldn't have told, but perhaps the bachelor heart was at the bottom of it.

"Thank you, Billy Little, for the paper," said Rita. "I'll pay you with the first money I get." Billy silently helped her to mount her horse. She smiled, "Good-by," and he walked slowly back to the store muttering to himself: "Billy Little, Billy Little, your breastworks are weak, and you are a—Maxwelton's braes—um—um—um—um.—Ah, good evening, Mrs. Carson. Something I can do for you this evening? Sugar? Ah, yes, plenty. Best in town. Best shipment I ever had," and Billy was once more a merchant.