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, saddled her horse, and was slipping away from the back yard when her mother's voice halted her. "Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Margarita. "I'm--I'm--going--going to see Sukey Yates," answered the girl. She had not intended going to Sukey's, but after her mother's peremptory demand for information, she formed the _ex post facto_ resolution to do so, that her answer might not be a lie. "Now, what on earth do you want there?" asked the Chief Justice. "I--I only want to sit awhile with her," answered Rita. "May I go? The work is all done." "No, you shan't go," responded the kind old lady. You see, one of the maxims of this class of good persons is to avoid as many small pleasures as possible--in others. That they apply the rule to themselves, doesn't help to make it endurable.