"It seems almost a pity to waste such a night as this in the house. I believe one might read by the light of the moon." "Yes," murmured the girl, hanging her head, while she meditatively smoothed the grass with her foot. "It's neither warm nor cold--just pleasant," continued Dic. "No," she responded very softly. "But we must sleep," he ventured to assert. She would not contradict the statement. She was silent. "If the days could be like this night, work would be a pleasure," observed Dic, desperately. "No," came the reply, hardly louder than a breath. She was not thinking of the weather, but Dic stuck faithfully to the blessed topic. "It may rain soon," he remarked confusedly. There was not a cloud in sight. "Yes," breathed the pretty figure, smoothing the grass with her foot. "But--but, I rather think it will not," he said. The girl was silent. She didn't care if it snowed. She longed for him to drop the subject of the weather and to say something that would give her an opportunity to speak. Her manner, however, was most unassuring, and convinced Dic that he had offended beyond forgiveness, while his distant, respectful formality and persistency in the matter of the weather almost convinced the girl that he was lost to her forever. Thus they stood before each other, as many others have done, a pair of helpless fools within easy reach of paradise. Dic's straightforward habits of thought and action came to his aid, however, and he determined to make at least one more effort to regain the girl's friendly regard. He abandoned the weather and said somewhat abruptly:-- "Rita, if I offended you to-night, I am sorry. I cannot tell you all the pain I feel. When you dropped the handkerchief behind me, I thought--I know I was wrong and should have known better at the time--but I thought--" "Oh, Dic," she softly interrupted, still smoothing the grass with her foot, "I am not offended; it is you." Had the serene yellow moon burst into a thousand blazing suns, Dic could not have been more surprised. "Rita, do you mean it? Do you really mean it?" he asked. "Yes," she whispered. "And were you afraid I was offended?" "Yes," again very softly. "And did you care?" "Yes," with an emphatic nod of the head. "And do you--" he paused, and she hesitatingly whispered:-- "Yes." She did not know what his question would have been; but whatever he wished to ask, "Yes" would be her answer, so she gave it, and Dic continued:-- "Do you wish me to remain for a few minutes?" This time the "Yes" was given by a pronounced drooping of the head, but she took his hand for an instant that she might not possibly be misunderstood. Dic hitched his horse to the fence, and, turning to Rita, said:-- "Shall we go over to the log by the river?" "Yes." Ah, how many yeses she had for him that night, and yes is a sweet word.