That evening Dic walked down the river path to Bays's and, as usual, sat on the porch with the family. Twenty-four hours earlier sitting on the porch with the family would have seemed a delightful privilege, and the moments would have been pleasure-winged. But now Mrs. Bays's profound and frequently religious philosophizing was dull compared to what might be said on the log down by the river bank. Tom, of course, talked a good deal. Among other things he remarked to Dic:-- "I 'lowed you'd never come back here again after the way Rita treated you last night." Of course he did not know how exceedingly well Rita had treated Dic last night. "Oh, that was nothing," returned Dic. "Rita was right. I hope she will always--always--" The sentence was hard to finish. "You hope she'll always treat you that-a-way?" asked Tom, derisively. "I bet if you had her alone she wouldn't be so hard to manage--would you, Rita?" Tom thought himself a rare wit, and a mistake of that sort makes one very disagreeable. Rita's face burned scarlet at Tom's witticism, and Mrs. Bays promptly demanded of her daughter:-- "What on earth are you talking about?" Poor Rita had not been talking at all, and therefore made no answer. The demand was then made of Tom, but in a much softer tone of voice:-- "Tell me, Tom," his mother asked. "I'll not tell you. Rita and Dic may, but I'll not. I'm no tell-tale." No, not he! The Chief Justice turned upon Rita, looked sternly over her glasses, and again insisted:-- "What have you been doing, girl? Tell me at once. I command you by the duty you owe your mother." "I can't tell you, mother. Please don't ask," replied Rita, hanging her head. "You can tell me, and you shall," cried the fond mother. "I can't tell you, mother, and I won't. Please don't ask." "Do my ears deceive me? You refuse to obey your parents? 'Obey thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long'--" Tom interrupted her: "Oh, mother, for goodness' sake, quit firing that quotation at Rita. I'm sick of it. If it's true, I ought to have died long ago. I don't mind you. Never did. Never will." "Yes, you do, Tom," answered his mother, meekly. "And this disobedient girl shall mind me, too." Rita had never in all her life disobeyed a command from either father or mother. She was obedient from habit and inclination, and in her guileless, affectionate heart believed that a terrific natural cataclysm of some sort would surely occur should she even think of disobeying. With ostentatious deliberation Mrs. Bays folded her knitting and placed it on the floor beside her; took off her spectacles, put them in the case, and put the case in her pocket. Rita knew her mother was clearing the decks for action and that Justice was coldly arranging to have its own. So great was the girl's love and fear for this hard woman that she trembled as if in peril.