"We often see beautiful sunsets from this porch," answered Rita, "and I believe one is forming now." There was not a society lady in Boston who could have handled the situation more skilfully; and Williams learned that if he would flatter this young girl of the wilderness, he must first serve his probation. She did not desire his flattery, and gave him to understand as much at the outset. She found him interesting and admired him. He was the first man of his type she had ever met. In the matter of education he was probably not far in advance of Dic, and certainly was very far arrear of Billy Little. But he had a certain polish which comes only from city life. Billy had that polish, but it was of the last generation, was very English, and had been somewhat dimmed by friction with the unpolished surfaces about him. Dic's polish was that of a rare natural wood. As a result of these conditions, Rita and Williams walked up the river on the following afternoon--Sunday. More by accident than design they halted at the step-off and rested upon the same rocky knoll where she and Dic were sitting when Doug Hill hailed them from the opposite bank of the river. The scene was crowded with memories, and the girl's heart was soon filled with Dic, while her thoughts were busy with the events of that terrible day. Nothing that Williams might say could interest her, and while he talked she listened but did not hear, for her mind was far away, and she longed to be alone. One would suppose that the memory of the day she shot Doug Hill would have been filled with horror for her, but it was not. This gentle girl, who would not willingly have killed a worm, and to whom the sight of suffering brought excruciating pain, had not experienced a pang of regret because of the part she had been called upon to play in the tragedy of the step-off. When Doug was lying between life and death, she hoped he would recover; but no small part of her interest in the result was because of its effect upon Dic and herself. Billy Little had once expressed surprise at this callousness, but she replied with a touch of warmth:-- "I did right, Billy Little. Even mother admits that. I saved Dic's life and my own honor. I would do it again. I am sorry I _had_ it to do, but I am glad, oh so glad, that I had strength to do it. God helped me, or I could never have fired the shot. You may laugh, Billy Little--I know your philosophy leads you to believe that God never does things of that sort--but I know better. You know a great deal more than I about everything else, but in this instance I am wiser than you. I know God gave me strength at the moment when I most needed it. That moment taught me a lesson that some persons never learn. It taught me that God will always give me strength at the last moment of my need, if I ask it of Him, as I asked that day." "He gave it to you when you were born, Rita," said Billy.