When the after-supper work was finished, Mrs. Bays took her knitting and sat before the fire in the front room. Rita, wishing to be alone, remained in the kitchen, watching the fire die down and cuddling her grief. She had been there but a few minutes when the outer door opened and in walked Dic.
"I have come to ask you if you have forgotten me?" he said.
The girl answered with a cry of joy, and ran to him.
"Ah, Dic, I have forgotten all else. Forgive me. Forgive me," she replied, and as the tears came, he drew her to his side.
"But, Rita—this man Williams?" he asked.
"I ... I know, Dic," she said between sobs, "I ... I know, but I can't ... can't tell you now. Wait till I can speak. But I love you. I ... can tell you that much. I will try to ... to explain when ... I can talk."
"You need explain nothing," said Dic, soothingly. "I want only to know that you have not forgotten me. I have suffered terribly these last few days."
"I'm so glad," responded the sobbing girl, unconscious of her apparent selfishness.
The kitchen fireplace was too small for a hearth log, so Dic and Rita took chairs before the fire, and the girl, regardless of falling tears, began her explanation.
"You see, it was this way, Dic," she sobbed. "He came with Uncle Jim, and then he came again and again. I did not want him—I am sure you know that I did not—but mother insisted, and I thought you would make it all right when you returned. You know mother has heart trouble, and any excitement may kill her. She is so—so—her will is so strong, and I fear her and love her so much. She is my mother, and it is my duty to obey her when—when I can. The time may come when I cannot obey her. It has come, several times, and when I disobey her I suffer terribly and always think how I would feel if she were to die."