Williams knocked at Rita's door early in the evening, and was admitted to the front parlor by the girl herself. She took a chair and asked him to be seated. Then a long, awkward silence ensued, which was broken by Williams:—
"You said you wished to see me. Is there any way in which I can serve you?"
"Yes," she murmured, speaking with difficulty. "My father and Tom are in trouble, and I wanted to ask you if anything could be done to—to—" she ceased speaking, and in a moment Williams said:—
"I have held the house off for four or five months, and I cannot induce them to wait longer. Their letters are imperative. I wish I had brought them."
"Then nothing can save them?" asked Rita. The words almost choked her, because she knew the response they would elicit. She was asking him to ask her to marry him.
"Rita, there is one thing might save them," replied Roger of the craven heart. "You know what that is. I have spoken of it so often I am almost ashamed to speak again." Well he might be.
"Well, what is it? Go on," said Rita, without a sign of faltering. She wanted to end the agony as soon as possible.
"If you will marry me, Rita—you know how dearly I love you; I need not tell you of that. Were you not so sure of my love, I might stand better with you. You see, if you will marry me my father could not, in decency, prosecute Tom or ruin your father. He would be compelled to protect them both, being in the family, you know."
"If you will release Tom and save my father from ruin I will ... will do ... as ... you ... wish," answered the girl. Cold and clear were the words which closed this bargain, and cold as ice was the heart that sold itself.
Williams stepped quickly to her side, exclaiming delightedly, "Rita, Rita, is it really true at last?"