"Why, Rita, why did you not want it to happen—" he feared to say "then," and it would seem from the new position of his arm, he also feared she might fall backward off the log.
"Because—because," came in soft whispers. The beautiful head was drooped, and the face was hidden from even the birds and the moon, while Dic's disengaged hand, out of an abundance of caution lest she might fall, clasped hers.
"Because—why, Rita?" he pleaded.
Softly came the response, "Because I wanted to be alone with—with—you when it—it happened." It happened before she had finished her sentence, but when it was finished the head lay upon his shoulder, and the birds, should they awaken, or the moon, or any one else, might see for aught she cared. It was holy and sacred now, and she felt no shame: she was proud. The transfer of herself had been made. She belonged to him, and he, of course, must do with his own property as he saw fit. It was no longer any affair of hers.
The victory of complete surrender is sometimes all-conquering; at any rate, Dic was subjugated for life. His situation was one that would be hard to improve upon in the way of mere earthly bliss. Heaven may furnish something better, and if it does, the wicked certainly have no conception of what they are going to miss. Tom, for example, would never have put buttons in the offering. Doug would not gamble and drink. Poor, painted Nanon would starve rather than sin. Old man Jones, in the amen corner, would not swindle his neighbor; nor would Wetmore, the Baptist, practise the holy calling of shepherd, having in his breast the heart of a wolf. We all, saving a woman here and there, have our sins, little and great, and many times in the day we put in jeopardy that future bliss. But I console myself with the hope that there is as much forgiveness in heaven as there is sin on earth, save for the hypocrite. There may be forgiveness even for him, but I trust not.
I have done this bit of philosophizing that I might give Dic and Rita a moment to themselves on the sycamore divan. You may have known the time in your life when you were thankful for the sight of a dear friend's back.
There was little said between our happy couple for many minutes after the explosion; but like a certain lady, who long ago resided for a time in a beautiful garden, the girl soon began to tempt the man: not to eat apples, for Rita was one of the "women here and there" spoken of above. She was pure and sinless as the light of a star. Her tempting was of another sort. Had Rita been Eve, there would have been no fall.
After several efforts to speak, she said, "Now you will not go to New York, will you?"
"Why, Rita," he responded confidently, "of course I'll go. There is more reason now for my going than ever before."
"Why more now than ever before?" asked the girl.