Dic and Billy walked up the river path a little time in silence. Billy was first to speak.
"I consider," said he, "that profane swearing is vulgar, but I must say damn that woman. What an inquisitor she would make. I hope Kennedy is right about her heart. Think of her as your mother-in-law!"
"When Rita is my wife," replied Dic, "I'll protect her, if I have to—to—"
"What will you do, Dic?" asked Billy. "Such a woman is utterly unmanageable. You see, the trouble is, that she believes in herself and is honest by a species of artificial sincerity. Show me a stern, hard woman who is bent on doing her duty, her whole duty, and nothing but her duty, and I'll show you a misery breeder. Did you give Rita the ring?"
"I haven't had the chance," answered Dic. "I'll do it to-morrow. Billy Little, I want to thank you—you must let me tell you what I think, or I'll burst."
"Burst, then," returned Billy. "I'd rather be kicked than thanked. I knew how Rita and you would feel, or I should not have given you the ring. Do you suppose I would have parted with it because of a small motive? Have you told the Chief Justice?"
"No; she will learn when she sees the ring on Rita's finger."
Silence then ensued, which was broken after a few minutes by Billy Little humming under his breath, "Maxwelton's braes are bonny." Dic soon joined in the sweet refrain, and, each encouraging the other, they swelled their voices and allowed the tender melody to pour forth. I can almost see them as they walked up the river path, now in the black shadow of the forest, and again near the gurgling water's edge, in the yellow light of the moon. The warm, delicious air was laden with the odor of trees and sweetbrier, and to the song the breath of the south wind played an accompaniment of exquisite cadence upon the leaves. I seem to hear them singing,—Billy's piping treble, plaintive, quaint, and almost sweet, carrying the tenor to Dic's bass. There was no soprano. The concert was all tenor and bass, south wind, and rustling leaves. The song helped Dic to express his happiness, and enabled Billy to throw off the remnants of his heartache. Music is a surer antidote to disappointment, past, present, and future, than the philosophy of all the Stoics that ever lived; and if all who know the truth of that statement were to read these pages, Billy Little would have many millions of sympathizers.
Dic did not neglect Rita's note, but read it many times after he had lighted the candle in the loft where he and Billy were to sleep. Long after Billy had gone to bed Dic sat up, thinking of Rita, and anon replenishing his store of ecstasy from the full fountain of her note. After an unreasonable period of waiting Billy said:—
"If you intend to sit there all night, I wish you would smother the candle. It's filling the room with bugs. Here is a straddle-bug of some sort that's been trying to saw my foot off."