That evening Billy Little took supper with Mrs. Bays, and Rita, considering Williams her father's guest, spent most of the evening on the sycamore log with the bachelor heart.
"Dic gave me the ring again," she said, holding out her hand for inspection. Billy took the hand and held it while he said:—
"It's pretty there—pretty, pretty."
"Yes," she responded, looking at the back of her hand, "it's very pretty. It was good of you—but you need not be frightened; I'm not going to thank you. Where do you suppose he is at this moment?"
"I don't know," answered Billy. "I suppose he's between Pittsburg and New York."
"I had a letter from him at Pittsburg two weeks ago," said Rita; "but I have heard nothing since. His work must be very hard. He has no time to think of me."
"He probably finds a moment now and then for that purpose," laughed Billy.
"Oh, I don't mean that he doesn't think of me! Of course he does that all the time. I mean that he must have little time for writing."
"You must feel very sure of him when you say he thinks of you all the time. How often have you thought of him since he left?" asked Billy.
"Once," replied the girl, smiling and blushing.