owd scrambled for their letters as if they feared a delay of a
moment or two would fade the ink, and when the mail had been distributed
the calm postmaster went back to hear Dic's troubles. At no time in
that young man's life had his troubles been so heavy. He feared Billy
Little's scorn and biting sarcasm, though he well knew that in the end
he would receive sympathy and good advice. The relation between Dic and
Billy was not only that of intimate friendship; it was almost like that
between father and son. Billy felt that it was not only his privilege,
but his duty, to be severe with the young man when necessity demanded.
When Dic was a boy he lost his father, and Billy Little had stood as
substitute for, lo, these many years.

When Billy entered the room, Dic was lost amid the flood of innumerable
emotions, chief among which were the fear that he had lost Rita and the
dread of her contempt.

Billy went to the fireplace, poked the fire, lighted his pipe, and
leaned against the mantel-shelf.

"Well, what's the trouble now?" asked Brummel's friend.

"Read this," answered Dic, handing him Sukey's letter.

Billy went to the window, rested his elbows upon the piano, put on his
"other glasses," and read aloud:--

"'DEAR DIC: I'm in so much trouble.'" ("Maxwelton's braes,"
exclaimed Billy. The phrase at such a time was almost an oath.)
"'Please come to me at once.'" (Billy turned his face toward Dic
and gazed at him for thirty long seconds.) "'Come at once. Oh,
please come to me, Dic. I will kill myself if you don't. I cannot
sleep nor eat. I am in such agony I wish I were dead; but I trust
you, and I am sure you will save me. I know you will. If you could
know how wretched and unhappy I am, if you could see me tossing all
night in bed, and crying and praying, you certainly would pity me.
Oh, God, I will go crazy. I know I will. Come to me, Dic, and save
me. I have never said that I loved you--you have never asked
me--but you know it more surely than words can tell.'

"'SUKEY.'"

When Billy had finished reading the letter he spoke two words, as if to
himself,--"Poor Rita." His first thought was of her. Her pain was his
pain; her joy was his joy; her agony was his torture. Then he seated
himself on the stool and gazed across the piano out the window. After a
little time his fingers began to wander over