the keys. Soon the
wandering fingers began to strike chords, and the random chords grew
into soft, weird improvisations; then came a few chords from the
beloved, melodious "Messiah"; but as usual "Annie Laurie" soon claimed
her own, and Billy was lost, for the time, to Dic and to the world.
Meanwhile Dic sat by the fireplace awaiting his friend's pleasure, and
to say that he suffered, but poorly tells his condition.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked Billy, suddenly turning
on the stool. Dic did not answer, and Billy continued: "Damned pretty
mess you've made. Proud of yourself, I suppose?"

"No."

"Lady-killer, eh?"

"No."

"Oh, perhaps it wasn't your fault, Adam? You are not to blame? She
tempted you?"

"I only am to blame."

"'Deed if I believe you have brains enough to know who is to blame."

"Yes, I have that much, but no more. Oh, Billy Little, don't--don't."
Billy turned upon the piano-stool, and again began to play.

Dic had known that Billy would be angry, but he was not prepared for
this avalanche of wrath. Billy had grown desperately fond of Rita. No
one could know better than he the utter folly and hopelessness of his
passion; but the realization of folly and a sense of hopelessness do not
shut folly out of the heart. If they did, there would be less suffering
in the world. Billy's love was a strange combination of that which might
be felt by a lover and a father. He had not hoped or desired ever to
possess the girl, and his love for Dic had made it not only easy, but
joyous to surrender her to him. Especially was he happy over the union
because it would insure her happiness. His love was so unselfish that he
was willing to give up not only the girl, but himself, his blood, his
life, for her sweet sake. With all his love for Dic, that young man was
chiefly important as a means to Rita's happiness, and now he had become
worse than useless because he was a source of wretchedness to her. You
may understand, then, the reason for Billy's extreme anger against this
young man, who since childhood had been his friend, almost as dear as if
he were his son.

After rambling over the keys for two or three minutes, he turned
savagely upon Dic, saying:--

"I wish you would tell me why you come to me for advice. You don't take
it."

"Yes, I do, Billy Little. I value your advice above every one else's."

"Stuff and nonsense. I warned you against that girl--the dimpler: much
you heeded me. Do