nuation of temptation is at least some reason
why he should have it.

I shall not tell you the details of this interview. Soon after Dic's
arrival our little Hebe was in tears, and he, moved by her suffering,
could not bring himself to tell her his determination. Truly, Billy was
right. It was dangerous to pity such a girl. Dic neither consented nor
refused to marry her, but weakly evaded the subject, and gave her the
impression that he would comply with her wishes. He did not intend to
create that impression; but in her ardent desire she construed his
silence to suit herself, and, becoming radiant with joy, was prettier
and more enticing than she had ever before appeared. Therefore, as every
man will agree, Dic's task became difficult in proportion, and painful
beyond his most gloomy anticipations. His weakness grew out of a great
virtue--the wholesome dread of inflicting pain.

During the evening Sukey offered Dic a cup of cider, and her heart beat
violently while he drank.

"It has a peculiar taste," he remarked.

"There are crab apples in it," the girl answered.

There was something more than crab apples in the cider; there was a love
powder, and two hours after Dic's arrival at home he became ill. Dr.
Kennedy ascribed the illness to poisoning, and for a time it looked as
if Sukey's love powder would solve several problems; but Dic recovered,
and the problems were still unsolved.

From the day Dic received Sukey's unwelcome letter, he knew it was his
duty to inform Rita of his trouble. He was sure she would soon learn the
interesting truth from disinterested friends, should the secret become
public property on Blue, and he wanted at least the benefit of an honest
confession. That selfishness, however, was but a small part of his
motive. He sincerely felt that it was Rita's privilege to know all about
the affair, and his duty to tell her. He had no desire to conceal his
sin; he would not take her love under a false pretence. He almost felt
that confession would purge him of his sin, and looked forward with a
certain pleasure to the pain he would inflict upon himself in telling
her. In his desire for self-castigation he lost sight of the pain he
would inflict upon her. He knew she would be pained by the disclosure,
but he feared more its probable effect upon her love for him, and looked
for indignant contempt and scorn from her, rather than for the
manifestation of great pain. He resolved to write to Rita at onc