THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT

By Harold Bell Wright

DEAR AUNTIE SUE:

I have wondered many times, while writing this simple story of life andlove, if you would ever forgive me for putting you in a book. I hope youwill, because if you do not, I shall be heartbroken, and you wouldn'twant me that way, would you, Auntie Sue?

I fancy I can hear you say: "But, Harold, how COULD you! You know Inever did the things you have made me do in your story. You know I neverlived in a little log house by the river in the Ozark Mountains! What inthe world will people think!"

Well, to tell the truth, dear, I don't care so very much what peoplethink if only they will love you; and that they are sure to do, because, --well, just because--You must remember, too, that you willbe eighty-seven years old the eighteenth of next November, and it istherefore quite time that someone put you in a book. 

And, after all, Auntie Sue, are you very sure that you have never livedin a little log house by the river, --are you very sure, Auntie Sue?

Forgive my impertinence, as you have always forgiven me everything;and love me just the same, because I have written only in love of thedearest Auntie Sue in the world!

Signature [Harold]

The Glenwood Mission Inn, Riverside, California, April 30, 1919. 

 "And see the rivers, how they run Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, -- Wave succeeding wave, they go A various journey to the deep Like human life to endless sleep!"

 John Dyer--"Grongar Hill. "

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. A REMARKABLE WOMAN

II. THE MAN IN THE DARK

III. A MISSING LETTER

IV. THE WILL OF THE RIVER

V. AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN

VI. IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER

VII. OFFICERS OF THE LAW

VIII. THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW

IX. AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION

X. BRIAN KENT DECIDES

XI. RE-CREATION

XII. AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE

XIII. JUDY TO THE RESCUE

XIV. BETTY JO CONSIDERS

XV. A MATTER OF BUSINESS

XVI. THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE

XVII. AN AWKWARD SITUATION

XVIII. BETTY JO FACES HERSELF

XIX. JUDY'S CONFESSION

XX. BRIAN AND BETTY JO KEEP HOUSE

XXI. THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW

XXII. AT THE EMPIRE CONSOLIDATED SAVINGS BANK

XXIII. IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS

XXIV. JUDY'S RETURN

XXV. THE RIVER

ILLUSTRATIONS

BETTY JO

"LOOK, JUDY! LOOK!"

AUNTIE SUE SAID, SOFTLY, "SHE DID NOT UNDERSTAND, BRIAN. "

... SHE MADE THE LITTLE BOOK OF PAINFUL MEMORIES A BOOK OF JOYOUSPROMISE. 

THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT

CHAPTER I. 

A REMARKABLE WOMAN. 

I remember as well as though it were yesterday the first time I metAuntie Sue. 

It happened during my first roaming visit to the Ozarks, when I hadwandered by chance, one day, into the Elbow Rock neighborhood. Twentyyears it was, at least, before the time of this story. She was standingin the door of her little schoolhouse, the ruins of which you may stillsee, halfway up the long hill from the log house by the river, where themost of this story was lived. 

It was that season of the year when the gold and brown of our OzarkHills is overlaid with a filmy veil of delicate blue haze and the worldis hushed with the solemn sweetness of the passing of the summer. And asthe old gentlewoman stood there in the open door of that rustic templeof learning, with the deep-shadowed, wooded hillside in the background, and, in front, the rude clearing with its crooked rail fence along whichthe scarlet sumac flamed, I thought, --as I still think, after all theseyears, --that I had never before seen such a woman. 

Fifty years had gone into the making of that sterling character whichwas builded upon a foundation of many generations of noble ancestors. Without home or children of her own, the life strength of her splendidwomanhood had been given to the teaching of boys and girls. An old-maidschoolteacher? Yes, --if you will. But, as I saw her standing there thatday, --tall and slender, dressed in a simple gown that was fitting to herwork, --there was a queenly dignity, a stately sweetness, in her bearingthat made me feel, somehow, as if I had come unexpectedly into thepresence of royalty. Not the royalty of caste and court and station withtheir glittering pretenses of superiority and their superficial claimsto distinction, --I do not mean that; I mean that true royalty whichneeds no caste or court or station but makes itself felt because it IS. 

She did not notice me at first, for the noise of the children at play inthe yard covered the sound of my approach, and she was looking far, faraway, over the river which lay below at the foot of the hill; over theforest-clad mountains in the glory of their brown and gold; over thevast sweep of the tree-crowned Ozark ridges that receded wave after waveinto the blue haze until, in the vastness of the distant sky, they werelost. And something made me know that, in the moment's respite from hertask, the woman was looking even beyond the sky itself. 

Her profile, clean-chiselled, but daintily formed, was beautiful in itsgentle strength. Her hair was soft and silvery like the gray mist of theriver in the morning. Then she turned to greet me, and I saw her eyes. Boy that I was then, and not given overmuch to serious thought, I knewthat the high, unwavering purpose, the loving sympathy, and tenderunderstanding that shone in the calm depth of those eyes could belongonly to one who habitually looks unafraid beyond all earthly scenes. Only those who have learned thus to look beyond the material horizon ofour little day have that beautiful inner light which shone in the eyesof Auntie Sue--the teacher of a backwoods school. 

Auntie Sue had come to the Elbow Rock neighborhood the summer precedingthat fall when I first met her. She had grown too old, she said, withher delightful little laugh, to be of much use in the larger schools ofthe more thickly populated sections of the country. But she was stillfar too young, she stoutly maintained, to be altogether useless. 

Tom Warden, who lived just over the ridge from the schoolhouse, andwho was blessed with the largest wife, the largest family, and the mostpretentious farm in the county, had kinsfolk somewhere in Illinois. Through these relatives of the Ozark farmer Miss Susan Wakefield hadlearned of the needs of the Elbow Rock school, and so, finally, hadcome into the hills. It was the influential Tom who secured for her themodest position. It was the motherly Mrs. Tom who made her at home inthe Warden household. It was the Warden boys and girls who first calledher "Auntie Sue. " But it was Auntie Sue herself who won so large a placein the hearts of the simple mountain folk of the district that sheheld her position year after year, until she finally gave up teachingaltogether. 

Not one of her Ozark friends ever came to know in detail the history ofthis remarkable woman's life. It was known in a general way that shewas born in Connecticut; that she had a brother somewhere in someSouth-American country; that two other brothers had been killed in theCivil War; that she had taught in the lower and intermediate grades ofpublic schools in various places all the years of her womanhood. Also, it was known that she had never married. 

"And that, " said Uncle Lige Potter, voicing the unanimous opinion, of the countryside, "is a doggone funny thing and plumb unnatural, considerin' the kind of woman she is. "

To which Lem Jordan, --who was then living with his fourth wife, andmight therefore be held to speak with a degree of authority, --added:"Hit sure is a dad burned shame, an' a plumb disgrace to the men of thishere country, when you come to look at the sort of wimmen most of 'emare a marryin' most of the time. "

Another matter of universal and never-failing interest to the mountainfolk was the unprecedented number of letters that Auntie Sue receivedand wrote. That some of these letters written by their backwoods teacherwere addressed to men and women of such prominence in the world thattheir names were known even to that remote Ozark district was a sourceof no little pride to Auntie Sue's immediate neighbors, and served tomark her in their eyes with no small distinction. 

It was during the fourth year of her life amid the scenes of thisstory, --as I recall time, --that Auntie Sue invested the small savingsof her working years in the little log house by the river and the eightyacres of land known as the "Old Bill Wilson place. "

The house was a substantial building of three rooms, a lean-to kitchen, and a porch overlooking the river. The log barn, with "Prince, " a gentleold horse, and "Bess, " a mild-mannered, brindle cow, completed themodest establishment. About thirty acres of the land were cleared andunder cultivation of a sort. The remaining acreage was in timber. The price, under the kindly and expert supervision of Tom Warden, wasfifteen dollars an acre. But Auntie Sue always laughingly insisted thatshe really paid fifty cents an acre for the land and fourteen dollarsand a half an acre for the sunsets. 

The tillable land, except for the garden, she "let out on shares, "always under the friendly guardianship of neighbor Tom; while Tom's boyscared for the little garden in season, and saw to it that the woodpilewas always ample and ready for the stove. And, in addition to thesefixed and regular homely services, there were many offerings of helpfulhands whenever other needs arose; for, as time passed, there came to bein all the Elbow Rock district scarce a man, young or old, who did notnow and then honor himself by doing some little job for Auntie Sue;while the women and girls, in the same neighborly spirit, brought fromtheir own humble households many tokens of their loving thoughtfulness. And never did one visit that little log house by the river withoutthe consciousness of something received from the silvery-haired oldteacher--a something intangible, perhaps, which they could not haveexpressed in words, but which, nevertheless, enriched the lives ofthose simple mountain people with a very real joy and a very tangiblehappiness. 

For six years, Auntie Sue continued teaching the Elbow Rockschool;--climbing the hill in the morning from her log house by theriver to the cabin schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-sideabove; returning in the late afternoon, when her day's work was over, down the winding road to her little home, there to watch, from the porchthat overlooked the river, the sunset in the evening. And every year thedaily climb grew a little harder; the days of work grew a little longer;she went down the hill in the afternoon a little slower. And every yearthe sunsets were to her eyes more beautiful; the evening skies to herunderstanding glowed with richer meaning; the twilight hours filled herheart with a deeper peace. 

And so, at last, her teaching days were over; that is, she taught nomore in the log schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side. Butin her little home beside the river she continued her work; not fromtext-books, indeed, but as all such souls must continue to teach, untilthe sun sets for the last time upon their mortal days. 

Work-worn, toil-hardened mountaineer mothers, whose narrow world deniedthem so many of the finer thoughts and things, came to counsel withthis childless woman, and to learn from her a little of the art ofcontentment and happiness. Strong men, of rude dress and speech, whoselives were as rough as the hills in which they were reared, and whosethoughts were often as crude as their half-savage and sometimes lawlesscustoms, came to sit at the feet of this gentle one, who received themall with such kindly interest and instinctive understanding. And youngmen and girls came, drawn by the magic that was hers, to confide inthis woman who listened with such rare tact and loving sympathy to theirtroubles and their dreams, and who, in the deepest things of their younglives, was mother to them all. 

Nor were the mountain folk her only disciples. Always there were theletters she continued to write, addressed to almost every corner ofthe land. And every year there would come, for a week or a month, atdifferent times during the summer, men and women from the great world oflarger affairs who had need of the strength and courage and patience andhope they never failed to find in that little log house by the river. And so, in time, it came to be known that those letters written byAuntie Sue went to men and women who, in their childhood school days, had received from her their first lessons in writing; and that hervisitors, many of them distinguished in the world of railroads andcities, were of that large circle of busy souls who had never ceased tobe her pupils. 

Thus it came that the garden was made a little larger, and two roomswere added to the house, with other modest improvements, to accommodateAuntie Sue's grown-up boys and girls when they came to visit her. Butnever was there a hired servant, so that her guests must do their ownhousehold tasks, because, Auntie Sue said, that was good for them andmostly what they needed. 

It should also be said here that among her many pupils who lived beyondthe sky-line of the far, blue hills, not one knew more of thereal secret of Auntie Sue's life and character than did the Ozarkmountaineers of the Elbow Rock district, among whom she had chosen topass the evening of her day. 

Then came one who learned the secret. He learned--but that is my story. I must not tell the secret here. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE MAN IN THE DARK. 

A man stood at a window, looking out into the night. There was no lightin the room. The stars were hidden behind a thick curtain of sullenclouds. 

The house was a wretchedly constructed, long-neglected building ofa type common to those old river towns that in their many years ofuselessness have lost all civic pride, and in their own resultantsqualor and filth have buried their self-respect. A dingy, scarcelylegible sign over the treacherous board walk, in front, by the sicklylight of a smoke-grimed kerosene lantern, announced that the place was ahotel. 

Dark as it was, the man at the window could see the river. The treesthat lined the bank opposite the town were mere ghostly shadows againstthe gloomy masses of the low hills that rose from the water's edge, indistinct, mysterious, and unreal, into the threatening sky. The highermountains that reared their crests beyond the hills were invisible. Thestream itself swept sullenly through the night, --a resistless flood ofdismal power, as if, turbid with wrecked souls, with the lost hopes andruined dreams of men, it was fit only to bear vessels freighted withsorrow, misfortune, and despair. 

The manner of the man at the window was as if some woeful spirit of themelancholy scene were calling him. With head bowed, and face turned alittle to one side, he listened intently as one listens to voices thatare muffled and indistinct. He pressed his face close to the glass, andwith straining eyes tried to see more clearly the ghostly trees, thesombre hills, and the gloomy river. Three times he turned from thewindow to pace to and fro in the darkened room, and every time his stepsbrought him again to the casement, as if in obedience to some insistentvoice that summoned him. The fourth time, he turned from the window morequickly, with a gesture of assenting decision. 

The crackling snap of a match broke the dead stillness. The sudden flareof light stabbed the darkness. As he applied the tiny, wavering flameto the wick of a lamp that stood on the cheap, old-fashioned bureau, theman's hand shook until the chimney rattled against the wire standards ofthe burner. Turning quickly from the lighted lamp, the man sprang againto the window to jerk down the tattered, old shade. Facing about, hestood with his back to the wall, searching the room with wide, fearfuleyes. His fists were clenched. His chest rose and fell heavily with hislabored breathing. His face worked with emotion. With trembling limbsand twitching muscles, he crouched like some desperate creature at bay. 

But, save for the wretched man himself, there was in that shabby, dingy-papered, dirty-carpeted, poorly furnished apartment no livingthing. 

Suddenly, the man laughed;--and it was the reckless, despairing laughterof a soul that feels itself slipping over the brink of an abyss. 

With hurried step and outstretched hands, he crossed the room to snatcha bottle of whisky from its place beside the lamp on the bureau. Withtrembling eagerness, he poured a water tumbler half-full of the redliquor. As one dying of thirst, he drank. Drawing a deep breath, andshaking his head with a wry smile, he spoke in hoarse confidence to theimage of himself in the dingy mirror: "They nearly had me, that time. "Again, he poured, and drank. 

The whisky steadied him for the moment, and with bottle and glass stillin hand, he regarded himself in the mirror with critical interest. 

Had he stood erect, with the vigor that should have been his by right ofhis years, the man would have measured just short of six feet; but hisshoulders--naturally well set--sagged with the weariness of excessivephysical indulgence; while the sunken chest, the emaciated limbs, andthe dejected posture of his misused body made him in appearance, atleast, a wretched weakling. His clothing--of good material and welltailored--was disgustingly soiled and neglected;--the shoes thicklycoated with dried mud, and the once-white shirt, slovenly unfastened atthe throat, without collar or tie. The face which looked back from themirror to the man was, without question, the countenance of a gentleman;but the broad forehead under the unkempt red-brown hair was furrowedwith anxiety; the unshaven cheeks were lined and sunken; the finelyshaped, sensitive mouth drooped with nervous weakness; and the blue, well-placed eyes were bloodshot and glittering with the light ofnear-insanity. 

The poor creature looked at the hideous image of his ruined self asif fascinated with the horror of that which had been somehow wrought. Slowly, as one in a trance, he went closer, and, without moving his gazefrom the mirror, placed the bottle and tumbler upon the bureau. As ifcompelled by those burning eyes that stared so fixedly at him, he leanedforward still closer to the glass. Then, as he looked, the distortedfeatures twitched and worked grotesquely with uncontrollable emotions, while the quivering lips formed words that were not even whispered. Withtrembling fingers he felt the unshaven cheeks and touched the unkempthair questioningly. Suddenly, as if to shut out the horror of that whichhe saw in the mirror, the man hid his face in his hands, and with asobbing, inarticulate cry sank to the floor. 

Silently, with pitiless force, the river swept onward through the night, following its ordained way to the mighty sea. 

As if summoned again by some dark spirit that brooded over the sombre, rushing flood, the man rose heavily to his feet. His face turned oncemore toward the window. A moment he stood there, listening, listening;then wheeling back to the whisky bottle and the glass on the bureau, hequickly poured, and drank again. 

Nodding his head in the manner of one reaching a conclusion, he lookedslowly about the room, while a frightful grin of hopeless, despairingtriumph twisted his features, and his lips moved as if he breathedreckless defiance to an invisible ghostly company. 

Moving, now, with a decision and purpose that suggested a nativestrength of character, the man quickly packed a suit-case with variousarticles of clothing from the bureau drawers and the closet. He was inthe act of closing the suit-case when he stopped suddenly, and, witha shrug of his shoulders, turned away. Then, as if struck by anotherthought, he stooped again over his baggage, and drew forth a fresh, untouched bottle of whisky. 

"I guess you are the only baggage I'll need where I am going, " he said, whimsically; and, leaving the open suit-case where it lay, he crossedthe room, and extinguished the light. Cautiously, he unlocked and openedthe door. For a moment, he stood listening. Then, with the bottle hiddenunder his coat, he stole softly from the room. 

A few minutes later, the man stood out there in the night, on the bankof the river. Behind him the outlines of the scattered houses that madethe little town were lost against the dusk of the hillside. From theghostly tree-shadows that marked the opposite bank, the solemn hillsrose out of the deeper darkness of the lowlands that edged the streamin sombre mystery. There was no break in the heavy clouds to permit thegleam of a friendly star. There was no sound save the soft swish of thewater against the bank where he stood, the chirping of a bird in thenear-by willows, and the occasional splash of a leaping fish or wateranimal. But to the man there was a feeling of sound. To the lonely humanwreck standing there in the darkness, the river called--called withfearful, insistent power. 

From under the black wall of the night the dreadful flood swept out ofthe Somewhere of its beginning. Past the man the river poured its mightystrength with resistless, smoothly flowing, terrible force. Into thedarkness it swept on its awful way to the Nowhere of its ending. Foruncounted ages, the river had poured itself thus between those walls ofhills. For untold ages to come, until the end of time itself, the streamwould continue to pour its strength past that spot where the man stood. 

Out of the night, the voice of the river had called to the man, as hestood at the window of his darkened room. And the man had come, now, toanswer the call. Cautiously, he went down the bank toward the edge ofthe dark, swirling water. His purpose was unmistakable. Nor was thereany hint of faltering, now, in his manner. He had reached his decision. He knew what he had come to do. 

The man's feet were feeling the mud at the margin of the stream when hislegs touched something, and a low, rattling sound startled him. Thenhe remembered. A skiff was moored there, and he had brushed against thechain that led from the bow of the boat to the stump of a willow higherup on the bank. The man had seen the skiff, --a rude, flat-bottomedlittle craft, known to the Ozark natives as a John-boat, --just beforesunset that evening. But there had been no boat in his thoughts when hehad come to answer the call of the river, and in the preoccupation ofhis mind, as he stood there in the night beside the stream, he had notnoticed it, as it lay so nearly invisible in the darkness. Mechanically, he stooped to feel the chain with his free hand. A moment later, he hadplaced his bottle of whisky carefully in the boat, and was loosing thechain painter from the willow stump. 

"Why not?" he said to himself. "It will be easier in midstream, --andmore certain. "

Carefully, so that no sound should break the stillness, he stowed thechain in the bow, and then worked the skiff around until it pointed outinto the stream. Then, with his hands grasping the sides of the littlecraft, and the weight of his body on one knee in the stern, he pushedvigorously with his free foot against the bank and so was carried wellout from the shore. As the boat lost its momentum, the strong currentcaught it and whirled it away down the river. 

Groping in the darkness, the man found his bottle of whisky, and workingthe cork out with his pocketknife, drank long and deep. 

Already, save for a single light, the town was lost in the night. Asthe man watched that red spot on the black wall, the stream swunghis drifting boat around a bend, and the light vanished. The dreadfulmystery of the river drew close. The world of men was far, very faraway. Centuries ago, the man had faced himself in the mirror, and hadobeyed the voice that summoned him into the darkness. In fancy, now, hesaw his empty boat swept on and on. Through what varied scenes would itdrift? To what port would the mysterious will of the river carry it? Towhat end would it at last come in its helplessness?

And the man himself, --the human soul-craft, --what of him? As he hadpushed his material boat out into the stream to drift, unguided andhelpless, so, presently, he would push himself out from the shore ofall that men call life. Through what scenes would he drift? To what portwould the will of an awful invisible stream carry him? To what end wouldhe finally come, in his helplessness?

Again the man drank--and again. 

And then, with face upturned to the leaden clouds, he laughedaloud--laughed until the ghostly shores gave back his laughter, and thevoices of the night were hushed and still. 

The laughter ended with a wild, reckless, defiant yell. 

Springing to his feet in the drifting boat, the man shook his clenchedfist at the darkness, and with insane fury cursed the life he had leftbehind. 

The current whirled the boat around, and the man faced down the stream. He laughed again; and, lifting his bottle high, uttered a reckless, profane toast to the unknown toward which he was being carried by theriver in the night. 

CHAPTER III. 

A MISSING LETTER. 

Auntie Sue's little log house by the river was placed some fivehundred yards back from the stream, on a bench of land at the footof Schoolhouse Hill. From this bench, the ground slopes gently to theriver-bank, which, at this point, is sheer and high enough to be wellabove the water at flood periods. The road, winding down the hill, turns to the right at the foot of the steep grade, and leads away up theriver; and between the road and the river, on the up-stream side of thehouse, was the garden. 

At the lower corner of the garden, farthest from the house, the strongcurrent had cut a deep inward curve in the high shore-line, forming thusan eddy, which was margined on one side, at a normal stage of water, bya narrow shelf of land between the water's edge and the foot of themain bank. A flight of rude steps led down from the garden above to thisnatural landing, which, for three miles up and down the river, wasthe only point, on Auntie Sue's side of the stream, where one could goashore from a skiff. 

From the porch of the house, one, facing up the river, looked over thegently sloping garden, over the eddy lying under the high bank, and awayover a beautiful reach of water known as The Bend, --a wide, sweepingcurve which, a mile distant, is lost behind a wooded bluff where, attimes, during the vacation or hunting season, one might see the smokefrom the stone chimney of a clubhouse which was built and used by peoplewho lived in the big, noisy city many miles from the peaceful Ozarkscene. From the shore of The Bend, opposite and above Auntie Sue'splace, beyond the willows that fringe the water's edge, the lowbottom-lands extend back three-quarters of a mile to the foot of aheavily timbered ridge, beyond which rise the higher hills. But directlyacross from Auntie Sue's house, this ridge curves sharply toward thestream; while less than a quarter of a mile below, a mighty mountain-armis thrust out from a shoulder of Schoolhouse Hill, as if to barthe river's way. The high bluff thus formed is known to the nativesthroughout all that region as Elbow Rock. 

The quiet waters of The Bend move so gently on their broad course thatfrom the porch, looking up the stream, the eye could scarcely mark thecurrent. But in front of the little log house, where the restrainingbanks of the river draw closer together, the lazy current awakens toquickening movement. Looking down the stream, one could see the watersleaving the broad and quiet reaches of The Bend above and rushing awaywith fast increasing speed between the narrowing banks until, in alltheir vicious might, they dashed full against the Elbow Rock cliff, where, boiling and tossing in mad fury, they roared away at a rightangle and so around the point and on to another quiet stretch below. Andmany were the tales of stirring adventure and tragic accident at thisdangerous point of the river's journey to the far-away sea. Skilledrivermen, by holding their John-boats and canoes close to the farshore, might run the rapids with safety. But no boat, once caught in thevicious grip of the main current between the comparatively still watersof The Bend and that wild, roaring tumult at Elbow Rock, had eversurvived. 

It was nearing the close of a late summer day, and Auntie Sue, as washer custom, stood on the porch watching the sunset. In the vast field ofsky that arched above the softly rounded hills there was not a cloud. No wind stirred the leaves of the far-reaching forests, or marredthe bright waters of the quiet Bend that mirrored back the green, tree-fringed banks and blue-shadowed mountains. Faintly, through thehush, from beyond the bottom-lands on the other side of the stream, camethe long-drawn "Wh-o-e-e! Wh-o-e-e!" of farmer Jackson calling his hogs. From the hillside, back of the house, sounded the deep, mellow tones ofa cowbell, telling Auntie Sue that neighbor Tom's cattle were going homefrom their woodland pastures. A company of crows crossed the river onleisure wing, toward some evening rendezvous. A waterfowl flapped slowlyup the stream. And here and there the swallows wheeled in gracefulcircles above the gleaming Bend, or dipped, flashlike, to break thesilvery surface. As the blue of the mountains deepened to purple, andthe rosy light from below the western hills flushed the sky, the silversheen of the quiet water changed with the changing tints above, and theshadows of the trees along the bank deepened until the shore-line waslost in the dusk of the coming night. 

And even as the river gave back the light of the sky and the color ofthe mountains, so the gentle face of the gray-haired woman, who watchedwith such loving reverence, reflected the beauty of the scene. The peaceand quiet of the evening of her life was as the still loveliness of thattwilight hour. 

And, yet, there was a suggestion of pathos in the loneliness of theslender figure standing there. Now and again, she clasped her delicatehands to her breast as if moved by emotions of a too-poignant sweetness, while in her eyes shone the soft light of fondest memories and dearestdreams. Several times she turned her head to look about, as if wishingfor some one to share with her the beauty that moved her so. At last, she called; and her voice, low and pure-toned, had in it the qualitythat was in the light of her eyes. 

"Judy! Judy, dear! Do come and see this wonderful, wonderful sky!"

From within the house, a shrill, querulous, drawling voice, socharacteristic of the Southern "poor-white" mountaineer, answered:"Wha-a-t?"

A quick little smile deepened the crows'-feet at the corners of AuntieSue's eyes, as she called again with gentle patience: "Do come and seethe sunset, Judy, dear! It is so beautiful!" And, this time, in answer, Judy appeared in the doorway. 

From appearances, the poor creature's age might have been anywhere fromfifteen to thirty-five; for the twisted and misshapen body, angular andhard; the scrawny, wry neck; the old-young face, thin and sallow, withfurtive, beady-black eyes, gave no hint of her years. As a matter offact, I happened to know that Judith Taylor, daughter of the notoriousOzark moonshiner, Jap Taylor, was just past twenty the year she went tolive with Auntie Sue. 

Looking obliquely at the old gentlewoman, with a curious expression ofmingled defiance, suspicion, and affection on her almost vicious face, Judy drawled, "Was you-all a-yellin' for me?"

"Yes, Judy; I want you to help me watch the sunset, " Auntie Sueanswered, with bright animation; and, turning, she pointed toward theglowing west, --"Look!"

Judy's sly, evasive eyes did not cease to regard the illumined face ofher old companion as she returned, in her dry, high-pitched monotone: "Idon't reckon as how you-all are a-needin' much help, seein' as how youare allus a-watchin' hit. A body'd think you-all was mighty nigh old'nough, by now, ter look at hit alone. "

Auntie Sue laughed, a low, musical, chuckling laugh, and, with a hintof loving impatience in her gentle voice, replied to Judy's observation:"But, don't you understand, child? It adds so to one's happinessto share lovely scenes like this. It makes it all so much--somuch--well, --BIGGER, to have some one enjoy it with you. Come, dear!"And she held out her hand with a gesture of entreaty, and a lookof yearning upon her dear old face that no human being could havewithstood. 

Judy, still slyly watchful, went cautiously nearer; and Auntie Sue, putting an arm lovingly about the crooked shoulders of the mountaingirl, pointed again toward the west as she said, in a low voice thatvibrated with emotion, "Look, Judy! Look!"

The black eyes shifted, and the old-young, expressionless face turnedtoward the landscape, which lay before them in all its wondrous beautyof glowing sky and tinted mountain and gleaming river. And there mighthave been a faint touch of softness, now, in the querulous monotoneas Judy said: "I can't see as how hit could be ary bigger. Hain't aryreason, as I kin see, why hit should be ary bigger if hit could. Lordknows there's 'nough of hit as 't is; rough 'nough, too, as you-all 'dsure know if you-all had ter trapse over them there hills all yer lifelike I've had ter. "

"But, isn't it wonderful to-night, Judy? It seems to me I have neverseen it so perfect. "

"Hit's just like hit's allus been, so far as I kin see, 'ceptin'that the river's higher in the spring an' more muddier, " returnedthe mountain girl. "I was borned over there on yon side that thereflat-topped mountain, nigh the mouth of Red Creek. I growed up on theriver, mostly;--learned ter swim an' paddle er John-boat 'fore I kinremember. Red Creek, hit heads over there behind that there long ridge, in Injin Holler. There's a still--"

She checked herself suddenly, and shot a fearful sidewise look at AuntieSue; then turned and pointed in the opposite direction with a pretenseof excited interest. "Look down there, ma'm! See how black the old riveris where she smashes inter Elbow Rock, an' how white them waves be wherethe water biles an' throws hitself. Hit'd sure git you if you was tergit ketched in there with er John-boat, wouldn't hit? Listen, ma'm! Youkin hear hit a-roarin' like hit was mad, can't you?"

But the older woman turned to face, again, the quiet reaches of TheBend. 

"I think I like The Bend best, though, Judy. See how perfectly thosetrees and hills are mirrored in the river; and how the water holdsthe color of the sky. Don't you think God is good to make the world sobeautiful for us, child?"

"'Beautiful'!" cried poor, deformed Judy, in a voice that shrilled invicious protest. "If there is a God, like you-all are allus a-talkin''bout, an' if He sure 'nough made them things, like you-all sees 'em, Hesure hain't toted fair with me. "

"Hush, Judy!" pleaded Auntie Sue. "Please don't, child!"

But the mountain girl rebelliously continued: "Look at me! Just look atme! If that there God of your'n is so all-fired good, what did He go an'let my pap git drunk for, an' beat me like he done when I was a baby, an' make me grow up all crooked like what I be? 'Good'? Hell! A dadburned ornery kind of a God I call Him!"

For some time, Auntie Sue did not speak, but stood with her faceupturned to the sky. Then the low, gentle voice again broke the silence:"See, Judy, dear; the light is almost gone now, and there is not a cloudanywhere. Yesterday evening, you remember, we could not see the sunsetat all, the clouds were so heavy and solid. The moon will be lovelyto-night. I think I shall wait for it. "

"You-all best set down then, " said Judy, speaking again in herquerulous, drawling monotone. "I'll fetch a chair. " She brought acomfortable rustic rocking-chair from the farther end of the porch; thendisappeared into the house, to return a moment later with a heavy shawl. "Hit'll be a-turnin' cold directly, now the sun's plumb down, " she said, "an' you-all mustn't get to chillin', nohow. "

Auntie Sue thanked her with gentle courtesy, and, reaching up, caughtthe girl's hand as Judy was awkwardly arranging the wrap about the thinold shoulders. "Won't you bring a chair for yourself, and sit withme awhile, dear?" As she spoke, Auntie Sue patted the hard, bony handcaressingly. 

But Judy pulled her hand away roughly, saying: "You-all ain't got nocall ter do sich as that ter me. I'll set awhile with you but I ain'ta-needin' no chair. " And with that, she seated herself on the floor, herback against the wall of the house. 

The last of the evening was gone from the sky, now. The soft darkness ofa clear, star-light night lay over the land. A gentle breeze stole overthe mountains, rustled softly through the forest, and, drifting acrossthe river, touched Auntie Sue's silvery hair. 

Judy was first to break the silence: "I took notice neighbor Tom brungyou-all a right smart bunch of letter mail this evenin', " she said, curiously. 

There was a troubled note in Auntie Sue's gentle voice as she returned, "The letter from the bank did not come, Judy. "

"Hit didn't?"

"No; and, Judy, it is nearly four weeks, now, since I sent them thatmoney. I can't understand it. "

"I was plumb scared at the time, you oughten ter sent hit just iner letter that a-way. Hit sure looked like a heap of money ter bea-trustin' them there ornery post-office fellers with, even if hit wasfunny, new-fangled money like that there was. Why, ma'm, you take oldTod Stimson, down at the Ferry, now, an' that old devil'd steal anythin'what warn't too much trouble for him ter lift. "

"Argentine notes the money was, Judy. I felt sure that it would be allright because, you know, Brother John sent it just in a letter all theway from Buenos Aires. And, you remember, I folded it up in extra heavypaper, and put it in two envelopes, one over the other, and mailed it atThompsonville with my own hands. "

"Hit sure looks like hit ought ter be safe er nough, so long as hitwarn't mailed at the Ferry where old Stimson could git his hands onhit, " agreed Judy. 

Then, after a silence of several minutes, she added, in a morereassuring voice: "I reckon as how hit'll be all right, ma'm. I wouldn'tworry myself, if I was you. That there bank-place, like as not, gits erright smart lot of letters, an' hit stands ter reason the feller justnaturally can't write back ter ev'rybody at once. "

"Of course, " agreed Auntie Sue. "It is just some delay in theiracknowledgment, that is all. Perhaps they are waiting to find out if thenotes are genuine; or it may be that their letter to me went astray, andwill have to be returned to them, and then remailed all over again. Ifeel sure I shall hear from them in a few days. "

So they talked until the moon appeared from behind the dark mountainsthat, against her light, were silhouetted on the sky. And, as the oldgentlewoman watched the queen of the night rising higher and higheron her royal course, and saw the dusky landscape transformed to afairy-scene of ethereal loveliness, Auntie Sue forgot the letter thathad not come. 

With the enthusiasm that never failed her, the silvery-haired teachertried to give the backwoods girl a little of her wealth of vision. Butthough they looked at the same landscape, the eyes of twenty couldnot see that which was so clear to the eyes of seventy. Poor Judy! Theriver, sweeping on its winding way through the hills, from the springsof its far-away beginnings to the ocean of its final endeavor, --in allits varied moods and changes, --in all its beauty and its irresistiblepower, --the river could never mean to Judy what it meant to Auntie Sue. 

"Hit sure is er fine night for to go 'possum huntin', " said the girl, atlast, getting to her feet and standing in her twisted attitude, with herwry neck holding her head to one side. "Them there Jackson boys'll surebe out. "

Auntie Sue laughed her low chuckling laugh. 

From the edge of the timber that borders the fields of the bottom-landsacross the river, came the baying of hounds. "There they be now, " saidJudy. "Hear 'em? The Billingses, 'cross from the clubhouse, 'll be out, too, I reckon. When hit's moonlight, they're allus a-huntin' 'possuman' 'coon. When hit's dark, they're out on the river a-giggin' for fish. Well, I reckon I'll be a-goin' in, now, ma'm, " she concluded, with ayawn. "Ain't no use in a body stayin' up when there ain't nothin' ter dobut ter sleep, as I kin see. "

With an awkward return to Auntie Sue's "Goodnight and sweet dreams, dear, " the mountain girl went into the house. 

For an hour longer, the old gentlewoman sat on the porch of her littlelog house by the river, looking out over the moonlit scene. Nor did shenow, as when she had watched the sunset, crave human companionship. Inspirit, she was far from all earthly needs or cares, --where no troubledthoughts could disturb her serene peace and her dearest dreams werereal. 

The missing letter was forgotten. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE WILL OF THE RIVER. 

Had Auntie Sue remained a few minutes longer on the porch, that evening, she might have seen an object drifting down the river, in the gentlecurrent of The Bend. 

Swinging easily around the curve above the clubhouse, it would not havebeen visible at first, because of the deep shadows of the reflectedtrees and mountains. But, presently, as it drifted on into the broaderwaters of The Bend, it emerged from the shadows into the open moonlitspace, and then, to any one watching from the porch, the dark object, drawing nearer and nearer in the bright moonlight, would have soonshaped itself into a boat--an empty boat, the watcher would have said, that had broken from its moorings somewhere up the river;--and thewatcher would have heard, through the still, night air, the dull, heavyroar of the mad waters at Elbow Rock. 

Drifting thus, helpless in the grip of the main current, the littlecraft apparently was doomed to certain destruction. Gently, it wouldfloat on the easy surface of the quiet, moonlit Bend. In front of thehouse, it would move faster and faster. Where the river narrows, itwould be caught as if by mighty hands hidden beneath the rushing flood, and dragged onward still faster and faster. About it, the racing waterswould leap and boil in their furious, headlong career, shaking andtossing the helpless victim of their might with a vicious strength fromwhich there would be no escape, until, in the climax of the river'smadness, the object of its angry sport would be dashed against thecliff, and torn, and crushed, and hammered by the terrific weight of therushing flood against that rocky anvil, into a battered and shapelesswreck. 

The drifting boat drew nearer and nearer. It reached the point where thecurve of the opposite bank draws in to form the narrow raceway of therapids. It began to feel the stronger pull of those hidden handsthat had carried it so easily down The Bend. And then--and then--theunguided, helpless craft responded to the gentle pressure of some swirlor crosscurrent in the main flow of the stream, and swung a littleto one side. A few feet farther, and the new impulse became stronger. Yielding easily to the current that drew it so gently across theinvisible dividing-line between safety and destruction, the boatswung in toward the shore. A minute more, and it had drifted into thatencircling curve of the bank where the current of the eddy carried itaround and around. 

The boat seemed undecided. Would it hold to the harbor of safety intowhich it had been drawn by the friendly current? Would it swing out, again, into the main stream, and so to its own destruction?

Three times the bow, pointing out from the eddy, crossed thedanger-line, and, for a moment, hung on the very edge. Three times, theinvisible hands which held it drew it gently back to safety. And so, finally, the little craft, so helpless, so alone, amid the many currentsof the great river, came to rest against the narrow shelf of land at thefoot of the bank below Auntie Sue's garden. 

The light in the window of Auntie Sue's room went out. The softmoonlight flooded mountain and valley and stream. The mad waters atElbow Rock roared in their wild fury. Always, always, --irresistibly, inevitably, unceasingly, --the river poured its strength toward the sea. 

CHAPTER V. 

AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN. 

Before the sun was high enough to look over Schoolhouse Hill, the nextmorning, Judy went into the garden to dig some potatoes. 

Tom Warden's boys would come, some day before long, and dig them all, and put them away in the cellar for the winter. But there was no need tohurry the gathering of the full crop, so the boys would come when it wasmost convenient; and, in the meantime, Judy would continue to dig fromday to day all that were needed for the kitchen in the little log houseby the river. In spite of her poor crooked body, the mountain girl wasstrong and well used to hard work, so the light task was, for her, nohardship at all. 

As one will when first coming out of doors in the morning, Judy pauseda moment to look about. The sky, so clear and bright the evening before, was now a luminous gray. The mountains were lost in a ghostly world offog, through which the river moved in stealthy silence, --a dull thingof mystery, with only here and there a touch of silvery light upon itsclouded surface. The cottonwoods and willows, on the opposite shore, were mere dreams of trees, --gray, formless, and weird. The air wasfilled with the dank earth-smell. The heavy thundering roar of thenever-ending war of the waters at Elbow Rock came louder and moremenacing, but strangely unreal, as if the mist itself were filled withthreatening sound. 

But to Judy, the morning was only the beginning of another day;--shelooked, but did not see. To her, the many ever-changing moods of Naturewere without meaning. With her basket in hand, she went down to thelower end of the garden, where she had dug potatoes the time before, andwhere she had left the fork sticking upright in the ground. 

A few minutes served to fill the basket; but, before starting back tothe house, the mountain girl paused again to look out over the river. Perhaps it was some vague memory of Auntie Sue's talk, the nightbefore, that prompted her; perhaps it was some instinct, indefinite andobscure;--whatever it was that influenced her, Judy left her basket, andwent to the brink of the high bank above the eddy for a closer view ofthe water. 

The next instant, with the quick movement of an untamed creature of hernative mountain forests, the girl sprang back, and crouched close tothe ground to hide from something she had seen at the foot of the bank. Every movement of her twisted body expressed amazement and fear. Hereyes were wild and excited. She looked carefully about, as if fordangers that might be hidden in the fog. Once, she opened her mouth asif to call. Half-rising, she started as if to run to the house. But, presently, curiosity apparently overruled her fear, and, throwingherself flat on the ground she wormed her way back to the brink of theriver-bank. Cautiously, without making a sound, she peered through thetall grass and weeds that fringed the rim above the eddy. 

The boat, which some kindly impulse of the river had drawn so gentlyaside from the stronger current that would have carried it down therapids to the certain destruction waiting at Elbow Rock, still restedwith its bow grounded on the shore, against which the eddying water hadpushed it. But the thing that had so startled Judy was a man who waslying, apparently unconscious, on the wet and muddy bottom-boards of thelittle craft. 

Breathlessly, the girl, looking down from the top of the bank, watchedfor some movement; but the dirty huddled heap of wretched humanitywas so still that she could not guess whether it was living or dead. Fearfully, she noted that there were no oars in the boat, nor gun, norfishing-tackle of any sort. The man's hat was missing. His clothing wasmuddy and disarranged. His position was such that she could not see theface. 

Drawing back, Judy looked cautiously about; then, picking up a heavyclod of dirt from the ploughed edge of the garden, and crouching againat the brink of the bank, ready for instant flight, she threw theclod into the water near the boat. The still form in the boat made nomovement following the splash. Selecting a smaller clod, the girl threwthe bit of dirt into the stern of the boat itself, where it broke infragments. And, at this, the figure moved slightly. 

"Hit's alive, all right, " commented Judy to herself, with a grin ofsatisfaction, at the result of her investigation. "But hit's sure timehe was a-gittin' up. "

Carefully selecting a still smaller bit of dirt, she deliberately tossedit at the figure itself. Her aim was true, and the clod struck theman on the shoulder, with the result that he stirred uneasily, and, muttering something which Judy could not hear, half-turned on his backso that the girl saw the haggard, unshaven face. She saw, too, that, inone hand, the man clutched an empty whisky bottle. 

At sight of the bottle, the mountain girl rose to her feet with anunderstanding laugh. "Hell!" she said aloud; "drunk, --that's all--deaddrunk. I'll sure fetch him out of hit. " And then, grinning withmalicious delight, she proceeded to pelt the man in the boat withclods of dirt until he scrambled to a sitting posture, and looked up inbewildered confusion. 

"If you please, " he said, in a hoarse voice, to the sallow, old-youngface that grinned down at him from the top of the bank, "which one ofthe Devil's imps are you?"

As she looked into that upturned face, Judy's grin vanished. "I sure'lowed as how you-all was dead, " she explained. 

"Well, " returned the man in the boat, wearily, "I can assure you thatit's not in the least my fault if I disappoint you. I feel as bad aboutit as you do. However, I don't think I am so much alive that it makesany material difference. " He lifted the whisky bottle, and studied itthoughtfully. 

"You-all come dad burned near not bein' ary bit alive, " returned thegirl. 

"Yes?" said the man, inquiringly. 

"Yep; you sure did come mighty nigh hit. If your old John-boat hada-carried you-all on down ter Elbow Rock, 'stead of bein' ketched inthe eddy here, you-all would sure 'nough been a-talkin' to the Devil bynow. "

The man, looking out over the river into the fog, muttered to himself, "I can't even make a success of dying, it seems. "

Again, he regarded the empty bottle in his hand with studied interest. Then, tossing the bottle into the river, he looked up, once more, to thegirl on the bank above. 

"Listen, sister!" he said, nervously. "Is there any place around herewhere I can buy a drink? I need something rather badly. Where am I, anyway?"

"You-all are at Auntie Sue's place, " said Judy; "an' there sure ain't nochance for you-all ter git ary licker here. Where'd you-all come from, anyhow? How'd you-all git here 'thout no oars ner paddle ner nothin'?Where was you-all aimin' ter go?"

"Your questions, my good girl, are immaterial and irrelevant, "returned the man in the boat. "The all-important matter before us forconsideration is, --how can I get a drink? I MUST have a drink, I tellyou!" He held up his hands, and they were shaking as if with palsy. "AndI must have it damned quick!"

"You-all sure do talk some powerful big words, " said Judy, with criticalinterest. "You-all sure must be some eddecated. Auntie Sue, now, shetalks--"

The man interrupted her: "Who is 'Auntie Sue'?"

"I don't know, " Judy returned; "she's just Auntie Sue--that's all Iknow. She sure is--"

Again the man interrupted: "I think it would be well for me tointerview this worthy aunt of yours. " And then, while he raised himself, unsteadily, to his feet, he continued, in a muttering undertone: "Youdon't seem to appreciate the situation. If I don't get some sort ofliquor soon, things are bound to happen. "

He attempted to step from the boat to the shore; but the instability ofthe light, flat-bottomed skiff, together with his own unsteady weakness, combined to land him half in the water and half on the muddy bank wherehe struggled helplessly, and, in his weakened condition, would haveslipped wholly into the river had not Judy rushed down the rude steps tohis assistance. 

With a strength surprising in one of her apparent weakness, the mountaingirl caught the stranger under his shoulders and literally draggedhim from the water. When she had further helped him to his feet, Judysurveyed the wretched object of her beneficence with amused and curiousinterest. 

The man, with his unkempt hair, unshaven, haggard face, bloodshot eyes, and slovenly dishevelled dress, had appeared repulsive enough while inthe boat; but, now, as he stood dripping with water and covered withmud, there was a touch of the ridiculous in his appearance that broughta grin to the unlovely face of his rescuer, and caused her to exclaimwith unnecessary frankness: "I'll be dad burned if you-all ain't a thingter look at, mister!"

As the poor creature, who was shaking as if with the ague, regarded thetwisted form, the wry neck, and the sallow, old-young face of thegirl, who was laughing at him, a gleam of sardonic humor flashed inhis bloodshot eyes. "Thanks, " he said, huskily; "you are something of avision yourself, aren't you?"

The laughter went from Judy's face as she caught the meaning of thecruel words. "I ain't never laid no claim ter bein' a beauty, " sheretorted in her shrill, drawling monotone. "But, I kin tell you-all onething, mister: Hit was God-A'mighty Hisself an' my drunken pap what mademe ter look like I do. While you, --damn you!--you-all just naturallymade yourself what you be. "

At the mountain girl's illiterate words, so pregnant with meaning, aremarkable change came over the face and manner of the man. His voice, even, for the moment, lost its huskiness, and vibrated with sincerefeeling as he steadied himself; and, bowing with courteous deference, said: "I beg your pardon, miss. That was unkind. You really should haveleft me to the river. "

"You-all would a-drownded, sure, if I had, " she retorted, somewhatmollified by the effect of her observation. 

"Which, " he returned, "would have been so beautifully right and fittingthat it evidently could not be. " And with this cynical remark, hismomentary bearing of self-respect was gone. 

"Are you-all a-meanin' ter say that you-all was a-wantin' ter drown?"

"Something like that, " he returned. And then, with a hint of ugliness inhis voice and eyes, he rasped: "But, look here, girl! do you think I'mgoing to stand like this all day indulging in idle conversation withyou? Where is this aunt of yours? Can't you see that I've got to have adrink?"

He started uncertainly toward the steps that led to the top of the bank, and Judy, holding him by his arm, helped him to climb the steep way. Apart of the ascent he made on hands and knees. Several times he wouldhave fallen except for the girl's support. But, at last, they gained thetop, and stood in the garden. 

"That there is the house, " said Judy, pointing. "But I don't reckon ashow you-all kin git ary licker there. "

The wretched man made no reply; but, with Judy still supporting him, stumbled forward across the rows of vegetables. 

The two had nearly reached the steps at the end of the porch whenAuntie Sue came from the house to see why Judy did not return with thepotatoes. The dear old lady paused a moment, startled at the presence ofthe unprepossessing stranger in her garden. Then, with an exclamation ofpity, she hurried to meet them. 

The man, whose gaze as he shambled along was fixed on the ground, didnot notice Auntie Sue until, feeling Judy stop, he also paused, andraising his head looked full at the beautiful old lady. 

"Why, Judy!" cried Auntie Sue, her low, sweet voice filled with gentleconcern. "What in the world has happened?"

With an expression of questioning bewilderment and rebuke on his haggardface, the man also turned to the mountain girl beside him. 

"I found him in er John-boat what done come ashore last night, downthere in the eddy, " Judy explained to Auntie Sue. To the man, she said:"This here is Auntie Sue, mister; but, I don't reckon as how she's gotary licker for you. "

"'Liquor'?" questioned Auntie Sue. "What in the world do you mean, child?" Then quickly to the stranger;--"My dear man, you are wringingwet. You must have been in the river. Come, come right in, and let us dosomething for you. " As she spoke, she went toward him with outstretchedhands. 

But the wretched creature shrank back from her, as if in fear;--hiswhole body shaking with emotion; his fluttering hands raised in agesture of imploring protest;--while the eyes that looked up at thesaintly countenance of the old gentlewoman were the eyes of a soulsunken in the deepest hell of shame and humiliation. 

Shocked with pitying horror, Auntie Sue paused. 

The man's haggard, unshaven face twitched and worked with the pain ofhis suffering. He bit his lips and fingered his quivering chin in a vaineffort at self-control; and then, as he looked up at her, the sunken, bloodshot eyes filled with tears that the tormented spirit had no powerto check. 

And Auntie Sue turned her face away. 

For a little, they stood so. Then, as Auntie Sue faced him again, thestranger, with a supreme effort of his will, gained a momentary controlof his shattered nerves. Drawing himself erect and standing steady andtall before her, he raised a hand to his uncovered head as if to removehis hat. When his hand found no hat to remove, he smiled as if at somejest at his own expense. 

"I am so sorry, madam, " he said, --and his voice was musically clear andcultured. "Please pardon me for disturbing you? I did not know. Thisyoung woman should have explained. You see, when she spoke of 'AuntieSue, ' I assumed, of course, --I mean, --I expected to find a native womanwho would--" He paused, smiling again, as if to assure her that he fullyappreciated the humor of his ridiculous predicament. 

"But, my dear sir, " cried Auntie Sue, eagerly, "there is nothing topardon. Please do come into the house and let us help you. "

But the stranger drew back, shaking his head sadly. "You do notunderstand, madam. It is not that my clothes are unpresentable, --it isI, myself, who am unfit to stand in your presence, much less to enteryour house. I thank you, but I must go. "

He was turning away, when Auntie Sue reached his side and placed hergentle old hand lightly on his arm. 

"Please, won't you come in, sir? I shall never forgive myself if I letyou go like this. "

The man's voice was hoarse and shaking, now, as he answered: "For God'ssake, madam, don't touch me! Let me go! You must! I--I--am not myself!You might not be safe with me! Ask her--she knows!" He turned to Judy. 

"He's done said hit, ma'm, " said Judy, in answer to Auntie Sue'squestioning look. "My pap, he was that way when he done smashed me upagin the wall, when I was nothin' but a baby, an' hit made me grow upall crooked an' ugly like what I be now. "

With one shamed glance at Auntie Sue, the wretched fellow looked downat the ground. His head drooped forward. His shoulders sagged. His wholebody seemed to shrink. Turning sadly away, he again started back towardthe river. 

"Stop!" Auntie Sue's voice rang out imperiously. 

The man halted. 

"Look at me, " she commanded. 

Slowly, he raised his eyes. The gentle old teacher spoke with finespirit, now, but kindly still: "This is sheer nonsense, my boy. Youwouldn't hurt me. Why, you couldn't! Of course, you are not yourself;but, do you think that I do not know a gentleman when I meet one?Come--" She held out her hand. 

A moment he stood, gazing at her in wondering awe. Then hisfar-overtaxed strength failed;--his abused nerves refused to bearmore, --and he sank, --a pitiful, cowering heap at her feet. Hiding hisface in his shaking hands, he sobbed like a child. 

CHAPTER VI. 

IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 

Those two women managed, somehow, to get the almost helpless strangerinto the house, where Auntie Sue, after providing him with nightclothes, left by one of her guests, by tactful entreaty and judicial commands, persuaded him to go to bed. 

Then followed several days and nights of weary watching. There weretimes when the man lay with closed eyes, so weak and exhausted that heseemed to be drifting out from these earthly shores on the deep watersof that wide and unknown sea into which all the streams of life finallyflow. But, always, Auntie Sue miraculously held him back. There wereother times when, by all the rules of the game, he should have worn astrait-jacket;--when his delirium filled the room with all mannerof horrid creatures from the pit; when leering devils and loathsomeserpents and gibbering apes tormented him until his unnatural strengthwas the strength of a fiend, and his tortured nerves shrieked in agony. But Auntie Sue perversely ignored the rules of the game. And never didthe man, even in his most terrible moments, fail to recognize in themidst of the hellish crew of his diseased imagination the silvery-hairedold teacher as the angel of his salvation. Her gentle voice had alwayspower to soothe and calm him. He obeyed her implicitly, and, like afrightened child, holding fast to her hand would beg piteously for herto protect and save him. 

But no word of the man's low-muttered, broken sentences, nor of hiswildest ravings, ever gave Auntie Sue a clue to his identity. Shesearched his clothes, but there was not a thing to give her even hisname. 

And, yet, that first day, when Judy would have gone to neighbor Tom'sfor help, Auntie Sue said "No. " She even positively forbade the girl tomention the stranger's presence in the house, should she chance to talkwith passing neighbors. "The river brought him to us, Judy, dear, " shesaid. "We must save him. No one shall know his shame, to humiliate andwound his pride and drag him down after he is himself again. Until hehas recovered and is once more the man I believe him to be, no one mustsee him or know that he is here; and no one must ever know how he cameto us. "

And late, one evening, when Judy was fast asleep, and the man was lyingvery still after a period of feverish tossing and muttering, the dearold gentlewoman crept quietly out of the house into the night. She wasgone some time, and when she returned again to the stranger's bedsideshe was breathless and trembling as from some unusual exertion. And thefollowing afternoon, when Judy came to her with the announcement thatthe boat which had brought the man to them was no longer in the eddybelow the garden, Auntie Sue said, simply, that she was glad it wasgone, and cautioned the girl, again, that the stranger's presence in thehouse must not be made known to any one. 

When the mountain girl protested, saying, "You-all ain't got no call terbe a-wearin' yourself ter the bone a-takin' care of such as him, " AuntieSue answered, "Hush, Judy! How do you know what the poor boy really is?"

To which Judy retorted: "He's just triflin' an' ornery an' no 'count, that's what he is, or he sure wouldn't been a-floatin' 'round in thatthere old John-boat 'thout ary gun, or fishin' lines, or hat even, tersay nothin' of that there whisky bottle bein' plumb empty. "

Auntie Sue made no reply to the mountain girl's harsh summing-up of thedamning evidence against the stranger, but left her and went softly tothe bedside of their guest. 

It was perhaps an hour later that Judy, quietly entering the room, happened upon a scene that caused her to stand as if rooted to the spotin open-mouthed amazement. 

The man was sleeping, and the silvery-haired old maiden-lady, seatedon the side of the bed, was bending over the unconscious stranger andgently stroking his tumbled, red-brown hair, even as a mother mightlovingly caress her sleeping child. And then, as Judy watched, breathless with wonder, the proud old gentlewoman, bending closer overthat still form on the bed, touched her lips--soft as a rose-petal--tothe stranger's brow. 

When she arose and saw Judy standing there, Auntie Sue's delicate oldcheeks flushed with color, and her eyes were shining. With a gesture, she commanded the girl to silence, and the two tiptoed from the room. When they were outside, and Auntie Sue had cautiously closed the door, she faced the speechless Judy with a deliciously defiant air that couldnot wholly hide her lovely confusion. 

"I--I--was thinking, Judy, how he--how he--might have been--my son. "

"Your 'son'!" ejaculated the girl. "Why, ma'm, you-all ain't never evenbeen married, as I've ever hearn tell, have you?"

Auntie Sue drew her thin shoulders proudly erect, and, lifting her fineold face, answered the challenging question with splendid spirit: "No, Ihave never been married; but I might have been; and if I had, I supposeI could have had a son, couldn't I?"

The vanquished Judy retreated to the kitchen, where, in safety, she sankinto a chair, convulsed with laughter, which she instinctively muffledin her apron. 

Then came the day when the man, weak and worn with his struggle, lookedup at his gentle old nurse with the light of sanity in his deepblue eyes. Very tired eyes they were, and filled with painfulmemories, --filled, too, with worshipping gratitude and wonder. 

She smiled down at him with delighted triumph, and drawing a chair closebeside the bed, seated herself and placed her soft hand on his where itlay on the coverlid. 

"You are much better, this morning, " she said cheerily. "You will soonbe all right, now. " And as she looked into the eyes that regarded hersso questioningly, there was in her face and manner no hint of doubt, orpretense, or reproach;--only confidence and love. 

He spoke slowly, as if feeling for words: "I have been in Hell; andyou--you have brought me out. Why did you do it?"

"Because you are mine, " she answered, with her low chuckling laugh. Itwas so good to have him able to talk to her rationally after those longhours of fighting. 

"Because I am yours?" he repeated, puzzling over her words. 

"Yes, " she returned, with a hint of determined proprietorship in hervoice; "because you belong to me. You see, that eddy where your boatlanded is my property, and so anything that drifts down the river andlodges there belongs to me. Whatever the river brings to me, is mine. The river brought you, and so--" She finished with another laugh, --alaugh that was filled with tender mother-yearning. 

The blue eyes smiled back at her for a moment; then she saw them darkenwith painful memories. 

"Oh, yes; the river, " he said. "I wanted the river to do something forme, and--and it did something quite different from what I wanted. "

"Of course, " she returned, eagerly, "the river is always like that. Italways does the thing you don't expect it to do. Just like life itself. Don't you see? It begins somewhere away off at some little spring, andjust keeps going and going and going; and thousands and thousands ofother springs, scattered all over the country, start streams and creeksand branches that run into it, and make it bigger and bigger, as itwinds and curves and twists along, until it finally reaches the greatsea, where its waters are united with all the waters from all the riversin all the world. And in all of its many, many miles, from that firsttiny spring to the sea, there are not two feet of it exactly alike. In all the centuries of its being, there are never two hours alike. Aninfinite variety of days and nights--an infinite variety of skies andlight and clouds and daybreaks and sunsets--an infinite number andvariety of currents and shoals and deep places and quiet spots anddangerous rapids and eddies--and, along its banks, an endless changeof hills and mountains and flats and forests and meadows and farms andcities--and--" She paused, breathless. And then, when he did not speak, but only watched her, she continued: "Don't you see? Of course, theriver never could be what you expect, any more than life could beexactly what you want and dream it will be. "

"Who in the world are you?" he asked, wonderingly. "And what in theworld are you doing here in the backwoods?"

Smiling at his puzzled expression, she answered: "I am Auntie Sue. I amLIVING here in the backwoods. "

"But, your real name? Won't you tell me your name? I must know how toaddress you. "

"Oh, my name is Susan E. Wakefield--MISS Wakefield, if you please. Ishall be seventy-one years old the eighteenth day of next November. Andyou must call me 'Auntie Sue, '--just as every one else does. "

"Wakefield--Wakefield--where have I seen that name?" He wrinkled hisbrow in an effort to remember. "Wakefield--I feel sure that I have heardit, somewhere. "

"It is not unlikely, " she returned, lightly. "It is not at all anuncommon name. And now that I am properly introduced, don't youthink--?"

He hesitated a moment, then said, deliberately, "My name is Brian Kent. "

"That is an Irish name, " she said quickly; "and that is why your hair isso nearly red and your eyes so blue. "

"Yes, " he returned, "from my mother. And please don't ask me more now, for I can't lie to you, and I won't tell you the truth. " And she saw, again, the dark shadows of painful memories come into the blue eyes. 

Bending over the bed, she laid her soft hand on his brow, and pushedback his heavy hair; and her sweet old voice was very low and gentle asshe said: "My dear boy, I shall never ask you more. The river broughtyou to me, and you are mine. You must not even think of anything else, just now. When you are stronger, and are ready, we will talk of yourfuture; but of your past, you--"

A loud knock sounded at the door of the living room. 

"There is someone at the door, " she said hastily. "I must go. Lie still, and go to sleep like a good boy; won't you?"

Swiftly, she leaned over, and, before he realized, he felt her lipstouch his forehead. Then she was gone, and Brian Kent's Irish eyes werefilled with tears. Turning to the wall, he hid his face in the pillow. 

CHAPTER VII. 

OFFICERS OF THE LAW. 

As Auntie Sue was closing the door of her guest's room carefully behindher, Judy came from the kitchen in great excitement, and the knocking atthe front door of the house was repeated. 

"Hit's the Sheriff, ma'm, " whispered Judy. "I was just a-comin' ter tellyou. I seed 'em from the kitchen-winder. He's got two other men withhim. Their hosses is tied ter the fence in front. What in hell will wedo, now? They are after him in there, sure 's death!"

Auntie Sue's face was white, and her lips trembled, --but only for amoment. 

"Go back into the kitchen, Judy, and stay there, " she commanded, in awhisper; and went to open the front door as calmly as if nothing unusualhad happened. 

Sheriff Knox was a big man, with a bluff, kindly manner, and a voicethat made nothing of closed doors. He returned Auntie Sue's greetingheartily, and, with one of his companions, --a quiet, business-lookinggentleman, --accepted her cordial invitation to come in. The third man ofthe party remained near the saddle-horses at the gate. 

"Well, Auntie Sue, " said the Sheriff, settling his ponderous bulk in oneof the old lady's rocking-chairs, which certainly was not built to carrysuch a weight, "how are you? I haven't seen you in a coon's age. I'llswear, though, you ain't a minute older than you was when you firstbegun teachin' the little Elbow Rock school up there on the hill, areyou?"

"I don't know, Sheriff, " Auntie Sue returned, with a nervous littlelaugh. "I sometimes think that I am a few days older. I have watched agood many sunsets since then, you know. "

The big officer's laughter almost shook the log walls of the house. Tohis quiet companion, who had taken a chair near the window, he said:"I'll have to tell you, Ross, that Auntie Sue owns every sunset in theseOzark Mountains. What was it you paid for them?" He turned again totheir smiling hostess. "Oh, yes; fifty cents an acre for the land andfourteen dollars and a half for the sunsets. You'll have to be blamedcareful not to trespass on the sunsets in this neighborhood, Ross. "Again, his hearty laugh roared out, while his chair threatened tocollapse with the quaking of his massive body. 

The gentleman seated at the window laughed quietly, in sympathy. 

"You'll be all right, though, Ross, " the Sheriff continued, "as longas you're with me. Auntie Sue and me have been friends for about twentyyear, now. I always stop to see her whenever I'm passing through theElbow Rock neighborhood, if I ain't in too big a hurry. Stayed with hera week, once, five years ago, when we was after that Lewis gang. She knows I'd jail any man on earth that would even touch one of hersunsets. "

Then, as if the jesting allusion to his office reminded him of hisprofessional duties, he added: "I plumb forgot, Auntie Sue, thisgentleman is Mr. Ross. He is one of William J. Burns's crack detectives. Don't be scared, though, he ain't after you. "

Auntie Sue, while joining in the laughter, and acknowledging theintroduction, regarded the business-looking gentleman by the window withintense interest. 

"I think, " she said, slowly, --and the sweetness of her low, culturedvoice was very marked in contrast to the Sheriff's thundering tones, --"Ithink, sir, that this is the first time in my life that I ever saw areal detective. I have read about them, of course. "

Mr. Ross was captivated by the charm of this beautiful old gentlewoman, who regarded him with such child-like interest, and who spoke with suchsweet frankness and dignity. Smilingly, he returned:

"I fear, madam, that you would find me very disappointing. No one that Iever knew in my profession could hope to live up to the reputationgiven us by the story-books. No secret service man living can remotelyapproximate the deeds performed by the detectives of fiction. We arevery, very human, I can assure you. "

"I am sure that you, at least, must be very kind, " returned AuntieSue, gently. And the cheeks of the experienced officer flushed like thecheeks of a schoolboy. 

"Mr. Ross, Auntie Sue, " said the Sheriff, "is, as I was telling you, oneof William J. Burns's big men. "

Auntie Sue gave her attention to her big friend: "Yes?"

The Sheriff continued: "Now, the Burns people, you see, protect thebanks all over the country. "

"Yes?" came, again, in a tone so low and gentle that the monosyllablewas scarcely heard. 

The officer's loud voice went on: "And Mr. Ross, here, works most ofhis time on these bank cases. Just now, he is trailing a fellow that gotaway with a lot of money from the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, ofChicago, about a month ago;--that is, the man disappeared about a monthago. He had been stealing along from the bank for about a year, --worked, for them, you see. "

"The Empire Consolidated Savings Bank!" Auntie Sue spoke the words ina voice that was little more than a whisper. It was to the EmpireConsolidated Savings Bank that she had sent the money which she hadreceived from her brother in Buenos Aires; and Homer T. Ward, thepresident of that bank, was one of her old pupils. Why, her strangerguest, in the other room there, was that very moment wearing one of thebank president's nightshirts. 

"And do you"--Auntie Sue addressed the detective--"do you know the man'sname, Mr. Ross?"

"Oh, yes, " returned the officer, "his name is Brian Kent. "

Some source of strength, deep-hidden in her gentle nature, enabledAuntie Sue to control her emotions, though her voice broke a little asshe slowly repeated the man's name, "Brian Kent. And do I understand, sir, that you have traced the man to this--neighborhood?"

The detective was too skilled not to notice Auntie Sue's manner and thebreak in her voice; but he never dreamed that this old gentlewoman'sagitation was caused by a deeper interest than a quite natural fear thata dangerous criminal might be lurking in the immediate vicinity. 

"Not exactly, Mrs. --ah--"

"Miss Wakefield, "--she supplied her name with a smile. 

With a courteous bow, the detective continued: "We do not know for surethat the man is in this neighborhood, Miss Wakefield. There is really nocause for you to be alarmed. Even if he should call at your house, here, you need not be frightened, for I assure you the man is not at all adangerous character. "

"I am glad, " said Auntie Sue; and she laughed a little with a reliefmore genuine than her callers knew. 

Detective Ross continued as if anxious to finish his unpleasant duty:"It is too bad for us to be disturbing you with this business, MissWakefield, and I hope you will forgive us; but, the case is like this:We traced our man to the little town of Borden, some forty miles up theriver from here. He disappeared from the hotel one night, leaving hissuit-case and, apparently, everything he had with him, and not asoul that we can find has seen him since. Of course, everybody says'suicide. ' He had been drinking heavily and acting rather queer the twoor three days he was at the hotel, --it seems. But I am not willing, yet, to accept the suicide idea as final, because it would be too easy forhim to give things that appearance in order to throw us off; and I can'tget away from the fact that a John-boat that was tied to the bank nearthe hotel managed to break loose and drift off down the river that samenight. Working on my theory, we are following down the river, tryingto get trace of either the boat or the man. So far, we haven't heard ofeither, which rather strengthens me in my belief that the boat and theman went away together. He is probably traveling nights, and lying upunder the willows in daylight. But he will be compelled to show himselfsomewhere, soon, in order to get something to eat, for he couldn't havetaken much with him, trying, as he was, to create the impression that hehad committed suicide. You have a wonderful view of the river here, MissWakefield. "

"Yes, sir; it is beautiful from the porch. "

"You spend a good deal of time on the porch, do you?"

"Yes, sir. "

"And you would be quite likely to notice any boat passing, wouldn'tyou?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Could you see a boat at night, --in the moonlight, I mean?"

"I could if it were well out in the middle of the stream, away from theshadow of the trees, along the bank. "

"Have you seen any boats pass lately, Miss Wakefield?"

"No, sir; I haven't seen a boat on the river for a month, at least. "

"Dead certain about it, are you, Auntie Sue?" asked the Sheriff. 

"Yes, sir; I am very sure, " she returned. "Judy and I were talking aboutit yesterday. "

"Who is Judy?" asked the detective. 

The Sheriff answered, "Just a girl that lives with Auntie Sue. "

And Auntie Sue added: "I know Judy has seen no boats passing, because, as I say, we were talking about it. "

"I see, " said the detective. "And may I ask, Miss Wakefield, if anyone--any stranger, I mean--has called at the house lately, or if youhave seen any one in the vicinity?"

The gentle old lady hesitated. 

The officers thought she was searching her memory to be sure before sheanswered. 

Then Auntie Sue said, deliberately: "No, sir; we have not seen astranger in this vicinity for several weeks. The last one was amule-buyer, who stopped to ask if he was on the right road to TomWarden's; and that must have been fully six weeks ago. "

The detective looked at Sheriff Knox. 

"Well, " said the big officer, "I reckon we might as well push along. "

The two men arose. 

"Oh, but surely you will stay for dinner, " said Auntie Sue, while herdear heart was faint with fear lest they accept, and thus bring aboutwho could say what disastrous consequences through their meeting withJudy. 

"Not this time, Auntie Sue, " returned the Sheriff. "Mr. Ross is anxiousto get on down the river as fast as he can. He's got men on watch atWhite's Crossing, and if our man ain't passed there, or if we don'tstrike his trail somewhere before we get there, we will jump back on therailroad, and get some boy to bring the horses through later. "

"I see, " returned Auntie Sue. And to the detective she added, smiling:"I am sure it must be very difficult for any one to escape you, Mr. Ross. I have read such wonderful things about Mr. Burns and the workof his organization; and now that I have met you, --a real livedetective, --I shall be very careful, indeed, about what I do in thefuture. I shouldn't want to have you on my track, I assure you. "

The two men laughed heartily, and the detective, as he extended his handin farewell, returned: "I count it a great privilege to have met you, Miss Wakefield; and if you will promise to do one thing for me, I'llagree to be very lenient with you if I am ever assigned to a case inwhich you are to be brought to justice. "

"I promise, " returned the old lady, quickly. "I really wouldn't dare torefuse under the circumstances, would I? What do you want me to do, Mr. Ross?"

"If this man Brian Kent should happen to appear in this vicinity, willyou get a message as quickly as possible, at any cost, to Sheriff Knox?"

"Why, of course, " agreed Auntie Sue. "But you have not yet told me whatthe man looks like, Mr. Ross. "

"He is really a fine looking chap, " the detective answered. "Thirtyyears old--fully six feet tall--rather slender, but well built--weighsabout one hundred fifty--a splendid head--smooth shaven--reddishhair--dark blue eyes--and a high, broad forehead. He is ofIrish extraction--is cultured--very courteous in his manner andspeech--dresses well--and knows a lot about books and authors and suchthings. "

"I would surely know him from that description, " said Auntie Sue, thinking of the wretched creature who had fallen, sobbing, at her feetso short a time before. "But, you do not make him seem like a criminalat all. It is strange that a man such as you describe should be afugitive from the law, is it not?"

"We come in contact with many strange things in our business, MissWakefield, " the Burns operative answered--a little sadly, Auntie Suethought. "Life itself is so strange and complex, though you in yourquiet retreat, here, can scarcely find it so. "

"Indeed, I find life very wonderful, Mr. Ross, even here in my littlehouse by the river, " she answered, slowly. 

Sheriff Knox held out a newspaper to Auntie Sue: "Just happened toremember that I had it in my pocket, " he said. "It gives a pretty fullaccount of this fellow Kent's case. You will notice there is a bigreward offered for his capture. If you can catch him for us, you'll makeenough money to keep you mighty nigh all the rest of your life. " Andthe officer's great laugh boomed out at the thought of the oldschool-teacher as a thief-catcher. 

"By the way, Sheriff, " said Auntie Sue, as they were finally sayinggood-bye at the door, "you didn't happen to ask at Thompsonville for mymail, did you, as you came through?" Her voice was trembling, now, witheagerness and anxiety. 

"I'm plumb sorry, Auntie Sue, but I didn't. You see, we were so busyon this job, I clean forgot about stopping here; and, besides, we mighthave caught our man before we got this far, you see. "

"Of course, " returned Auntie Sue, "I should have thought of that; butI have been rather anxious about an important letter that seems to havebeen delayed. Some of the neighbors will probably be going to the officeto-day, though. Good-bye! You know you are always welcome, Sheriff; andyou, too, Mr. Ross, if you should ever happen to be in this part of thecountry again. "

"A wonderful old woman, Ross, " commented Sheriff Knox as they wereriding away. And the quiet, business-looking detective, whose lifehad been spent in combating crime and deception, answered, as he wavedfarewell to Auntie Sue, who watched them from the door of the little loghouse by the river, "A very wonderful woman, indeed, --the loveliest oldlady I have ever met, --and the most remarkable. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW. 

When she had watched Sheriff Knox and his two companions ride out ofsight, Auntie Sue turned slowly back into the house to face Judy, whostood accusingly in the kitchen doorway. 

For what seemed a long time, the old gentlewoman and the deformedmountain girl stood silently looking at each other. Then Auntie Suenervously crossed the room to lay the newspaper, which the Sheriff hadgiven her, on the table beside her basket of sewing. 

Without speaking, Judy followed her, watching every movement intently. 

Turning to face her companion again, Auntie Sue stood, still speechless, clasping and unclasping her thin old hands. 

Judy spoke in her shrill, drawling monotone: "You-all have sure fixedhit this here time, hain't you? Can't you-all see what a hell of a holeyou've done got us inter?"

When Auntie Sue apparently could not reply, Judy continued: "Just as ifhit wasn't more 'n enough for you-all ter go an' wear yourself plumb outa-takin' keer of that there ornery, no-'count feller, what I never oughtter dragged out of the river nohow. An', now, you-all got ter goan' just naturally lie like you did ter the Sheriff an' that theredeteckertive man. I was plumb scared to death a-listenin' ter youthrough the crack in the kitchen door. I 'lowed every minute they'dketch you, sure. My Lord-A'mighty! ma'm, can't you-all figger what'llhappen ter weuns if they ever finds out that weuns done had him hidright here in this here house all the time? I never heard tell of suchdad burned, fool doin's in all my born days! I sure wish ter God thatthere old John-boat had a-tuck him off down the river an' smashed himup agin Elbow Rock, like hit ort, an' not a-fetched him ter our door tergit weuns in jail for savin' his worthless, no-'count hide, --I sure do!"

"But, Judy, I never in all my life did such a thing before, " said AuntieSue in a tremulous whisper, too overwrought to speak aloud. 

"You-all ain't a-needin' ter do hit but onct, neither. Onct is sure aheap plenty for that there big Sheriff man. Just look what he did termy pap! He's jailed pap seven times, that I kin rec'lect. God-A'mightyknows how many times he ketched him 'fore I was borned. An' pap, hedidn't do so mighty much ary time, neither. "

"I just had to do it, Judy, dear, " protested Auntie Sue. "It seemed asif I simply could not tell the truth: something wouldn't let me. "

Judy, unheeding her companion's agitation, continued reviewing thesituation: "An' just look at all the money you-all done lost!"

"Money?" questioned Auntie Sue. 

"Yep, 'money:'--that there reward what they'd a-paid you-all if you-allhadn't a-lied like you did. I reckon as how there'd a-been as much, maybe, as what was in that there letter you-all done sent ter the bankan' ain't never heard tell of since. Hit's most likely clean gone bynow, an' here you done gone an' throw'd this other away, --plumb throw'dhit away!"

At this, Auntie Sue's spirit suddenly flashed into fiery indignation. 

"Judith Taylor, " she said sharply, "how can you suggest such a wickedthing? Why, I would--I would--DIE before I would accept a penny fordoing such a thing!"

And it was Judy, now, who stood silent and abashed before the arousedAuntie Sue. 

"Don't ever speak of such a thing again!" continued the old lady. "And remember, we must be more careful than ever, now, not to let anyone--not a soul--know that Mr. --Mr. --Burns is in the house, or that weever saw him!"

"That there deteckertive man said as how the feller's name was BrianKent, didn't be?" muttered the sullen Judy. 

"I don't care what the detective man said!" retorted Auntie Sue. "I amtelling you that his name is Brian Burns, and you had better rememberit! You had better remember, too, that if anybody ever finds out thetruth about him, you and I will go right along to jail with him!"

"Yes, ma'm; I sure ain't aimin' ter forgit that, " replied the humbledJudy; and she slouched away to the kitchen. 

Auntie Sue went to the door of Brian Kent's room. But, with herhand outstretched toward the latch, she hesitated. Had he heard? TheSheriff's voice had been so loud. She feared to enter, yet she knew thatshe must. At last, she knocked timidly, and, when there was no answer, knocked again, louder. Cautiously, she opened the door. 

The man lay with his face to the wall, --to all appearances fast asleep. 

She tiptoed to the bed, and stood looking down upon the strangerfor whom, without a shadow of reason, --one would have said, --she hadviolated one of the most deeply rooted principles of her seventy years. 

To Auntie Sue, daughter of New England Puritanism, and religious tothe deeps of her being, a lie was abhorrent, --and she hadlied, --deliberately, carefully, and with painstaking skill she had lied. She had not merely evaded the truth; she had lied, --and that to save aman of whom she knew nothing except that he was a fugitive from the law. And the strangest thing about it was this, that she was glad. She couldnot feel one twinge of regret for her sin. She could not even feel thatshe had, indeed, sinned. She had even a feeling of pride and triumphthat she had lied so successfully. She was troubled, though, about thisnew and wholly unexpected development in her life. It had been so easyfor her. She had lied so naturally, so instinctively. 

She remembered how she had spoken to Brian Kent of the river and oflife. She saw, now, that the river symbolized not only life as a whole, with its many ever-changing conditions and currents, amid which theindividual must live;--the river symbolized, as truly, the individuallife, with its ever-changing moods and motives, --its ever-varying andoften-conflicting currents of instinct and training, --its infinitevariety of intellectual deeps and shallows, --its gentle places ofspiritual calm, --and its wild and turbulent rapids of dangerous passion. 

"What hitherto unsuspected currents in her life-river, " she askedherself, "had carried her so easily into falsehood? What strange forceswere these, " she wondered, "that had set her so suddenly against honestyand truthfulness and law and justice? And this stranger, --this wretched, haggard-faced, drunken creature, who had been brought by the mysteriouscurrents of life to her door, --what was there in him that so compelledher protecting interest? What was it within him, deeply hidden underthe repellent exterior of his being, that had so awakened in her thatstrange feeling of possession, --of motherhood?"

It was not strange that, in her mental and spiritual extremity, the dearold gentlewoman's life-long habit should lead her to kneel besidethe stranger's bed and pray for understanding and guidance. It wassignificant that she did not ask her God to forgive the lie. 

And, presently, as she prayed, she felt the man on the bed move. Thena hand lightly touched her hair. She remained very still for alittle, --her head still bowed. The hand that touched so reverently thesilvery gray hair trembled a little. Slowly, the old teacher raised herface to look at him; and the Irish blue eyes of Brian Kent were widewith wondering awe and glowing with a light that warmed her heart andstrengthened her. 

"Why did you do it?" he asked. "You wonderful, wonderful woman! Why didyou do it?"

Slowly, she rose from her knees to sit beside him on the bed. "Youheard?"

He nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak. 

"I was afraid the Sheriff talked too loud, " she said. 

"But, why did you do it?" he persisted. 

"I think it was because I couldn't do anything else, " she answered, withher little chuckling laugh. Then she added, seriously: "How could I letthem take you away? Are you not mine? Did not the river bring you tome?"

"I must tell you, " he answered, sadly, "that what the detective told youabout me is true. "

"Yes?" she answered, smiling. 

"I was a clerk in the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, " he continued, "and I stole money, --for nearly a year I stole, --not large sums, but alittle at a time. Then, when I knew that it was going to be discovered, I took quite a lot, and ran away. "

"Yes?" said Auntie Sue. 

"Do you not care that I am a thief?" he questioned, wonderingly. 

"Oh, yes; I care very much, " she returned. "But, you see, after all, your stealing is a little thing that can be made all right. Your beinga thief is so small in comparison with other things which you might havebeen, but which you are not, and of so little importance in comparisonwith what you really ARE, that I can't feel so very bad about it. "

"But--but--my drinking, --my condition when--" He could not go on. 

"Why, you see, " she answered, "I can't think of THAT man as being YOU atall. THAT was something that the accident of your being a thief did toyou, --like catching cold, and being sick, after accidentally falling inthe river. "

After a little silence, the man spoke, slowly: "I suppose every thief, when he is caught, says the same thing; but I really never wanted to doit. Circumstances--" he paused, biting his lip, and turning away. 

"What was she like?" asked Auntie Sue, gently. 

"She?" and his face reddened. 

"Yes, I have observed that, to a man, 'circumstances' nearly always meana woman. To a woman, of course, it is a man. "

"I cannot tell you about her, now, " he said. "Some day, perhaps, when Iam further away from it. But she is not at all like you. "

And this answer, for some strange reason, brought a flush of pleasure tothe face of the old schoolteacher. 

"I did not mean for you to tell me now, " she returned. "I only wantedyou to know that, even though I am an old maid, I can understand. "

She left him then, and went to attend to her simple household duties. 

It was not until quite late in the evening that Auntie Sue took up thenewspaper which Sheriff Knox had given her. Judy had retired to herroom, and Brian Burns--as they had agreed he should be called--was fastasleep. 

To-morrow, Brian was going to sit up. His clothing had been washed andironed and pressed, and Auntie Sue was making some little repairs in theway of darning and buttons. She had finished, and was putting her needleand scissors in the sewing-basket on the table beside her, when shenoticed the paper, which she had forgotten. 

The article headed "BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS" was not long. It told, in amatter-of-fact, newspaper way, how Brian Kent had, at different times, covering a period of several months, taken various sums from the EmpireConsolidated Savings Bank, and gave, so far as was then known, theaccumulated amount which he had taken. The dishonest clerk had employedseveral methods in his operations; but the particular incident--readAuntie Sue--which had led to the exposure of Kent's stealings was thetheft of a small sum of money in bank-notes, which had been sent to thebank in a letter by one of the bank's smaller depositors. 

The newspaper fell from Auntie Sue's hand. Mechanically, she fingeredthe garment lying in her lap. 

She, too, had sent a sum of money in a letter for deposit to her smallaccount in this bank from which Brian Kent had stolen. She would nothave sent the familiar paper currency of the United States that way;but, this money was in Argentine notes. Her brother from far-away BuenosAires had sent it to her, saying that it would help to keep her duringthe closing years of her life; and she had added it to her small savingswith a feeling of deepest gratitude that her last days were now fullyprovided for. And she had received from the bank no acknowledgment ofher letter with its enclosures. 

Taking up the paper with hands that trembled so she scarce coulddistinguish the words, she read the paragraph again. 

Suddenly, she recalled the man's puzzled expression when she hadtold him her name, and she seemed to hear him say, again, "Wakefield?Wakefield? Where have I seen that name?"

She looked at the date of the paper. Beyond all doubt, the man sleepingthere in the other room;--the man whom she had saved from a suicide'send in the river;--whom she had nursed through the hell of deliriumtremens;--whom she had yearned over as over her own son, and for whom, to save from the just penalty of his crime, she had lied--beyond alldoubt that man had robbed her of the money that was to have insured toher peace and comfort in the closing years of her life. 

Carefully, Auntie Sue laid the garment she had just mended with suchloving care, with the rest of Brian Kent's clothing, on the near-bychair. Rising, she went with slow, troubled step to the porch. 

There was no moon, that night, to turn the waters of The Bend into astream of silvery light. But the stars were shining bright and clear, and she could see the river where it made its dark, mysterious waybetween the walls of shadowy hills; and borne to her ears on the gentlenight wind came the deep, thundering roar of the angry waters at ElbowRock. 

For a long time she stood there on the porch looking into the night, with the light from the open door of her little house behind her; andshe felt very lonely, very tired, and very old. With her beautiful oldface upturned to the infinite sky, where shining worlds are scatteredin such lavish profusion, she listened, listened to the river that, withits countless and complex currents, swept so irresistibly onward alongthe way that was set for it by Him who swung those star-worlds in thelimitless space of that mighty arch above. And something of the spiritthat broods ever over the river must have entered into the soul ofAuntie Sue. When she turned back into the house, there was a smile onher face, though her eyes were wet with tears. 

Going to the chair that held Brian Kent's clothing, she took thegarments in her arms and pressed them to her lips. Then she carried themto his room. 

For some time she remained in that darkened chamber beside the sleepingman. 

When she returned to the living-room, she again took up the newspaper. Very carefully, that her sleeping companions in the house might not hearher, she went to the kitchen, the paper in her hand. Very carefully, that no sound should betray her act, she burned the paper in the kitchenstove. 

CHAPTER IX. 

AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION. 

During the next few days, Brian Kent rapidly regained his strength. Noone seeing the tall, self-possessed gentleman who sat with Auntie Sue onthe porch overlooking the river, or strolled about the place, could haveimagined him the wretchedly repulsive creature that Judy had draggedfrom the eddy so short a time before. And no one, --exempting, perhaps, detective Ross, --would have identified this bearded guest of AuntieSue's as the absconding bank clerk for whose arrest a substantial rewardwas offered. 

But Mr. Ross had departed from the Ozarks, to report to the EmpireConsolidated Savings Bank that, to the best of his knowledge and belief, Brian Kent had been drowned. Homer T. Ward, himself, wrote Auntie Sueabout the case, for the detective had told the bank president about hisvisit to the little log house by the river, and the banker knew that hisold teacher would wish to hear the conclusion of the affair. 

The facts upon which the detective based his conclusion that Brian Kentwas dead, were, first of all, the man's general character, temperament, habits, and ambitions, --aside from his thefts from the bank, --prior tothe time of his exposure and flight, and his known mental and physicalcondition at the time he disappeared from the hotel in the little rivertown of Borden. 

The detective reasoned (and there are thousands of cases that couldbe cited to support his contention) that by such a man as BrianKent, --knowing, as he must have known, the comparative certainty ofhis ultimate arrest and conviction, and being in a mental and nervouscondition bordering on insanity, as a result of his constant broodingover his crime and the excessive drinking to which he had resorted forrelief, --by such a man, death would almost inevitably be chosen ratherthan a life of humiliation and disgrace and imprisonment. 

Acting upon the supposition, however, that the man had gone down theriver in that missing boat, and that the appearance of suicidewas planned by the fugitive to trick his pursuers, the detectivesascertained that he had provided no supplies for a trip down the river. The man would be compelled to seek food. The mountain country throughwhich he must pass was sparsely settled, and for a distance that wouldhave taken a boat many days to cover, the officers visited every houseand cabin and camp on either side of the river without finding a traceof the hunted man. The river had been watched night and day. The net setby the Burns operatives touched every settlement and village for manymiles around. And, finally, the battered and broken wreck of the lostboat had been found some two miles below Elbow Rock. 

". . . And so, my dear Auntie Sue, " Banker Ward wrote, in conclusion, "you may rest in peace, secure in the certainty that my thieving bankclerk is not lurking anywhere in your beautiful Ozarks to pounce downupon you unawares in your little house beside the river. The man issafely dead. There is no doubt about it. I regret, more than I canexpress, that you have been in any way disturbed by the affair. Pleasethink no more about it. 

"By the way, you made a great impression upon detective Ross. He wasmore than enthusiastic over your graciousness and your beauty. Inever heard him talk so much before in all the years I have known him. Needless to say, I indorsed everything he said about the dearestold lady in the world, and then we celebrated by dining together anddrinking a toast to Auntie Sue. . . . "

Auntie Sue went with the letter to Brian, and acquainted him with thatpart of the banker's communication which related to the abscondingclerk; but, about her relation to the president of the EmpireConsolidated Savings Bank, she said nothing. 

"Isn't it splendid!" she finished, her face glowing with delight. 

"Splendid?" he echoed, looking at her with grave, questioning eyes. 

"Why, yes, of course!" she returned. "Aren't you glad to be so dead, under the circumstances? Think what it means! You are free, now. Nohorrid old detectives dogging your steps, or waiting behind every bushand tree to pounce upon you. There is nothing, now, to prevent yourbeing the kind of man that you always meant to be, --and really ARE, too, --except for your--your accidental tumble in the river, " shefinished with her low chuckling laugh. "And, some day, " she went on, with conviction, "when you have established yourself, --when you haveasserted your REAL self, I mean, --and have paid back every penny of themoney, Homer T. Ward and Mr. Ross and everybody will be glad that theydidn't catch you before you had a chance to save yourself. "

"And you, Auntie Sue?" Brian's voice was deep with feeling: "And you?"

"Me? Oh, I am as glad, now, as I can ever be, because, you see, to me itis already done. "

For a long minute he looked at her without speaking, then turned hisface away to gaze out over the river and the hills; but his eyes werethe eyes of one who looks without seeing. 

Slowly, he said: "I wish I could be sure. There was a time when Iwas--when I believed in myself. It seems to me, now, that it was yearsand years ago. I thought, then, that nothing could shake me in mypurpose; that nothing could check me in my ambition. I saw myself goingstraight on to the goal I had set for myself as certainly as--well, asyour river ever there goes on to the sea. But now--" He shook his headsadly. 

Auntie Sue laughed. "You foolish boy. My river out there doesn't gostraight at all. It meets all sorts of obstacles, and is beset by allsorts of conflicting influences, and so is forced to wind and twist andwork its way along; but, the big, splendid thing about the river is thatit keeps going on. It never stops to turn back. No matter what happensto it, it never stops. It goes on and on and on unto the very end, untilit finally loses itself in the triumph of its own achievement, --thesea. "

"And you think that I can go on?" he asked, doubtingly. 

"I know you can go on, " she answered with conviction. 

"But, why are you so sure?"

"Perhaps, " she returned, smiling, "seventy years makes one sure of somethings. "

Ho exclaimed passionately: "But you do not know--you cannot know--howmy life, my dreams, my plans, my hopes, my--everything--has been brokeninto bits!"

She answered calmly, pointing to Elbow Rock: "Look there, Brian. Seehow the river is broken into bits. See how its smoothly flowing, onwardsweep is suddenly changed to wild, chaotic turmoil; how it rages andfumes and frets and smashes itself against the rocks. But it goes onjust the same. Life cannot be always calm and smoothly flowing like thepeaceful Bend. But life can always go on. Life must always go on. Andyou will find, my dear boy, that a little way below Elbow Rock there isanother quiet stretch. "

When he spoke again there was a note of almost reverence in his voice. 

"Auntie Sue, was there ever a break in your life? Were your dreams andplans ever smashed into bits?"

For a little, she did not answer; then she said, bravely: "Yes, Brian;several times. Once, --years and years ago, --I do not know how I managedto go on. I felt, then, as you feel now; but, somehow, I managed, andso found the calm places. The last hard spot came quite recently. "She paused, wondering what he would do if she were to tell him how hehimself had made the hard spot. "But, now, " she continued, "I am hopingthat the rest of the way will be calm and untroubled. "

"I wish I could help to make it so!" he cried impulsively. 

"Why, you can, " she returned quickly. "Of course you can. Perhaps thatis why the current landed your boat at my garden, instead of carryingyou on down the rapids to Elbow Rock. Who can say?"

A new light kindled in the man's eyes as his sensitive nature took fireat Auntie Sue's words. "I could do anything for a woman like you, AuntieSue, " he said quietly, but with a conviction that left no room fordoubt. "But you must tell me what I am to do. "

She answered: "You are simply to go on with your life--just as if noElbow Rock had ever disturbed you; just as the river goes on--to theend. "

She left him, then, to think out his problem alone; for the teacher ofso many years' experience was too wise not to know when a lesson wasfinished. 

But when the end of the day was come, they again sat together on theporch and watched the miracle of the sunset hour. And no word was spokenby them, now, of life and its problems and its meanings. As one listensto the song of a bird without thought of musical notes or terms; as onesenses the fragrance of a flower without thought of the chemistry ofperfume; as one feels the presence of spring in the air without thoughtof the day of the week, so they were conscious of the beauty, the glory, and the peace of the evening. 

Only when the soft darkness of the night lay over the land, and riverand mountain and starry sky were veiled in dreamy mystery, did AuntieSue speak: "Oh, it is so good to have some one to share it with, --someone who understands. I am very lonely, sometimes, Brian. I wonder if youknow?"

"Yes, Auntie Sue, I know, for I have been lonely, too. "

And so the old gentlewoman, whose lifework was so nearly finished, andthe man in the flush of his manhood years, whose life had been so nearlywrecked, were drawn very close by a something that came to them out ofthe beauty and the mystery of that hour. 

The next day, Brian told Auntie Sue that he would leave on the morrow. 

"Leave?" she echoed in dismay. "Why, Brian, where are you going?"

"I don't exactly know, " he returned; "but, of course, I must gosomewhere, out into the world again. "

"And why must you 'go somewhere, out into the world again'?" shedemanded. 

"To work, " he answered, smiling. "If I am to go on, as you say, I mustgo where I can find something to do. "

"If that isn't just like you--you child!" cried the old teacher. "Youare all alike, --you boys and girls. You all must have something to do;always, it is 'something to do'. "

"Well, " he returned, "and must we not have something to do?"

"You will do something, certainly, " she answered; "but, before youcan DO anything that is worth doing, you must BE something. Life isn'tDOING;--it is BEING. "

"I wonder if that was not the real reason for my wretched failures, "said Brian, thoughtfully. 

"It is the real reason for most of our failures, " she returned. "And soyou are not going to fail again. You are not going away somewhere, youdon't know where, to do something you don't know what. You are going tostay right here, and just BE something. Then, when the time comes, youwill do whatever is yours to do as naturally and as inevitably as thebirds sing, as the blossoms come in the spring, or as the river findsits way to the sea. "

And more than ever Brian Kent felt in the presence of Auntie Sue asa little boy to whom the world had grown suddenly very big and verywonderful. 

But, after a while, he shook his head, smiling wistfully. "No, no, Auntie Sue, that sounds all true and right enough, but it can't be. Imust go just the same. "

"Why can't it be, Brian?"

"For one thing, " he returned, "I cannot risk the danger to you. Afterall, as long as I am living, there is a chance that my identity will bediscovered, and you--no, no; I must not!"

"As for that, " she answered quickly, "the chances of your beingidentified are a thousand times greater if you go into the world againtoo soon. Some day, of course, you must go; but you are safer now righthere. And"--she added quickly--"it would be no easier for me, dear boy, to--to--have it happen somewhere away from me. You are mine, you know, no matter where you go. "

"But, Auntie Sue, " he protested, "I am not a gentleman of means that Ican do nothing indefinitely; neither am I capable of living upon yourhospitality for an extended period. I must earn my bread and butter. "

The final sentence came with such a lifting of his head, such a lookof stern decision, and such an air of pride, that the gentle oldschool-teacher laughed until her eyes were filled with tears; and Judy, at the crack in the kitchen door, wondered if the mistress of the littlelog house by the river were losing her mind. 

"Oh, Brian! Brian!" cried Auntie Sue, wiping her eyes. "I knew youwould come to the 'bread and butter' at last. That is where all ourphilosophies and reasonings and arguments come at last, don't they? Just'bread and butter, ' that is all. And I love you for it. Of course youcan't live upon my hospitality, --and I couldn't let you if you would. And if you WOULD, I wouldn't let you if I could. I am no more a lady ofmeans, my haughty sir, than you are a gentleman of independent fortune. The fact is, Brian, dear, I suspect that you and I are about the twopoorest people in the world, --to be anything like as pretentiouslyrespectable and properly proud as we are. "

When the man could make no reply, but only looked at her with amuch-puzzled and still-proud expression, she continued, half-laughingly, but well pleased with him: "Please, Brian, don't look so haughtilyinjured. I had no intention of insulting you by offering charity. Farfrom it. "

Instantly, the man's face changed. He put out his hands protestingly, and his blue eyes filled, as he said, impulsively. "Auntie Sue, afterwhat you have done for me, I--"

She answered quickly: "We are considering the future. What has been, ispast. Our river is already far beyond that point in its journey. Don'tlet us try to turn the waters back. I promise you I am going to be very, very practical, and make you pay for EVERYTHING. "

Smiling, now, he waited for her to explain. 

"I must tell you, first, " she began, "that, except for a very smallamount in the--in a savings bank, I have nothing to provide for my lastdays except this little farm. "

"What a shame, " Brian Kent exclaimed, "that a woman like you can giveher life to the public schools for barely enough salary to keep heralive during her active years, and then left in her old age with nomeans of support. It is a national disgrace. "

Auntie Sue chuckled with appreciation of the rather grim humor of thesituation. What would Brian Kent, indignant at the public neglect of theschool-teacher, say of the man who had robbed her of the money that wasto provide for her closing years? "After all, most public sins are onlyindividual sins at the last, " she said, musingly. 

"I beg your pardon, " said Brian, not in the least seeing the relevancyof her words. 

Auntie Sue came quickly back to her subject: "Only thirty acres of mylittle farm is under cultivation. The remaining fifty acres is wildtimberland. If I could have that fifty acres also in cultivation, withthe money that the timber would bring, --which would not be a greatdeal, --I would be fairly safe for the--for the rest of my evening, " shefinished with a smile. "Do you see?"

"You mean that I--that you want me to stay here and work for you?"

"I mean, " she answered, "that, if you choose to stay for awhile, youneed not feel that you would be accepting my hospitality as charity, "she returned gently. "I am not exactly offering you a job: I am onlyshowing you how you could, without sacrificing your pride, remain inthis quiet retreat for awhile before returning to the world. "

"It would be heaven, Auntie Sue, " he returned earnestly. "I want to stayso bad that I fear myself. Let me think it over until to-morrow. Let mebe sure that I am doing the right thing, and not merely the thing I wantto do. "

She liked his answer, and did not mention the subject again until Brianhimself was ready. And, strangely enough, it was poor, twisted Judy whohelped him to set matters straight. 

CHAPTER X. 

BRIAN KENT DECIDES. 

Brian had walked along the river-bank below the house to a spot justabove the point where the high bluff jutting out into the river-channelforms Elbow Rock. 

The bank here is not so high above the roaring waters of the rapids, forthe spur of the mountain which forms the cliff lies at a right angle tothe river, and the greater part of the cliff is thus on the shore, withits height growing less and less as it merges into the main slope ofthe mountain-side. From the turn in the road, in front of the house, afootpath leads down the bank of the river to the cliff, and, climbingstairlike up the face of the steep bluff, zigzags down the easier slopeof the down-river side, to come again into the road below. Theroad itself, below Elbow Rock, is forced by the steep side of themountain-spur and the precipitous bluff to turn inland from the river, and so, climbing by an easier grade up past Tom Warden's place, crossesthe ridge above the schoolhouse, and comes back down the mountain againin front of Auntie Sue's place, to its general course along the stream. The little path forms thus a convenient short cut for any one followingthe river road on foot. 

Brian, seated on the river-bank a little way from the path where itstarts up the bluff, was trying to decide whether it would be betterfor him to follow his desire and stay with Auntie Sue for a few weeksor months, or whether he should not, in spite of the land he might clearfor her, return to the world where he could more quickly earn the moneyto pay back that which he had stolen. 

And as he sat there, the man was conscious that he had reached oneof those turning-points that are found in every life where results, momentous and far-reaching, are dependent upon comparatively unimportantand temporary issues. He could not have told why, and yet he felt acertainty that, for him, two widely separated futures were dependentupon his choice. Nor could he, by thinking, discover what those futuresheld for him, nor which he should choose. Even as his boat that nighthad hung on the edge of the eddy, --hesitating on the dividing-linebetween the two currents, --so the man himself now felt the pull of hislife-currents, and hesitated, --undecided. 

Looking toward the house, he thought how like the life offered by AuntieSue was to the quiet waters of The Bend, and--his mind finished thesimile--how like the life to which he would go was to the rapids atElbow Rock; and, yet, he reflected, the waters could never reach thesea without enduring the turmoil of the rapids. And, again, the thoughtcame, "The Bend is just as much the river as the troubled passage aroundthe rock. "

When he had given up life, and, to all intent and purpose, had left lifebehind him, the river, without his will or knowledge, had mysteriouslyelected to save him from the death he had chosen as his only refuge fromthe utter ruin that had seemed so inevitable. As the currents of theriver had carried his boat to the eddy at the foot of Auntie Sue'sgarden, the currents of life had mysteriously brought him to the savinginfluence of Auntie Sue herself. Should he push out again into thestream to face the danger he knew beset such a course? or should he waitfor a season in the secure calm of the harbor she offered until he werestronger? Brian Kent knew, instinctively, that there was in the wisdomand love of Auntie Sue's philosophy and faith a strength that would, ifhe could make it his, insure his safe passage through every danger oflife, and yet--The man's meditations were interrupted by a chance looktoward the bluff which towered above him. 

Judy was climbing the steep trail. 

Curiously, Brian watched the deformed mountain girl as she made her wayup the narrow, stairlike path, and her cutting words came back to him:"God-A'mighty and my drunken pap made me like I am. But you, --damnyou!--you made yourself what you be. " And Auntie Sue had said thatthe all-important thing in life was not to DO something, but to BEsomething. 

The girl, who had gained a point halfway to the top of the bluff, pausedto look searchingly about, and Brian, who was half-hidden by the bushes, started to call to her, thinking she might be looking for him; but someimpulse checked him and he remained silently watching her. Climbinghurriedly a little higher up the path Judy again stopped to lookcarefully around, as if searching the vicinity for some one. Then, oncemore, she went on until she stood on top of the cliff; and now, as shelooked about over the surrounding country, she called: "Mr. Burns! Oh, Mr. Burns! Who-o-e-e! Mr. Burns!"

Brian's lips were parted to answer the call when something happened ontop of the bluff which held him for the moment speechless. 

From beyond where Judy stood on the brink of the cliff, a man's headand shoulders appeared. Brian saw the girl start and turn to face thenewcomer as if in sudden fear. Then she whirled about to run. Before shecould gain the point where the path starts down from the top, the mancaught her and dragged her roughly back, so that the two disappearedfrom Brian's sight. Brian was halfway up the bluff when he heard thegirl's shrill scream. 

There was no sign of weakness, now, in the man that Judy had draggedfrom the river. He covered the remaining distance to the top in abreath. From among the bushes, a little way down the mountainside, camethe sound of an angry voice mingled with Judy's pleading cries. 

An instant more, and Brian reached the spot where poor Judy wascrouching on the ground, begging the brute, who stood over her withmenacing fists, not to hit her again. 

The man was a vicious-looking creature, dressed in the rough garb ofthe mountaineer; dirty and unkempt, with evil, close-set eyes, and ascraggly beard that could not hide the wicked, snarling mouth. 

He stood for a second looking at Brian, as if too surprised by thelatter's sudden appearance to move; then he went down, felled by asclean a knockout as was ever delivered by an Irish fist. 

"Are you hurt, Judy?" demanded Brian, as he lifted the girl to her feet. "Did he strike you?"

"He was sure a-fixin' ter lick me somethin' awful when you-all put in, "returned the poor girl, trembling with fear. "I know, 'cause he's donehit to me heaps er times before. He's my pap. "

"Your father!" exclaimed Brian. 

Judy nodded;--then screamed: "Look out! He'll git you, sure!"

Judy's rescuer whirled, to see the man on the ground drawing a gun. Avigorous, well-directed kick, delivered in the nick of time, sent thegun whirling away into the bushes and rendered the native's right armuseless. 

"Get up!" commanded Brian. 

The man rose to his feet, and stood nursing his damaged wrist andscowling at Judy's companion. 

"Are you this girl's father?"

"I reckon I am, " came the sullen reply. "I'm Jap Taylor, an' you-allare sure goin' to find that you can't come between a man an' his lawfulchild in these here mountains, mister, --if you-all be from the city. "

"And you will find that you can't strike a crippled girl in my presence, even if she is your daughter, --in these mountains or anywhere else, "retorted Brian. "What are you trying to do with her, anyway?"

"I aim ter take her back home with me, where she belongs. "

"Well, why didn't you go to the house for her like a man, instead ofjumping on her out here in the woods!"

"Hit ain't none of your dad burned business as I can see, " came thesullen reply. 

"I am making it my business, just the same, " returned Brian. 

He turned to the girl, who had drawn back a little behind him. "Judy, "he said, kindly, "I think perhaps you better tell me about this. "

"Pap, he was a-layin' for me in the bresh 'cause he dassn't come to thehouse ter git me, " said the girl, fearfully. 

"But, why does he fear to come to the house?" persisted Brian. 

"'Cause he done give me ter Auntie Sue. "

"Gave you to Auntie Sue?" repeated the puzzled Brian. 

Jap Taylor interrupted with, "I didn't sign ary paper, an'--"

"Shut up, you!" snapped Brian. "Go on, Judy. "

"Hit was a year last corn-plantin', " explained the girl. "My maw, shedied. He used ter whip her, too. An' Auntie Sue was there helpin' weuns;an' Tom Warden an' some other folks they was there, too; an' they donefixed hit so that I was ter go an' live with Auntie Sue; an' pap, hegive me ter her. He sure did, Mr. Burns, an' I ain't a-wantin' ter gowith him, no more. "

The poor girl's shrill monotone broke, and her twisted body shook withher sobs. 

"I didn't sign ary paper, " repeated Judy's father, with sullenstubbornness. "An' what's more, I sure ain't a-goin' ter. I 'lows as howshe'll just go home an' work for me, like she ort, 'stead of livin' withthat there old-maid schoolma'am. I'm her paw, I am, an' I reckon I gotrights. "

He started toward the girl, who drew closer to Brian, and beggedpiteously: "Don't let him tech me! 'Fore God, Mr. Burns, he'll kill me, sure!"

Brian drew the girl behind him as he faced the father with a brief, "Getout!"

The mountaineer hesitated. 

Brian went one step toward him: "Do you hear? Get out! And if you evershow your dirty face in this vicinity again, I'll not leave a whole bonein your worthless carcass!"

And Jap Taylor saw something in those Irish blue eyes that caused him tostart off down the mountain toward the river below Elbow Rock. 

When he had placed a safe distance between himself and the man whoappeared so willing and able to make good his threat, Judy's fatherturned, and, shaking his uninjured fist at Brian, delivered a volleyof curses, with: "I'll sure git you-all for this! Jap Taylor ain'ta-lettin' no man come between him an' his'n. I'll fix you, an' I'll fixthat there schoolma'am, too! She's nothin' but a damned old--"

But Brian started toward him, and Jap Taylor beat a hasty retreat. 

"Never mind, Judy, " said Brian, when the native had disappeared in thebrush and timber that covered the steep mountain-side. "I'll not lethim touch you. Come, let us sit down and talk a little until you areyourself again. Auntie Sue must not see you like this. We don't want tolet her know anything about it. You won't tell her, will you?"

"I ain't aimin' ter tell nobody, " said Judy, between sobs. "I sure ain'ta-wantin' ter make no trouble, --not for Auntie Sue, nohow. She's beenpowerful good ter me. "

When they were seated on convenient rocks at the brink of the cliffoverlooking the river, Judy gradually ceased crying, and presently said, in her normal, querulous monotone: "Did you-all mind what pap 'lowedhe'd do ter Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns?"

"Yes, Judy; but don't worry, child. He is not going to harm any onewhile I am around. "

"You-all are aimin' ter stay then, be you? I'm sure powerful glad, " saidJudy, simply. 

Brian started. A new factor had suddenly been injected into his problem. 

"I was powerful scared you-all was aimin' ter go away, " continued Judy. "Hit was that I was a-huntin' you-all to tell you 'bout, when pap heketched me. "

"What were you going to tell me, Judy?"

"I 'lowed ter tell you-all 'bout Auntie Sue. She'd sure be powerful madif she know'd I'd said anythin' ter you, but she's a-needin' somebodylike you ter help her, mighty bad. She--she's done lost a heap of money, lately: hit was some she sent--"

Brian interrupted: "Wait a minute, Judy. You must not tell me anythingabout Auntie Sue's private affairs; you must not tell any one. Anythingshe wants me to know, she will tell me. Do you understand?" he finishedwith a reassuring smile. 

"Yes, sir; I reckon you-all are 'bout right, an' I won't tell nobodynothin'. But 'tain't a-goin' ter hurt none ter say as how you-all ortter stay, I reckon. "

"And why do you think I ought to stay, Judy?"

"'Cause of what Auntie Sue's done for you-all, --a-nursin' you when youwas plumb crazy an' plumb dangerous from licker, an' a lyin' like shedid ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man, " returned Judystoutly; "an' 'cause she's so old an' is a-needin' you-all ter help her;an' 'cause she is a-lovin' you like she does, an' is a-wantin' you-allter stay so bad hit's mighty nigh a-makin' her plumb sick. "

Brian Kent did not answer. The mountain girl's words had revealed to himthe selfishness of his own consideration of his problem so clearly thathe was stunned. Why had he not, in his thinking, remembered the dear oldgentlewoman who had saved him from a shameful death?

Judy went on: "Hit looks ter me like somebody just naturally's got tertake care of Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns. All her whole life she's a-beentakin' care of everybody just like she tuck me, an' just like she tuckyou-all, besides a heap of other ways; an' now she's so old and mightynigh plumb wore out, hit sure looks like hit was time somebody wasa-fixin' ter do somethin' for her. That was what I was a-huntin' you-allter tell you when pap ketched me, Mr. Burns. "

"I am glad you told me, Judy;--very glad. You see, I was not thinking ofthings in just that way. "

"I 'lowed maybe you mightn't. Seems like folks mostly don't. "

"But it's all right, now!" Brian cried heartily. "You have settled it. I'll stay. We'll take care of Auntie Sue, --you and I, Judy. Come on, now; let's go to the house, and tell her. But we won't say anythingabout your father, Judy;--that would only make her unhappy; and we mustnever make Auntie Sue unhappy--never. " He was as eager and enthusiastic, now, as a schoolboy. 

"'Course, " said Judy, solemnly; "'course you just naturally got ter stayan' take care of her now, after what pap's done said he'd do. "

"Yes, Judy; I've just naturally got to stay, " returned Brian. 

Together they went down the steep cliff trail and to the little loghouse by the river to announce Brian's decision to Auntie Sue. Theyfound the dear old lady in her favorite spot on the porch overlookingthe river. 

"Why, of course you will stay, " she returned, when Brian had told her. "The river brought you to me, and you know, my dear boy, the river isnever wrong. Oh, yes, I know there are cross-currents and crooked spotsand sand-bars and rocks and lots of places where it SEEMS to us to bewrong. But, just the same, it all goes on, all the time, toward the seafor which it starts when it first begins at some little spring awayover there somewhere in the mountains. Of course you will stay with me, Brian, --until the river carries you on again. "

CHAPTER XI. 

RE-CREATION. 

From the very day of his decision, to which he had been so unexpectedlyhelped by Judy, Brian Kent was another man. The gloomy, despondent, undecided spirit that was the successor of the wretched creature thatJudy had helped to Auntie Sue's that morning was now succeeded by acheerful, hopeful, contented man, who went to his daily task with asong, did his work with a smile and a merry jest, and returned, when theday was done, with peace in his heart and laughter on his lips. 

As the days of the glorious Ozark autumn passed, Brian's healthful, outdoor work on the timbered mountain-side brought to the man of thecities a physical grace and beauty he had lacked, --the grace of physicalstrength and the beauty of clean and rugged health. The bright autumnsun and the winds that swept over the many miles of tree-clad hillsbrowned his skin; while his work with the ax developed his muscles andenforced deep breathing of the bracing mountain air, thus bringinga more generous supply of richer blood, which touched his now firmlyrounded cheeks with color. 

The gift of humor and the faculty of quaint and witty conversationaltwists, with the genius of storytelling that was his from his Irishmother, made quick friends for him of the mountain neighbors whowelcomed this new pupil of their old school-teacher with whole-heartedpleasure, and quoted his jests and sayings throughout the country withnever-failing delight. And Judy, --it is not too much to say that Judybecame his most ardent admirer and devoted slave. 

But the dear old mistress of the little log house by the river alonerecognized that these outward changes in the human wreck that theriver had brought to her were but manifestations of a more potenttransformation that was taking place in the man's inner life; and it wasthis inner change that filled the teacher's loving heart with joy, andwhich she watched with keen and delighted interest. 

It was not, after all, a new life that was coming to this man, AuntieSue told herself; it was his own old and more real life that wasreassuring itself. It was the real Brian Kent that had been sojourningin a far country that was now coming home to his own. It was the wealthof his heart and mind and soul which had been deep-buried under anaccumulation of circumstances and environment that was now being broughtto the surface. 

Might it not be that Auntie Sue's genius for absorbing beauty and makingtruth her own had, in her many years of searching for truth and beautyin whatever humanity she encountered, developed in her a peculiarsensitiveness? And was it not this that had made her feel instinctivelythe real nature of the man in whom a less discerning observer would haverecognized nothing worthy of admiration or regard? Without question, it was the true, --the essential, --the underlying, --elements in thecharacter of the absconding bank clerk that had aroused in thisremarkable old gentlewoman the peculiar sense of kinship--ofpossession--that had determined her attitude toward the stranger. Thelaw that like calls to like is not less applicable to things spiritualthan to things material. The birds of a feather that always flocktogether are not of necessity material birds of material feathers. 

Nor was Brian Kent himself unconscious of his Re-Creation. The man knewwhat he was, as every man knows deep within himself the real self thatis. And that was the horror of the situation which had set him adrift onthe river that night when, in his last drunken despairing frenzy, he hadleft the world with a curse in his heart and had faced the black unknownwith reckless laughter and a profane toast. It is to be doubted ifthere can be a hell of greater torment than that experienced by one who, endowed by nature with a capacity for great living, is betrayed by thevery strength of his genius into a situation that is intolerable of hisreal self, and is forced, thus, to a continuous self-crucifixion anddeath. 

In his new environment the man felt the awakening of this self which hehad mourned as dead. Thoughts, emotions, dreams, aspirations, which had, as he believed, been killed, he found were not dead, but only sleeping;and in the quickening of their vitality and strength he knew a joy asgreat as had been his despair. 

The beauty of nature, that had lost its power of appeal to his soddensoul, now stirred him to the very depth of his being. The crisp, sun-sweet air of the autumn mornings, when he went forth with his axto the day's clean labor, was a draught of potent magic that set everynerve of him tingling with delight. The woodland hillside, where heworked, was a wonderland of beautiful creations that inspired a thousandglowing fancies. Sometimes, at his heavy task, he would pause for amoment's rest, and so would look out and away over the vast expanse ofcountry that from his feet stretched in all its charm of winding riverand wooded slopes, and tree-fringed ridges to the far, blue sky-line;and the very soul of him would answer to the call as he had thought henever could answer again. The very clouds that drifted past on theircourses to unseen ports beyond the hills were freighted with meaning forhim now. The winds that came laden with the subtly blended perfumeof ten thousand varieties of trees and grasses and shrubs and flowerswhispered words of life which he now could hear. The loveliness of theglowing morning skies, as he saw them when he rose for the day's work, and the glories of the sunsets, as he watched them with Auntie Suefrom the porch when the day's task was accomplished, filled him with anexquisite gladness which he had never hoped to know again. 

Most of all, did the river speak to him; not, indeed, as it had spokenthat dreadful night, when, from the window of his darkened room, he hadlistened to its call: the river spoke, now, in the full day as his eyefollowed its winding length through the hills in all its varied beautyof sunshine and shadow;--of gleaming silver and living green andrusset-brown. It talked to him in the evening when the waters gave backthe glories of the sky and the deepening twilight wrapped the world inits dusky veil of mystery. It spoke to him in the soft darkness of thenight, as it swept on its way under the stars, or in the light of thegolden moon. And, in time, some of these things which the river said tohim, he, in turn, told to Auntie Sue. 

And Auntie Sue, delighted with the man's awakening self, and charmedwith his power of thought and his gift of expression, led him on. With artful suggestion and skilful question and subtle argument, shestimulated his mind and fancy to lay hold of the truths and beautiesthat life and nature offered. But ever the rare old gentlewoman was histeacher, revealing himself to himself; guiding him to a fuller discoveryand knowledge of his own life and its meaning, which, indeed, is thetrue aim and end of all right teaching. 

So the days of the autumn passed. The hills changed their robes ofvaried green for costumes of brown and gold, with touches here and thereof flaming scarlet and brilliant yellow. And then winter was at hand, and that momentous evening came when Auntie Sue said to her pupil, afteran hour of most interesting talk, "Brian, why in the world don't youwrite a book?"

"'A book'!" exclaimed Brian, in a startled tone. 

Judy laughed. "He sure ought ter. Lord knows he talks like one. "

"I am in earnest, Brian, " said Auntie Sue, her lovely old eyes shiningwith enthusiasm and her gentle voice trembling with excitement. "I havebeen thinking about it for a long time, now, and, to-night, I just can'tkeep it to myself any longer. Why don't you give to the world some ofthe thoughts you have been wasting on Judy and me?"

"Hit's sure been a-wastin' of 'em on me, " agreed Judy. "'Fore God, Idon't sense what he's a-talkin' 'bout, more'n half the time. "

Brian laughed. "Judy is prophetic, Auntie Sue. She voices perfectly thesentiment of the world toward any book I might write. "

Auntie Sue detected a note of bitterness underlying the laughingcomment, and wondered. 

Judy spoke again as she arose to retire to her room for the night: "Ireckon as how there's a right smart of things youuns talk that'd bemighty fine if a body only had the learnin' ter sense 'em. An' theremust be heaps of folks where youuns come from what would know Mr. Burns's meaning if he was to write hit all out plain. Everybody ain'tlike me. Hit's sure a God's-blessin' they ain't, too. "

"And there, Brian, dear, is your answer, " said Auntie Sue, as Judy leftthe room. "Any book has meaning only for those who have the peculiarsympathy and understanding needed to interpret it. A book that meansnothing to one may be rich in meaning for another. Every writer writesfor his own peculiar readers, just as every individual has his ownpeculiar friends. "

"Or enemies, " said Brian. 

"Or enemies, " agreed Auntie Sue. 

Brian went to the window, and stood for some time, looking out into thenight. Then turning, with a nervous gesture, he paced uneasily upand down the room; while Auntie Sue watched him in silence with anexpression of loving concern on her dear old face. 

At last, she spoke: "Why, Brian, what is the matter? What have I said?I did not mean to upset you like this. Come, sit down here, and tell meabout it. What is it troubles you so?"

With a short laugh, Brian came and stood before her. "I suppose it hadto come sooner or later, Auntie Sue. I have been trying for days tomuster up courage enough to tell you about it. You have touched the onebiggest thing in my life. "

"Why, what do you mean, Brian?"

"I mean just what we have been talking about, --writing, " answered Brian. 

"Oh!" she cried, with quick and delighted triumph. "Then I AM right. Youhave been thinking about it, too. "

"Thinking about it!" he echoed, and in his voice she felt the nervousintensity of his mood. "I have thought of nothing else. All day longwhen I am at work, I am writing, writing, writing. It is the last thingon my mind when I go to sleep. I dream about it all night. And, it isthe first thing I think about in the morning. "

Auntie Sue clasped her hands to her heart with an exclamation of joyousinterest. 

Brian, with a quiet smile at her enthusiasm, went on: "I know exactlywhat I want to say, and why I want to say it. There is a world ofpeople, Auntie Sue, whose lives have been broken and spoiled by onething or another, and who have more or less cut themselves loose fromeverything, and are just drifting, they don't care a hang where, becausethey think they have failed so completely that there is nothing morein life for them. People like me, --I don't mean thieves and criminalsnecessarily, --who have had that which they know to be the best andbiggest and truest part of themselves tortured and warped and twistedand denied and smashed and beaten and betrayed and killed; and who, because they feel that their real selves are dead within them, don'tcare what happens to that part which is left. "

He was walking the floor again now, and speaking with a depth of feelingwhich he had never before revealed to his gentle companion. 

"It is not so much the love of wrong-doing that makes people turnbad, "--he continued, --"it is having their real selves misunderstood anddoubted and smothered and their realest loves and dreams and aspirationsnever recognized, or else distorted and twisted and made to appearas something they hate. I want to make the people--and there are manythousands of them--who are suffering in the living hell that tormentedme, feel that I know and understand. And then, Auntie Sue, then I wantto tell them about you and your river. 

"I would teach them the things you have taught me. I would say to everyone that I could persuade to listen: 'It doesn't in the least matterwhat your experience is, the old river is still going on to the sea. No matter if every woman you ever knew has proved untrue, virtuouswomanhood still IS. No matter if every man you ever knew has provedfalse, true manhood still IS. If every friend you ever had has betrayedyour friendship, loyal friendship still IS. If you have found nothingin your experience but dishonesty and falsehood and infidelity andhypocrisy, it is only because you have been unfortunate in yourexperience; because honesty and fidelity and sincerity are existingFACTS. They are the very foundation facts of life, and can no more faillife than the river can fail to reach the sea. 

"'Your little individual experience, my little individualexperience, --what are they? They are nothing more than the tiny bubbles, swirls, ripples, and breaks on the surface of the great volume of waterthat flows so inevitably onward. The bit of foam, the tiny wave causedby twig or branch or blade of water-grass, or the great rocks and cliffsthat make the roaring whirlpools and rapids, --do they stay the waters, or turn the river back on its course, or in any way prevent itsonward flow? No more can the twigs of circumstances, or the boughs ofenvironment, or the grasses of accident that make the tiny waves of ourindividual experiences, --or even the great rocks and cliffs of nationalor racial import, --such as wars, and pestilence, and famine, --finallycheck or stay the river of life in its onward flow toward the sea of itsfinal and infinite meaning. '"

He went again to the window, and stood looking out into the night asthough listening to the voices. 

"Why, Auntie Sue, " he said, turning back to the old gentlewoman, --andhis face was radiant with the earnestness of this thought, --"Auntie Sue, there are as many currents in our river out there as there are humanlives. A comparatively few great main or dominant currents in the riverflow--a comparatively few great dominant currents in the river flow oflife. But if you look closer, you will see that in each one ofthose established principal currents there are countlessthousands--millions--of tiny currents all turning and twisting across, and back, and up, and down in every direction, --weavingthemselves together, --pulling themselves apart, --criss-crossing, clashing, --interlacing, --tangled and confused, --and these are theindividual lives. And no matter what the conflict or confusion; nomatter what direction they take for the moment, they all, ALL, go tomake up the river;--they, all together, ARE the river, --and they alltogether move onward, --ceaselessly, inevitably, irresistibly. "

He paused to stand smiling down at her, as she sat there in her lowchair beside the table with the lamplight on her silvery hair, --there inthe little log house by the river. 

"That is what you have made your river mean to me, Auntie Sue; and thatis what I would give to the world. "

With trembling hands, the gentle old teacher reached for herhandkerchief, which lay in the sewing-basket on the table beside her. Smilingly, she wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. Lovingly, she looked up at him, --standing so tall and strong before her, with hisreddish hair tumbled and tossed, and his Irish blue eyes lighted withthe fire of his inspiration. 

"Well, " she said, at last, "why don't you do it, Brian?"

As a breath of air puts out the light of a candle, so the light wentfrom Brian Kent's face. Dropping into his chair, he answered hopelessly, "Because I am afraid. "

"Afraid?" echoed Auntie Sue, troubled and amazed. "What in the world areyou afraid of, Brian?"

And the bitter, bitter answer came, "I am afraid of another failure. "

Auntie Sue's quick mind caught the significance of his words. "ANOTHERfailure, Brian? Then you, --then you have written before?"

"Yes, " he returned. And not since his decision to remain with her hadshe seen him so despondent. "To write was the dream and the passion ofmy life. I tried and tried. God, how I worked and slaved at it! The onlyresult from my efforts was the hell from which you dragged me. "

Alter a little silence, Auntie Sue said gently: "I don't think Iunderstand, Brian. You have never told me about your trouble, you know. "

"It is an old, old story, " he returned. "I am only one of thousands. Mywretched experience is not at all uncommon. "

"I know, " she answered. "But don't you think that perhaps you had bettertell me? Perhaps, in the mere telling of it to me, now that it is allover, you may find the real reason for--for what happened to you. "

Wise Auntie Sue!--wise in that rarest of all wisdom, --the sympatheticunderstanding of human hearts and souls. 

"You know about my earlier life, " he began; "how, in my boyhood, aftermother's death, I worked at anything I could do to keep myself alive, and how I managed to gain a little schooling. I was always dreaming ofwriting, even then. I took the business course in a night-school, notbecause I liked it, but because I thought it would help me to earn aliving in a way that would give me more time for what I really wantedto do. And after I finished school, and had finally worked up to a goodposition in that bank, I did have more time for my writing. But, "--hehesitated--"I--well, --other interests had come into my life, --and--"

Auntie Sue said, softly, "She did not understand, Brian. "

"No, she did not understand, " he continued, accepting Auntie Sue'sinterpretation without comment. "And when my writing brought no money, because no publisher would accept my stuff, and the conditions underwhich I wrote became intolerable because of misunderstanding andopposition and disbelief in my ability and charges of neglect, I--I--stole money from my employers to gain temporary relief until mywriting should amount to something. You see, I could not help believingthat I would succeed, in time. I suppose all dreamers have more or lessconfidence in their dreams: they must, you know, or their dreams wouldnever be realized. I always expected to pay back the money I took withthe money I would earn by my pen. But I failed to earn anything, yousee; and then--then the inevitable happened, and the river brought me toyou. "

"But, my dear boy!" cried Auntie Sue, "all this that you have told meis no reason why you should fear to write now. Indeed, it is a very goodreason why you should not fear. "

He looked at her questioningly, and she continued: "You have given everyreason in the world why you failed. Your whole life was out of tune. How could you expect to produce anything worthy from such a janglingdiscord? You should have been afraid, indeed, to write THEN. But, NOW, --now, Brian, you are ready. You are a long, long way down the riverfrom the place of your failures. The disturbing, distracting thingsare past, --just as in the quiet reach of the river below Elbow Rock theturmoil of the rapids is past. You say that you know exactly whatyou want to write, and why you want to write it--and you do know--andbecause you know, --because you have suffered, --because you havelearned, --because you can do this thing for others, --it is yours to do, and so you must do it. What you really mean when you say you are 'afraidto write' is, that you are AFRAID NOT TO, " she finished with a littlelaugh of satisfaction. 

And Brian Kent, as he watched her glowing face and felt the sincerityand confidence that vibrated in her voice, was thrilled with a newcourage. The fires of his inspiration shone again in his eyes, as heanswered, with deep conviction, "Auntie Sue, I believe you are right. What a woman you are!"

CHAPTER XII. 

AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE. 

So Brian wrote his book that winter. 

When the days were fair, he worked with his ax on the mountain-side. Buthis notebook was ever at hand, and many a thought that went down on thepages of his manuscript was born while he wrought with his hands in thewholesome labor which gave strength to his body and clearness to hisbrain. In the evenings, he wrote in the little log house by the river, with Auntie Sue sitting in her chair beside the table, --the lamp-lighton her silvery hair, and her sewing-basket within reach of herhand, --engaged with some bit of needlework, a book, or perhaps with oneof her famous letters to some other pupil, far away. The stormy daysgave him many hours with his pen, and so the book grew. 

And always as the man endeavored to shape his thoughts for the printedpages that would carry his message to the doubting, disconsolate, andfearful world that he knew so well, he heard in his heart the voices ofthe river. From the hillside where he worked in the timber he could seethe stream winding through the snowy hills like a dark line carelesslydrawn with many a crook and curve and break on the sheet of white. Fromthe porch he saw the quiet Bend a belt of shining ice and snow, save fora narrow line in the centre, which marked the course of the strongestcurrents; while the waters of the rapids crashed black and dreadfulagainst the Elbow Rock cliff, which stood gaunt and grim amid thesurrounding whiteness; and in the deathlike hush of the winter twilight, the roar of the turmoil sounded with persistent menace. And all that theriver said to him he put down, --so far as it was given him to do. 

And that which Brian Kent wrote was good. He knew it--in his deepest, truest self he knew. And Auntie Sue knew it; for, of course, he readto her from his manuscript as the book grew under his hand. Even Judycaught much of his story's meaning, and marvelled at herself becauseshe, too, could understand. 

So the spring came, and the first writing of the book was nearlyfinished. 

And now the question arose: What would they do about the finalpreparation of the manuscript for the printers? Brian explained that heshould have a typewritten copy of his script, which he would work over, correct, and revise, and from which perfected copy the final manuscriptwould be typewritten. But neither Auntie Sue nor Brian would considerhis finishing the book anywhere but in the little log house by theriver; even if there had been no other reason why Brian should not go tothe city, if it could be avoided. 

"There is only one thing to do, "--said Auntie Sue, at last, when thematter had been discussed several times, --"we must send for Betty Jo. She has been studying stenography in a business college in Cincinnati, and, in her latest letter to me, she wrote that she would finish inApril. I'll just write her to come right here, and bring her typewriteralong. She will need a vacation, and she can have it and do your work atthe same time. Besides, I need to see Betty Jo. She hasn't been to visitme since before Judy came. "

Brian thought that Auntie Sue seemed a little nervous and excited as shespoke, but he attributed it to her combined interest in the book and inthe proposed typist. The man could not know the real cause of his gentleold companion's agitation, nor with what anxiety she had considered thematter for many days before she announced her plan. The fact was thatAuntie Sue was taking a big chance, and she realized it fully. Butshe could find no other way to secure the services of a competentstenographer for Brian, and, as Brian must have a competent stenographerin order to finish his book properly, she had decided to accept therisk. 

"That sounds all right, Auntie Sue, " returned Brian. "But who, praytell, is Betty Jo?"

"Betty Jo is, "--Auntie Sue paused and laughed with a suggestion ofembarrassed confusion, --"Betty Jo is--just Betty Jo, Brian, " shefinished. 

Brian laughed now. "Fine, Auntie Sue! That describes her exactly, --tellsme her life's history and gives me a detailed account of herfamily, --ancestors and all. "

"It describes her with more accuracy than you think, " retorted AuntieSue, smiling in return at his teasing manner. 

"I reckon as how she's got more of er name than that, ain't she?" saidJudy, who was a silent, but intensely interested, listener. "I'veallus took notice that folks with funny names'll stand a right smart ofwatchin'. "

Brian and Auntie Sue laughed together at this, but the old lady said, with a show of spirit: "Judy! You know nothing about it! You never evensaw Betty Jo! You shouldn't say such things, child. "

"Might as well say 'em as ter think 'em, I reckon, " Judy returned, herbeady-black eyes stealthily watching Brian. 

"What is your Betty Jo's real name, Auntie Sue?" asked Brian, curiously. 

Again Auntie Sue seemed to hesitate; then--"Her name is Miss Betty JoWilliams, " and as she spoke the old teacher looked straight at Brian. 

"A perfectly good name, " Brian returned; "but I never heard of herbefore. "

Judy's black eyes, with their stealthy, oblique look, were nowwatchfully fixed on Auntie Sue. 

"She is the orphan-niece of one of my old pupils, " Auntie Sue continued. "I have known her since she was a baby. When she finished her educationin the seminary, and had travelled abroad for a few months, she decidedall at once that she wanted a course in a business college, which wasjust what any one knowing her would expect her to do. "

"Sounds steady and reliable, " commented Brian. "But will she come?"

"Yes, indeed, she will, and be tickled to death over the job, " returnedAuntie Sue. "I'll write her at once. "

While Auntie Sue was preparing to write her letter, Judy muttered, ina tone which only Brian heard: "Just the same, 'tain't no name for acommon gal ter have; hit sure ain't. There's somethin' dad burned queer'bout hit somewhere. "

"Nonsense! Judy, " said Brian in a low voice; "don't worry Auntie Sue. "

"I ain't aimin' ter worry her none, " returned the mountain girl; "butI'll bet you-all a pretty that this here gal'll worry both of youuns'fore you are through with her;--me, too, I reckon. "

For some reason, Auntie Sue's letter to Betty Jo seemed to be ratherlong. In fact, she spent the entire evening at it; which led Judy toremark that "hit sure looked like Auntie Sue was aimin' ter write a bookherself. "

A neighbor who went to Thompsonville the following day with a load ofhogs for shipment, posted the letter. And, in due time, another neighborbrought the answer. Betty Jo would come. 

It was the day following the evening when Brian wrote the last page ofhis book that another letter came to Auntie Sue, --a letter which, forthe second time, very nearly wrecked Brian Kent's world. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

JUDY TO THE RESCUE. 

Brian was working in the garden. It was early in the afternoon, and theman, as he worked in the freshly ploughed ground, was rejoicing at thecompletion of his book. 

Straightening up from his labor, he drew a deep breath of the fragrantair. About him on every side, and far away into the blue distance, theworld was dressed in the gala dress of the season. The river, which atthe breaking of the winter had been a yellow flood that washed the topof the bank in front of the house and covered the bottom-lands on theopposite side, was again its normal self, and its voice to him, now, wasa singing voice of triumphal gladness. 

For Brian, too, the world was new, and fresh, and beautiful. The worldof his winter was gone. He had found himself in his work, and in theglorious consciousness of the fact he felt like shouting with sheer joyof living. 

"And Auntie Sue, dear Auntie Sue, " he thought, looking with love inhis eyes toward the house, how wonderful she had been in her helpfulunderstanding and never-failing faith in him. After all, it was AuntieSue's triumph more than it was his. 

His happy musing was interrupted by a neighbor who, on his way home fromThompsonville, stopped at the garden fence with the letter for AuntieSue. 

Brian took the letter with a jest which brought a roar of laughter fromthe mountaineer, and, when the latter had gone on his way up the hill, started toward the house to find Auntie Sue. 

Glancing at the envelope in his hand, Brian noticed the postmark "BuenosAires. " He stopped suddenly, staring dumbly at the words in the circularmark and at the name written on the envelope. Over and over, heread "Buenos Aires, --Miss Susan Wakefield; Buenos Aires, --Miss SusanWakefield. " Something--His brain seemed to be numb. His hands trembled. He looked about at the familiar surroundings, and everything seemedsuddenly strange and unreal to him. He looked again at the letter in hishand, turning it curiously. A strange feeling of oppression and ominousforeboding possessed him as though the bright spring sky were all atonce overcast with heavy and menacing storm-clouds. What was it? "BuenosAires, --Susan Wakefield?" Where had he seen that combination before?What was it that made the name of the Argentine city in connection withAuntie Sue's name seem so familiar? Slowly, he went on to the house, and, finding Auntie Sue, gave her the letter. 

"Oh!" cried the old lady, as she saw the postmark on the envelope. "Itmust be from brother John. It is not John's writing, though, " she added, as she opened the envelope. 

And at her words the feeling of impending disaster so oppressed BrianKent that only by an effort could he control himself. He was possessedof the strange sensation of having at some time in the past lived theidentical experience through which he was at that moment passing. "SusanWakefield;--a brother John in Buenos Aires, Argentine;--the letter!" Itwas all so familiar that the allusion was startling in its force. Butthat ominous cloud, --that sense of some great trouble near that filledhim with such unaccountable dread--what could it mean?

An exclamation from Auntie Sue drew his attention. She looked at himwith tear-filled eyes, and her sweet voice broke as she said: "Brian!Brian! John is dead! This--this letter is from the doctor who attendedhim. "

Tenderly, as he would have helped his own mother, Brian assisted AuntieSue to her room. For a little while he sat with her, trying to comforther with such poor words as he could find. 

Briefly, she told him of the brother who had lived in Argentine for manyyears. He had married a South-American woman whom Auntie Sue had neverseen, and while not wealthy had been moderately prosperous. But hehad never forgotten his sister who was so alone in the world. "Severaltimes, when he could, he sent me money for my savings-bank account, " shefinished simply, her sweet old voice low and tender with the memoriesof the years that were gone. "John and I were always very fond of eachother. He was a good man, Brian. "

Brian Kent sat like a man stricken dumb. Auntie Sue's words, "he sent memoney for my savings-bank account, " had made the connection between thenames "Buenos Aires, Argentine; John Wakefield; Susan Wakefield, " andthe thing for which his mind had been groping with such a sense ofimpending disaster. 

In her grief over the death of her brother, and in her memories of theirhome years so long past, dear old Auntie Sue had forgotten the peculiarmeaning her words might have for the former clerk of the EmpireConsolidated Savings Bank who sat beside her, and to whom she turned inher sorrow as a mother to a dearly beloved son. 

"But it is all right, Brian, dear, " she said with brave cheerfulness. "When one has watched the sunsets for seventy years, one ceases to fearthe coming of the night, for always there is the morning. Just let merest here alone for a little while, and I will be myself again. "

She looked up at him with a smile, and Brian Kent, kneeling beside thebed, bowed his head and caught the dear old hands to his lips. Withouttrusting himself to speak again, the man left the room, --closing thedoor. 

He moved about the apartment as one in a dream. With a vividness thatwas torture, he lived again that hour in the bank when, opening theafternoon mail, he had found the letter from Susan Wakefield with theArgentine notes, which her letter said she had received from her brotherJohn in Buenos Aires, and which she was sending to the bank for depositto her little account. It had been a very unbusinesslike letter and avery unbusinesslike way to transmit money. It was, indeed, this natureof the transaction that had tempted the hard-pressed clerk. 

Mechanically, Brian stopped at his writing-table to finger themanuscript which he had finished the evening before. Was it only theevening before? Taking up the volume of closely written sheets whichwere bound together by a shoestring that Auntie Sue had laughingly foundfor him, when he had so joyously announced the completion of the lastpage of his book, he turned the leaves idly, --reading here and therea sentence with curious interest. The terrific mental strain of hissituation completely divorced him, as it were, from the life which hehad lived during those happy months just past, and which was so fullyrepresented by his work. 

Again the river, swinging around a sudden turn in its course, had comeupon a passage where its peaceful flow was broken by the wild turmoil ofthe troubled waters. 

"And Auntie Sue, "--something within the man's self was saying, --"dearAuntie Sue, who had saved him, not only from death, but from the hellof the life that he had formerly lived, as well; and whose lovingcompanionship and sympathetic understanding had so inspired andstrengthened him in the work which had been the passionate desire of hisheart;--the gentle old teacher whose life had been so completely givento others, and who, in the helplessness of her last years, was soalone, --Auntie Sue was depending upon that money which her brother hadsent her as the only support of the closing days of her life. Auntie Suebelieved that her money was safe in the bank. That belief was to hera daily comfort. Auntie Sue did not know that she was almostpenniless;--that the man whom she had saved with such a wondroussalvation had robbed her, and left her so shamefully without meansfor the necessities of life. Auntie Sue did not know. But she wouldknow, "--that inner voice went on. "The time would come when shewould learn the truth. It was certain to come. It might come any day. Then--then--"

As one moving without conscious purpose, Brian Kent went from thehouse, --the manuscript in his hand. 

Judy was sitting idly on the porch steps. At sight of the mountain girlthe man knew all at once that there was one thing he must do. He mustmake sure that there was no mistake. He was already sure, of course; butstill, as a condemned man at the scaffold hopes against hope for a stayof sentence, so he caught at the shadowy suggestion of a possibility. 

"Come with me, Judy, " he said, forcing himself to speak coolly; "I wantto talk with you. "

Judy arose, and, looking at him in her stealthy, oblique way, said, in her drawling monotone: "What's happened ter Auntie Sue? Was theresomethin' in that there letter Bud Jackson give you-all for her what'supset her?"

"Auntie Sue's brother is dead, Judy, " Brian answered. "She wishes to bealone, and we must not disturb her. She will be all right in a littlewhile. Come, let us walk down toward the bluff. "

When they had reached a spot on the river-bank a short distance abovethe Elbow Rock cliff, Brian said to his companion: "Judy, I want youto tell me something. Did Auntie Sue ever send money in a letter to theEmpire Consolidated Savings Bank, in Chicago?"

"The black, beady eyes shifted evasively, and the mountain girl turnedher sallow, old-young face away from Brian's direct gaze. 

"Look at me, Judy. "

She sent a stealthy, oblique glance in his direction. 

"You must tell me. "

"I done started ter tell you-all onct, --that time pap ketched me, --an'you-all 'lowed as how I oughten ter tell nothin' 'bout Auntie Sue tonobody. "

"But it is different now, Judy, " returned Brian. "Something has happenedthat makes it necessary for me to know. "

"Meanin' that there letter 'bout her brother bein' dead?" asked Judy, shrewdly. 

"Yes. "

"What you-all got ter know for?"

"Because--" Brian could not finish. 

Judy's beady eyes were watching him intently, now. "Hit looks likeyou-all ain't a-needin' me ter tell you-all anythin', " she observeddryly. 

"Then Auntie Sue did send money?"

"She sure did. I seed her fix hit in the letter, myself, " came theanswer. 

"What kind of money?"

"I dunno, --some funny kind hit was, --what her brother done sent her fromsome funny place, I dunno just where. "

"When did she send it?"

"'Bout a month 'fore you come. "

"And--and did any letter ever come from the bank to tell her that themoney was received by them all right?"

The mountain girl did not answer, but again turned her face away. 

"Tell me, " Brian insisted. "I--I--must know, Judy, " and his voice washarsh and broken with emotion. 

The answer came reluctantly: "I reckon you-all knows where that theremoney went ter. "

The girl's answer sent a new thought like a hot iron into Brian Kent'stortured brain. He caught Judy's arm in quick and fearful excitement. "Judy!" he gasped, imploringly, "Judy, do you--? does Auntie Sue know--?does she know that I--?"

"How could she help knowin'? She ain't no fool. An' I done heard thatthere Sheriff an' the deteckertive man tellin' her 'bout you an' thebank. An' the Sheriff, he done give her a paper what he said told all'bout what you-all done, an' she must er burned the paper, or donesomethin' with hit, 'cause I couldn't never find hit after that night. An' what would she do that for? And what for did she make me promise notter ever say nothin' ter you-all 'bout that there money letter? An' whyain't she said nothin' to you 'bout the letter from the bank not comin', if she didn't know hit was you 'stead of them what done got the money?"

The girl paused for a moment, and then went on in a tone of reverentwonder: "An' to think that all the time she could a-turned you-all overto that there Sheriff an' got the money-reward to pay her back whatyou-all done tuck. "

Brian Kent was as one who had received a mortal hurt. His features weredistorted with suffering. With eyes that could not see, he looked downat the manuscript to which he still unconsciously clung; and, again, he fingered the pages of his work as though some blind instinct weresending his tormented soul to seek relief in the message which, duringthe happy months just past, he had written for others. 

And the deformed mountain girl, who stood before him with twisted bodyand old-young face, grew fearful as she watched the suffering of thisman whom she had come to look upon as a superior being from some worldwhich she, in her ignorance, could never know. 

"Mr. Burns, " she said at last, putting out her hand and plucking at hissleeve, "Mr. Burns, you-all ain't got no call ter be like this. You-allain't plumb bad. I knows you ain't, 'count of the way you-all havebeen ter me an' 'cause you kept pap from hurtin' me, an' 'cause you aretakin' care of Auntie Sue like you're doin'. Hit ain't no matter 'boutthe money, now, 'cause you-all kin take care of her allus. "

Brian looked up from the manuscript in his hand, and stared dumbly atthe girl, as if he failed to hear her clearly. 

"An' just think 'bout your book, " Judy continued pleadingly. "Think'bout all them fine things you-all have done wrote down for everybodyter read, --'bout the river allus a-goin' on just the same, no matterwhat happens, an' 'bout Auntie Sue an'--"

She stopped, and drew away from him, frightened at the look that cameinto the man's face. 

"Don't, Mr. Burns! Don't!" she half-screamed. "'Fore God, you-alloughten ter look like that!"

The man threw up his head, and laughed, --laughed as the wild, recklessand lost Brian Kent had laughed that black night when, in the driftingboat, he had cursed the life he was leaving and had drunk his profanetoast to the darkness into which he was being carried. 

Raising the manuscript, which represented all that the past months ofhis re-created life had meant to him, and grasping it in both hands, heshook it contemptuously, as he said, with indescribable bitterness andthe reckless surrendering of every hope: "'All them fine things that Ihave wrote down for everybody ter read. '" He mimicked her voice with asneer, and laughed again. Then: "It's all a lie, Judy, dear;--a damnedlie. Auntie Sue is a saint, and believes it. She made me believe itfor a little while, --her beautiful, impossible dream-philosophy of theriver. The river, --hell!--the river is as treacherous and cruel andfalse and tricky and crooked as life itself! And I am as warped andtwisted in mind and soul as you are in body, Judy, dear. Neither of uscan help it. We were made that way by the river. To hell with the wholeimpossible mess of things!" With a gesture of violent rage, he turnedtoward the river, and, taking a step forward, lifted the manuscript highabove his head. 

Judy screamed, "Mr. Burns, don't!"

He paused an instant, and, turning his head, looked at her with anotherlaugh. 

"'Fore God, you dassn't do that!" she implored. 

And then, as the man turned his face from her, and his arms went backabove his head for the swing that would send the manuscript far out intothe tumbling waters of the rapids, she leaped toward him, and, catchinghis arm, hampered his movement so that the book fell a few feet from theshore, where the water, checked a little in its onward rush to the cliffby the irregular bank, boiled and eddied among the rocky ledges and hugeboulders that retarded its force. Another leap carried the mountain girlto the edge of the bank, where she crouched like a runner ready forthe report of the starter's pistol, her black, beady eyes searching thestream for the volume of manuscript, which had disappeared from sight, drawn down by the troubled swirling currents. 

The man, watching her, laughed in derision; but, while his mockinglaughter was still on his lips, the boiling currents brought the book, again, to the surface, and Brian saw the girl leave the bank as ifthrown by a powerful spring. Straight and true she dived for the book, and even as she disappeared beneath the surface her hands clutched themanuscript. 

For a second, Brian Kent held his place as if paralyzed with horror. Then, as Judy's head appeared farther down the stream, he ran withall his strength along the bank to gain a point a little ahead of theswimming girl before he should leap to her rescue. 

But Judy, trained from her birth on that mountain river, knew betterthan Brian what to do. A short distance below the point where she hadplunged into the stream, a huge boulder, some two or three feet from theshore, caused a split in the current, one fork of which set in towardthe bank. Swimming desperately, the girl gained the advantage of thiscurrent, and, just as Brian reached the spot, she was swept againstthe bank, where, with her free hand, she caught and held fast to aprojecting root. Had she been carried past that point, nothing couldhave saved her from being swept on into the wild turmoil of the watersat Elbow Rock. 

It was the work of a moment for Brian to throw himself flat on theground at the edge of the bank and, reaching down, to grasp the girl'swrist. Another moment, and she was safe beside him, his manuscript stilltightly held under one arm. 

Not realizing, in his excitement, what he was doing, Brian shook thegirl, saying angrily: "What in the world do you mean, taking such acrazy-fool chance as that!"

She broke away from him with: "Well, what'd you-all go an' do such adad burned fool thing for? Hit's you-all what's crazy yourself--plumbcrazy!"

Brian held out his hand: "Give me that manuscript!"

Judy clutched the book tighter, and drew back defiantly. "I won't. You-all done throwed hit away onct. 'Tain't your'n no more, nohow. "

"Well, what do you purpose to do with it?" said the puzzled man, in agentler tone. 

"I aims ter give hit ter Auntie Sue, " came the startling reply. "Ireckon she'll know what ter do. Hit allus was more her'n than your'n, anyhow. You done said so yourself. I heard you only last night whenyou-all was so dad burned tickled at gittin' hit done. You-all ain't gotno right ter sling hit inter the river, an', anyway, I ain't a-goin' terlet you. "

"Which sounds very sensible to me, " came a clear voice from a few feetdistant. 

Judy and Brian turned quickly, to face a young woman who stood regardingthem thoughtfully, with a suggestion of a smile on her very attractiveface. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

BETTY JO CONSIDERS. 

The most careless eye would have seen instantly that the newcomer wasnot a native of that backwoods district. She was not a large woman, butthere was, nevertheless, a full, rounded strength, which saved hertrim and rather slender body from appearing small. Neither would adiscriminating observer describe her by that too-common term "pretty. "She was more than that. In her large, gray eyes, there was a lookof frank, straightforward interest that suggested an almost boyishgood-fellowship, while at the same time there was about her a generalair of good breeding; with a calm, self-possessed and businesslikealertness which, combined with a wholesome dignity, commanded a feelingof respect and confidence. Her voice was clear and musical, with anundertone of sympathetic humor. One felt when she spoke that while shelacked nothing of intelligent understanding and sympathetic interest, she was quite ready to laugh at you just the same. 

When the two stood speechless, she said, looking straight at Brian: "Itseems to me, sir, that the young lady has all the best of the argument. But I really think she should have some dry clothes as well. "

She turned to the dripping and dishevelled Judy: "You poor child. Aren'tyou cold! It is rather early in the season for a dip in the river, Ishould think. Let me take whatever you have there, and you make for thehouse as fast as you can go, --the run will warm you. "

As she spoke, she went to the mountain girl, holding out her hand totake the manuscript, and smiling encouragingly. 

But Judy backed away, her stealthy, oblique gaze fixed with watchfulsurprise on the fair stranger. 

"This here ain't none of your put-in, " and her shrill drawling monotonecontrasted strangely with the other's pleasing voice. "Where'd you-allhappen from, anyhow? How'd you-all git here?"

"I came over the bluff by the path, " answered the other. "You see, Ileft the train from the south at White's Crossing because I knew I coulddrive up from there by the river road quicker than I could go by railaway around through the hills to Thompsonville, and then make the drivedown the river from there. When I reached Elbow Rock, I was in such ahurry, I took the short cut, while the man with my trunk and things wentby the road over Schoolhouse Hill, you know. I arrived here just as thisgentleman was pulling you from the water. "

Before Brian could speak, Judy returned with excitement: "I know whoyou-all be now. I ought ter knowed the minute I set eyes on you. You-allare the gal with that there no-'count name, an' you've come ter work forhim, there, "--she pointed to Brian, --"a-helpin' him ter write his book, what ain't his'n no more, nohow, 'cause he done throwed hit away, --plumbinter the river. "

"I am Miss Williams, " returned the other. "My 'no-'count name, ' Isuppose, is Betty Jo. " She laughed kindly. "Perhaps it won't seem so'no'count' when we are better acquainted, Judy. Won't you run along tothe house, and change to some dry clothes? You will catch your death ofcold if you stand here like this. "

"How'd you-all know I was Judy?"

"Why, Auntie Sue wrote me about you, of course. "

"An' you knowed me 'cause I'm so all crooked an' ugly, I reckon, " camethe uncompromising return. 

Betty Jo turned to Brian: "You are Mr. Burns, are you not, for whom I amto work?"

Brian made no reply, --he really could not speak. "And this, "--BettyJo included Judy, the manuscript, and the river in a gracefulgesture, --"this, I suppose, is the result of what is called 'theartistic temperament'?"

Still the man could find no words. The young woman's presence and herreference to his work brought to him, with overwhelming vividness, thememory of all to which he had so short a time before looked forward, and which was now so hopelessly lost to him. He felt, too, a sense ofrebellion that she should have come at such a moment, --that she couldstand there with such calm self-possession and with such an air ofcompetency. Her confidence and poise in such contrast to the chaoticturmoil of his own thoughts, and his utter helplessness in the situationwhich had so suddenly burst upon him, filled him with unreasoningresentment. 

Betty Jo must have read in Brian Kent's face something of the sufferingthat held him there dumb and motionless before her, and so sensed adeeper tragedy than appeared on the surface of the incident; and her ownface and voice revealed her understanding as she said, with quiet, but decisive, force: "Mr. Burns, Judy must go to the house. Won't youpersuade her?"

Brian started as one aroused from deep abstraction, and went to Judy;while Betty Jo drew a little way apart, and stood looking out over theriver. 

"Give me the manuscript, Judy, " said Brian gently, "and go on to thehouse. "

"You-all ain't a-goin' ter sling hit inter the river again?" The wordswere half-question and half-assertion. 

"No, " said Brian. "I promise not to throw it into the river again. "

As Judy gave him the manuscript, she turned her beady eyes in astealthy, oblique look toward Betty Jo, and whispered: "You-all besttell her 'bout hit. I sure hate her poison-bad; but hit's easy ter seeshe'd sure know what ter do. "

"Be careful that Auntie Sue doesn't see you like this, Judy, " wasBrian's only answer; and Judy started off for her much-needed change todry clothing. 

When the mountain girl was gone, Brian stood looking at thewater-stained volume of manuscript in his hand. He had no feeling, now, of more than a curious idle interest in this work to which, during themonths just past, he had given so without reserve the best of himself. It was, he thought, strange how he could regard with such indifference athing for which a few hours before he would have given his life. Dumbly, he was conscious of the truth of Judy's words, --that the book was nolonger his. Judy was right--this book which he had called his had alwaysbeen, in reality, Auntie Sue's. So the matter of his work, at leastso far as he had to do with it, was settled--definitely and finallysettled. 

But what of himself? What was to become of him? Of one thing only he wascertain about himself;--he never could face Auntie Sue again. Knowing, now, what he had done, and knowing that she knew;--that all the time shewas nursing him back to health, all the time she had been giving him theinspiration and strength and peace of her gentle, loving companionship, in the safe and quiet harbor of her little house by the river, she hadknown that it was he who had--A clear, matter-of-fact, but gentle, voice interrupted his bitter thoughts: "Is it so very badly damaged, Mr. Burns?"

He had forgotten Betty Jo, who now stood close beside him. 

"Let me see?" She held out her hand as he turned slowly to face her. 

Without a word, he gave her the manuscript. 

Very businesslike and practical, but with an underlying feeling oftenderness that was her most compelling charm, Betty Jo examined thewater-stained volume. 

"Why, no, " she announced cheerfully; "it isn't really hurt much. Yousee, the sheets being tied together so tightly, the water didn't get allthe way through. The covers and the first and last pages are pretty wet, and the edges of the rest are rather damp. It'll be smudged somewhat, but I don't believe there is a single word that can't be made out. It islucky it didn't prolong its bath, though, isn't it? All we need to do, now, is to put it in the sun to dry for a few minutes. "

Selecting a sunny spot near by, she arranged the volume against a stoneand deftly separated the pages so that the air could circulate morefreely between them; and one would have said, from her manner of readyassurance, that she had learned from long experience exactly how to drya manuscript that had been thrown in the river and rescued just in thenick of time. That was Betty Jo's way. She always did everything withouthesitation, --just as though she had spent the twenty-three years of herlife doing exactly that particular thing. 

Kneeling over the manuscript, and gently moving the wet sheets, shesaid, without looking up: "Do you always bath your manuscripts like thisbefore you turn them over to your stenographer to type, Mr. Burns?"

In spite of his troubled state of mind, Brian smiled. 

The clear, matter-of-fact voice went on, while the competent handsmoved the drying pages. "You see, I never worked for an author before. Isuspect I have a lot to learn. "

She looked up at him with a Betty Jo smile that went straight to hisheart, as Betty Jo's smiles had a curious way of doing. 

"I hope you will be very patient with me, Mr. Burns. You will, won'tyou? There is no real danger of your throwing ME in the river when the'artistic temperament' possesses you, is there?"

It was no use. When Betty Jo set out to make a man talk, that mantalked. Brian yielded not ungracefully: "I owe you an apology, MissWilliams, " he said. 

"Indeed, no, " Betty Jo returned, giving her attention to the manuscriptagain. "It is easy to see that you are terribly upset about something;and everybody is so accustomed to being upset in one way or another thatapologies for upsetments are quite an unnecessary bother, aren't they?"

That was another interestingly curious thing about Betty Jo, --the wayshe could finish off a characteristic, matter-of-fact statement with aquestion which had the effect of making one agree instantly whether oneagreed or not. 

Brian felt himself quite unexpectedly feeling that "upsetments" werequite common, ordinary, and to be expected events in one's life. "But Iam really in very serious trouble, Miss Williams, " he said in a way thatsounded oddly to Brian himself, as though he were trying to convincehimself that his trouble really was serious. 

Betty Jo rose to her feet, and looked straight at him, and there was nomistaking the genuineness of the interest expressed in those big grayeyes. 

"Oh, are you? Is it really so serious? I am so sorry. But don't youthink you better tell me about it, Mr. Burns? If I am to work for you, Imay just as well begin right here, don't you think?"

There it was again, --that trick-question. Brian felt himself agreeing inspite of himself, though how he was to explain his painful situationto this young woman whom, until a few minutes before, he had never evenseen, he did not know. He answered cautiously, speaking half to himself:"That is what Judy said. "

Betty Jo did not understand, and made no pretense, --she never made apretense of anything. "What did Judy say?" she asked. 

"That I had better tell you about it, " he answered. 

And the matter-of-fact Betty Jo returned: "Judy seems to be a veryparticular and common-sensing sort of Judy, doesn't she?"

And Brian realized all at once that Judy was exactly what Betty Jo said. 

"But, --I--I--don't see how I CAN tell you, Miss Williams. "

"Why?" laughed Betty Jo. "It is perfectly simple, Mr. Burns, here, now, I'll show you: You are to sit down there on that nice comfortablerock, --that is your big office-chair, you know, --and I'll sit right hereon this rock, --which is my little stenography-chair, --and you will justexplain the serious business proposition to me with careful attention todetails. I must tell you that 'detailing' is one of my strong points, sodon't spare me. I really should have my notebook, shouldn't I?"

Again, in spite of himself, Brian smiled; also, before he was aware, they were both seated as Betty Jo had directed. 

"But this is not a business matter, Miss Williams, " he managed toprotest half-heartedly. 

Betty Jo was looking at her watch in a most matter-of-fact manner, andshe answered in a most matter-of-fact voice: "Everything is more or lessa business matter, isn't it, Mr. Burns?"

And Brian, if he had answered, would have agreed. 

Betty Jo slipped her watch back into her pocket, and continued: "Youwill have plenty of time before that man with my trunk and things canget away 'round over Schoolhouse Hill and down again to Auntie Sue's. Hewill be obliged to stop at neighbor Tom's, and tell them all about me, of course. We mustn't let him beat us to the house, though; so, perhaps, you better begin, don't you think?"

That "don't-you-think?" so characteristic of Betty Jo, did its work, asusual; and so, almost before Brian Kent realized what he was doing, it had been decided for him that to follow Judy's advice was the bestpossible thing he could do, and he was relating his whole wretchedexperience to this young woman, about whom he knew nothing except thatshe was a niece of an old pupil of Auntie Sue's, and that she had justfinished a course in a business college in Cincinnati. 

At several points in his story Betty Jo asked straightforwardquestions, or made short, matter-of-fact comments; but, always with herbusinesslike air of competent interest. Indeed, she managed to treat thesituation as being wholly impersonal; while at the same time the manwas never for a moment made to feel that she was lacking in sincere andgenuine sympathy. Only when he told her that his name was Brian Kent, and mentioned the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, did she for themoment betray excited surprise. When she saw that he had noticed, shesaid quickly: "I read of the affair in the papers, of course. "

Auntie Sue had indeed taken a big chance when she decided for Betty Joto come to help Brian with his book. But Auntie Sue had taken no chanceon Betty Jo herself. Perhaps it was, in fact, the dear old teacher'scertainty about Betty Jo herself that had led her to accept the riskof sending for the niece of her friend and pupil under such a peculiarcombination of circumstances. 

When Brian had finished his story with the account of his discovery ofthe distressing fact that he had robbed Auntie Sue and that she knew hehad robbed her, Betty Jo said: "It is really a sad story, isn't it, Mr. Burns? But, oh, isn't Auntie Sue wonderful! Was there ever suchanother woman in the world! Don't you love her? And couldn't you doanything--anything that would make her happy? After all, when you thinkof Auntie Sue, and how wonderful she has been, this whole thing isn't sobad, is it?"

"Why, I--I--don't think I see what you mean, " Brian replied, puzzledby the unexpected turn she had given to the situation, yet convinced bythat little question with which she finished that she was somehow right. 

"Well, I mean wouldn't YOU love to do for some one what Auntie Sue hasdone for you? I should if I were only big enough and good enough. It seems to me it would make one the happiest and contentedest andpeacefulest person in the world, wouldn't it?"

Brian did not answer. While he felt himself agreeing with Betty Jo'sview, he was wondering at himself that he could discuss the matterso calmly. It was not that he no longer felt deeply the shame of thisterrible thing that he had done; it was not that he had ceased to sufferthe torment that had caused his emotional madness, which had foundexpression in his attempt to destroy his manuscript; it was onlythat this young woman somehow made it possible for him to retain hisself-control, and instead of venting his emotions in violent and whollyuseless expressions of regret, and self-condemnation, and in irrational, temperamental action, to consider coolly and sanely what he must do. Hewas strangely possessed, too, of an instinctive certainty that Betty Joknew exactly how he felt and exactly what she was doing. 

While he was thinking these things, or, rather, feeling them, Betty Jowent to see how the manuscript was drying. She returned to her seat onthe rock presently, saying: "It is doing very nicely, --almost dry. Ithink it will be done pretty soon. In the meantime, what are we goingto do about everything? You have thought of something for you to do, ofcourse!"

"I fear I have felt rather more than I have thought, " returned Brian. 

She nodded. "Yes, I know; but feeling alone never arrives anywhere. Anexcess of thoughtless feeling is sheer emotional extravagance. I soundlike a book, don't I?" she laughed. "It is so just the same, Mr. Burns. And now that you have--ah--been properly--not to saygloriously--extravagant at poor Judy's expense, we had better do alittle thinking, don't you think?"

The man's cheeks reddened at her words; but the straightforward, downright sincerity of those gray eyes, that looked so frankly intohis, held him steady; while the interrogation at the end of her remarkcarried its usual conviction. 

"There is only one possible thing left for me to do, Miss Williams, " hesaid earnestly. 

"And what is that?" A smile that sent a glow of courage to Brian Kent'stroubled heart accompanied the flat question. 

"I can't face Auntie Sue again, knowing what I know now. " He spoke withpassion. 

"Of course you would expect to feel that way, wouldn't you?" came thematter-of-fact answer. 

"The only thing I can do, " he continued, "is to give myself up, and goto the penitentiary; arranging, somehow, to do it in such a way that thereward will go to Auntie Sue. God knows she deserves it! Sheriff Knoxwould help me fix that part, I am sure. "

For a moment there was a suspicious moisture in Betty Jo's gray eyes. Then she said, "And you would really go to prison for Auntie Sue?"

"It is the least I can do for her now, " he returned. 

And Betty Jo must have felt the sincerity of his purpose, for she said, softly: "I am sure that it would make Auntie Sue very happy to know thatyou would do that; and"--she added--"I know that you could not possiblymake her more unhappy and miserable than by doing it, could you?"

Again she had given an unexpected turn to the subject with the usualconvincing question-mark. 

"But what can I do?" he demanded, letting himself go a little. 

Betty Jo steadied him with: "Well, suppose you listen while I consider?Did I tell you that 'considering' was another of my strong points, Mr. Burns? Well, it is. You may consider me while I consider, if you please. 

"The first thing is, that you must make Auntie Sue happy, --as happy asyou possibly can do at any cost. The second thing is, that you must payher back that money, every penny of it. Now, it wouldn't make her happyfor you to go to prison, and the reward wouldn't pay back all the money;and if you were in prison, you never could pay the rest; besides, if youwere wasting your time in prison, she would just die of miserableness, and she wouldn't touch a penny of that reward-money--not if she was todie for want of it. So that settles that, doesn't it?"

And Brian was forced to admit that, as Betty Jo put it, it did. 

"Very well, let us consider some more: Dear Auntie Sue has beenwonderfully, gloriously happy in doing what she has for you this pastwinter, --meaning your book and all. I can see that she must have been. No one could help being happy doing such a thing as that. So you justsimply can't spoil it all, now, by letting her know that you know whatyou know. "

Brian started to speak, but she checked him with: "Please, Mr. Burns, I must not be interrupted when I am considering. Next to theprison, --which we have agreed won't do at all, --you could do nothingthat would make Auntie Sue more unhappy than to spoil the happiness shehas in your not knowing what you have done to her. That is very clear, isn't it? And think of her miserableness if, after all these weeks ofhappy anticipation, your book should never be published. No, no, no; youcan't rob Auntie Sue of her happiness in you just because you stole hermoney, can you?"

And Brian knew in his heart that she was right. 

"So, you see, " Betty Jo continued, "the only possible way to do is togo right along just as if nothing had happened. And there is this finalconsideration, --which must be a dark secret between you and me, --whenthe book is finished, you must see to it that every penny that comesfrom it goes to Auntie Sue until she is paid back all that she lostthrough you. Now, isn't that pretty fine 'considering, ' Mr. Burns?"

And Brian was convinced that it was. "But, " he suggested, "the book maynot earn anything. Nothing that I ever wrote before did. "

"You never wrote one before just like this, did you?" came the verymatter-of-fact answer. "And, besides, if your book never earns a cent, it will do Auntie Sue a world more good than your going to prison forher. That would be rather silly, now that you think of it, wouldn't it?And now that we have our conspiracy all nicely conspired, we must hurryto the house before that man arrives with my things. "

She went for the manuscript as she spoke. "See, " she cried, "it is quitedry, and not a bit the worse for its temperamental experience!" Shelaughed gleefully. 

"But, Miss Williams, " exclaimed Brian, "I--I--can't understand you!You don't seem to mind. What I have told you about myself doesn't seemto--to--make any difference to you--I mean in your attitude toward me. "

"Oh, yes, it does, " she returned. "It makes me very interested in you, Mr. Burns. "

"But, how can you have any confidence--How can you help me with my booknow that you know what I am?" he persisted, for he was sincerely puzzledby her apparent indifference to the revelation he had made of hischaracter. 

"Auntie Sue, "--she answered, --"just Auntie Sue. Come, --we must go. "

"How in the world can I ever face her!" groaned Brian. 

"You won't get the chance at her, for awhile, with me around;--she willbe so busy with me that she won't notice anything wrong with you. Soyou will get accustomed to the conspiracy feeling before you are evensuspected of conspiring. You know, when one has once arrived at thestate of not feeling like a liar, one can lie with astonishing success. Haven't you found it so?"

They laughed together over this as they went toward the house. 

As they reached the porch, Betty Jo whispered a last word ofinstruction: "You better find Judy, and fix her the first thing;--fixher good and hard. Here is Auntie Sue now. Don't worry about hernoticing anything strange about you. I'll attend to her. "

And the next minute, Betty Jo had the dear old lady in her arms. 

CHAPTER XV. 

A MATTER OF BUSINESS. 

The weeks that followed the coming of Betty Jo to the little log houseby the river passed quickly for Brian Kent. Perhaps it was the peculiarcircumstances of their first meeting that made the man feel so stronglythat he had known her for many years, instead of for only those fewshort weeks. That could easily have been the reason, because theyoung woman had stepped so suddenly into his life at a very criticaltime;--when his mental faculties were so confused by the turmoil andsuffering of his emotional self that the past was to him, at the moment, far more real than the present. 

And Betty Jo had not merely come into his life casually, as adisinterested spectator; but, by the peculiar appeal of herself, shehad led Brian to take her so into his confidence that she had becomeimmediately a very real part of the experience through which he was thenpassing, and thus was identified with his past experience out of whichthe crisis of the moment had come. 

Again Betty Jo, in the naturalness of her manner toward him, and by hermatter-of-fact, impersonal consideration of his perplexing situation, had brought to his unsettled and chaotic mind a sense of stability andorder; and by subtly insinuating her own practical decisions as to thecourse he should follow, had made herself a very literal part of hisinner life. In fact, Betty Jo knew Brian Kent more intimately at theclose of their first meeting than she could have known him after yearsof acquaintanceship under the ordinary course of development. 

Brian's consciousness of this would naturally cause him to feel towardthe young woman as though she had long been a part of his life. Stillother causes might have contributed to the intimate companionship thatso quickly became to them both an established and taken-for-grantedfact; but, the circumstances of their first meeting, given, of course, their peculiar individualities, were, really, quite enough. The factthat it was springtime might also have had something to do with it. 

The morning after her arrival, Betty Jo set to work typing themanuscript. Brian went to his work on the timbered hillside. In theevenings, Brian worked over the typewitten pages, --revising, correcting, perfecting, --and then, as Betty Jo made the final copy for the printers, they went critically over the work together. 

So the hours flew past on busy wings, and the days of the springtimedrew toward summer. The tender green of the new-born leaves and grasseschanged to a stronger, deeper tone. The air, which had been so filledwith the freshness and newness of bursting buds and rain-blessed soil, and all the quickening life of tree and bush and plant, now carried theperfume of strongly growing things, --the feel of maturing life. 

To Brian, the voices of the river brought a fuller, deeper message, witha subtle undertone of steady and enduring purpose. 

From the beginning, Betty Jo established for herself the habit ofleaving her work at the typewriter in the afternoons, and going fora walk over the hills. Quite incidentally, at first, her walksoccasionally led her by way of the clearing where Brian was at workwith his ax, and it followed, naturally, that as the end of the day drewnear, the two would go together down the mountain-side to the eveningmeal. But long before the book was finished, the little afternoon visitand the walk together at the day's close had become so established as acustom that they both accepted it as a part of their day's life; and toBrian, at least, it was an hour to which he looked forward as the mostdelightful hour of the twenty-four. As for Betty Jo, --well, it wasreally Betty Jo who established the custom and developed it to thatpoint where it was of such importance. 

Auntie Sue was too experienced from her life-long study of boys andgirls not to observe the deepening of the friendship between the man andthe woman whom she had brought together. But if the dear old lady feltany twinges of an apprehensive conscience, when she saw the pair dayafter day coming down the mountain-side through the long shadows ofthe late afternoon, she very promptly banished them, and, quiteconsistently, with what Brian called her "River philosophy, " made noattempt to separate these two life currents, which, for the time atleast, seemed to be merging into one. 

And often, as the three sat together on the porch after supper to watchthe sunsets, or later in the evening as Auntie Sue sat with her sewingwhile they were busy with their work and unobserving, the dear old ladywould look at them with a little smile of tender meaning, and into thegentle eyes would come that far-away look that was born of the memoriesthat had so sweetened the long years of her life, and of the hope anddream of a joy unspeakable that awaited her beyond the sunset of herday. 

In her long letter to Betty Jo, asking the girl to come, Auntie Sue hadtold the young woman the main facts of Brian's history as she knew them, omitting only the man's true name and the name of the bank. She had evenmentioned her conviction that there had been a woman in his trouble. ButAuntie Sue had not mentioned in her letter the money she had lost; nordid she now know that Brian had himself told Betty Jo at the time oftheir first meeting. 

On the day that Betty Jo typed the last page, and the book was ready forthe printers, the young woman went earlier than usual to the clearingwhere Brian was at work. The sound of his ax reached her while she wasyet some distance away, and guided her to the spot where he was choppinga big white oak. 

Brian, with his eyes fixed on the widening cut at the base of the tree, did not notice the girl, who stood watching him. She was smiling toherself at his ignorance of her presence and in anticipation of themoment when he should discover her, and there was in her eyes a look ofwholesome womanly admiration for the man who swung his ax with such easystrength. In truth, Brian Kent at his woodman's labor made a picture notat all unattractive. 

Swiftly, the cut in the tree-trunk widened as the ax bit deeply at everyskilful stroke, and the chips flew about the chopper's feet. The acridodor of the freshly cut oak mingled with the woodland perfume. Thesun warmly flooded the clearing with its golden light, and, splashingthrough the openings in the forest foliage, formed pools of yellowbeauty amid the dark, rich green of the shadowy undergrowth. The air wasfilled with the sense of life, vital and real, and strong and beautiful. 

And the young woman, as she stood smiling there, was keenly consciousof it all. Most of all, perhaps, Betty Jo was conscious of the man, whoworked with such vigor at his manly task. 

Slowly, accurately, the bright ax sank deeper and deeper into the heartof the tree. The chips increased in scattered profusion. And then, asBetty Jo watched, the swinging ax cut through the last fibre of thetree's strength, and the leafy top swayed gently toward its fall. Almostimperceptibly, at first, it moved while Betty Jo watched breathlessly. Brian swung his ax with increasing vigor, now, while the wood, stillremaining, cracked and snapped as the weight of the tree completed thework of the chopper. Faster and faster the towering mass of foliageswung in a wide graceful arc toward the ground. The man with the axstepped back, his eyes fixed on the falling tree as, with swiftlyincreasing momentum, its great weight swept swiftly downward to itscrashing end. 

Betty Jo clapped her hands in triumph; and Brian, turning, saw herstanding there. His face was flushed and glistening with perspiration;his broad chest heaved with the deep breathing gained by his exertion, and his eyes shone with the gladness of her presence. 

"You are early, to-day!" he cried. "Have you finished? Is it actuallycompleted?"

"All finished, " she returned; and, going to the fallen tree, she put herhands curiously on the trunk, which lay a little higher than her waist. "Help me up, " she commanded. 

Brian set his ax against the stump, and, laughingly, lifted her to theseat she desired. Then he stood watching her face as she surveyed thetangled mass of branches. 

"It looks so strange from here, doesn't it?" she said. 

"Yes; and I confess I don't like to see it that way;" he returned. "Iwish they didn't have to be cut. I feel like a murderer, --every one Ifall. "

She looked down into his eyes, as she returned: "I know you must. YOUwould, of course. But, after all, it has to be, and I don't suppose thetree minds so much, do you?"

"No; I don't suppose it feels it much. " He laughed, and, throwing asidehis hat, he ran his fingers through his tumbled hair for all the worldlike a schoolboy confused by being caught in some sentimental situationwhich he finds not only embarrassing, but puzzling as well. 

"I like you for feeling that way about it, though, " Betty Jo confessedwith characteristic frankness. "And I am sure it must be a very goodthing for the world that every one is not so intensely practical thatthey can chop down trees without a pang. And that reminds me: Speakingof the practical, now that the book is finished, what are we going to dowith it?"

"Send it to some publisher, I suppose, " answered Brian, soberly; "andthen, when they have returned it, send it to some other publisher. "

"Have you any particular publisher to whom you will send it first?" sheasked. 

"They are all alike, so far as my experience goes, " he returned. 

"I suppose it would be best if you could take your book East, andinterview the publishers personally, don't you think?"

Brian shook his head: "I am not sure that it would make any difference, and, in any case, I couldn't do it. "

"I know, " said Betty Jo, "and that is what I wanted to get at. Why don'tyou appoint me your agent, and let me take your book East, and make thepublishing arrangements for you?"

Brian looked at her with such delighted surprise that Betty Jo smiledback at him well pleased. 

"Would you really do it?" he demanded, as though he feared she wasjesting. 

"You are sure that you don't mean 'COULD I do it'?"--shereturned, --"sure you could trust me?"

To which Brian answered enthusiastically: "You could do anything! If youundertake the job of landing a publisher for my stuff, it is as good asdone. "

"Thank you, " she said, jumping down from the tree-trunk. "Now that wehave settled it, let us go to the house and tell Auntie Sue, and I willstart in the morning. "

As they went down the hill, they discussed the matter further, and, later, at the house, Brian took a moment, when Auntie Sue was in herroom, to hand an envelope to his assistant. "Your salary, " he said, hurriedly, "and expense money for the trip. "

"Oh!" Betty Jo's exclamation was one of surprise. Then she said, inher most matter-of-fact, businesslike tone: "Thank you. I will render astatement of my account, but--" For once, Betty Jo seemed at a loss forwords. "You don't mind if I ask--is--is this money--?"

Brian's face was a study. "Yes, " he said, "it is really Auntie Sue'smoney; but it is all I have, and I can't return it to her--without herknowing--so I--"

Betty Jo interrupted: "I understand. It is all we can do, --forgive me?"

Brian Kent did not know that Betty Jo, a few minutes later, buried theenvelope he had given her deep in the bottom of her trunk without evenopening it. 

The next day, Brian drove to Thompsonville with Betty Jo, who took thenoon train for the East. 

The two were rather quiet as "Old Prince" jogged soberly along thebeautiful river road. Only now and then did they exchange a few words ofthe most commonplace observation. 

They were within sight of the little Ozark settlement when Brian said, earnestly: "I wish I could tell you, Miss Williams, just what yourcoming to help me with this work has meant to me. "

"It has meant a great deal to me, too, Mr. Burns, " she returned. Then she added quickly: "I suppose the first real work one does afterfinishing school always means more than any position following couldpossibly mean, don't you think? Just like your book. No matter how manyyou may write in the future, this will always mean more to you than anyone of them. "

"Yes, " he said slowly. "This book will always mean more to me than allthe others I may write. "

For a moment their eyes met with unwavering frankness. Then Betty Joturned her face away, and Brian stiffened his shoulders, and sat alittle straighter in the seat beside her. That was all. 

Very brave they were at the depot purchasing Betty Jo's ticket andchecking her trunk. With brave commonplaces they said good-bye when thetrain pulled in. Bravely she waved at him from the open window of thecoach. And bravely Brian stood there watching until the train roundedthe curve and disappeared from sight between the hills. 

The world through which Brian Kent drove that afternoon on his way backto Auntie Sue and Judy in the little log house by the river was a verydull and uninteresting world indeed. All its brightness and its beautyseemed suddenly to have vanished. And as "Old Prince" jogged patientlyon his way, sleepily content with thoughts of his evening meal of hayand grain, the man's mind was disturbed with thoughts which he dared notown even to his innermost self. 

"Circumstances to a man, " Auntie Sue had said, "always meant a woman. "And Brian Kent, while he never under any pressure would have admittedit, knew within his deepest self that it was a woman who had set himadrift on the dark river that dreadful night when he had cursed theworld which he thought he was leaving forever. 

"Circumstances" in the person of Auntie Sue had saved him fromdestruction, and, in the little log house by the river, had broughtabout his Re-Creation. 

And then, when that revelation of his crime toward Auntie Sue hadcome, and the labor of months, with all that it implied of the enduringsalvation of himself and the happiness of Auntie Sue, hung wavering inthe balance, it was the "Circumstances" of Betty Jo's coming that hadset him in the right current of action again. 

What waited for him around the next bend in the river, Brianwondered, --calm and peaceful waters, with gently flowing currents, orthe wild tumult of dangerous rapids wherein he would be forced to fightfor his very existence? Would Betty Jo succeed as his agent to thepublishers? If she did succeed in finding a publisher to accepthis book, would the reading public receive his message? And ifthat followed, what then? When Betty Jo's mission in the East wasaccomplished, she was to return to Auntie Sue for the summer. Then--?

"Old Prince, " of his own accord, was turning in at the gate, and Brianawoke from his abstraction to see Auntie Sue and Judy waiting for him. 

All during the evening meal and while he sat with Auntie Sue on theporch overlooking the river, as their custom was, Brian was preoccupiedand silent; while his companion, with the wisdom of her seventy years, did not force the conversation. 

It was the time of the full moon, and when Auntie Sue at last bade himgood-night, Brian, saying that the evening was too lovely to waste insleep, remained on the porch. For an hour, perhaps, he sat there alone;but his thoughts were not on the beauties of the scene that lay beforehim in all its dreamy charm of shadowy hills and moonlit river. He hadno ear for the soft voices of the night. The gentle breeze carried tohim the low, deep-toned roar of the crashing waters at Elbow Rock; buthe did not hear. Moved at last by a feeling of restless longing, and thecertainty that only a sleepless bed awaited him in the house, he leftthe porch to stroll along the bank of the river. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE. 

Brian Kent, strolling along the bank of the river in the moonlight, and preoccupied with thoughts that were, at the last, more dreams thanthoughts, was not far from the house when a sound from behind somenear-by bushes broke in upon his reveries. A moment, he listened. Thentelling himself that it was some prowling animal, or perhaps, a birdthat his presence had disturbed, he went on. But he had gone only a fewfeet farther when he was conscious of something stealthily followinghim. Stepping behind the trunk of a tree, he waited, watching. Then hesaw a form moving toward him through the shadows of the bushes. Anothermoment, and the form left the concealing shadow, and, in the brightmoonlight, he recognized Judy. 

At first, the man's feeling was that of annoyance. He did not wish to bedisturbed at such a time by the presence of the mountain girl. Buthis habitual gentleness toward poor Judy, together with a very naturalcuriosity as to why she was following him at that time of the night, when he had supposed her in bed and asleep, led him to greet her kindlyas he came from behind the tree: "Well, Judy, are you, too, out enjoyingthe moonlight?"

The girl stopped suddenly and half-turned as if to run; but, at hiswords, stood still. 

"What is it, Judy?" he asked, going to her. "What is the matter?"

"There's a heap the matter!" she answered, regarding him with that slyoblique look; while Brian noticed a feeling of intense excitement in hervoice. "I don't know what you-all are a-goin' ter think of me, butI'm bound ter tell you just the same, --seems like I got ter, --even ifyou-all was ter lick me for hit like pap used ter. "

"Why, Judy, dear, " the puzzled man returned, soothingly, "you know Iwould never strike you, no matter what you did. Come, sit down here onthis log, and tell me about whatever it is that troubles you; then youcan go back to sleep again. "

"I ain't a-wantin' ter set down. I ain't been asleep. Hit seems likeI can't never sleep no more. " She wrung her hands and turned her poortwisted body about nervously; then demanded with startling abruptness:"When do you-all 'low she'll git back?"

The wondering Brian did not at first catch her meaning, and shecontinued, with an impatient jerk of her head: "Hit's that there galwith the no-'count name, Betty Jo, I'm a-talkin' 'bout. "

"Oh, you mean Miss Williams, " Brian returned. "Why, I suppose shewill be back in two or three weeks, or a month, perhaps; I don't knowexactly, Judy. Why?"

"'Cause I'm a-tellin' you-all not ter let her come back here ever, " camethe startling answer, in a voice that was filled with menacing anger. Then, before Brian could find a word to reply, the mountain girlcontinued, with increasing excitement: "You-all dassn't let her comeback here, nohow, 'cause, if you do, I'll hurt her, sure. You-allhave been a-thinkin' as how I was plumb blind, I reckon; but I seenyou, --every evenin', when she'd pretend ter just go for a walk an'then'd make straight for the clearin' where you was a-choppin', an' thenyou'd quit, an' set with her up there on the hill. Youuns never knowedI was a-watchin' from the bresh all the time, did you? Well, I was; an'when youuns'd walk down ter the house, so slow like an' close together, I'd sneak ahead, an' beat you home; but all the time I was a-seein' you, an' youuns never knowed, 'cause youuns just naturally couldn't see norhear nothin' but each other. Don't you-all 'low as how I'd know by theway you looked at her, while youuns was a-fixin' that there book, everynight, what you-all was a-thinkin' 'bout her? My God-A'mighty! hit wasjust as plain ter me as if you was a-sayin' hit right out loud all thetime, --a heap plainer hit was than if you'd done writ' hit down in yourbook. I can't make out ter read print much, nohow, like youuns kin; butI sure kin see what I see. I--"

"Judy! Judy!" Brian broke the stream of the excited girl's talk. "Whatin the world are you saying? What do you mean, child?"

"You-all knows dad burned well what I'm a-meanin'!" she retorted, withincreasing anger. "I'm a-meanin' that you-all are plumb lovin' thatthere Betty Jo gal, --that's what I'm a-meanin'!--an' you-all sure ain'tgot ary right for ter go an' do sich a thing, nohow!"

Brian tried to check her, but she silenced him with: "I won't neitherhush! I can't! I tell you I'm a-goin' ter say my say if you-all killsme! I've just naturally got ter! Seems like I was all afire inside an'would burn plumb up if I didn't! I've got rights, I reckon, if I be allcrooked an' twisted out er shape, an' ugly-faced an' no learnin', nernothin'. "

A dry sob choked the torrent of words for an instant; but, with asavage effort she went on: "I know I ain't nothin' alongside of her, but you-all ain't a-goin' ter have her just the same, --not if I have terkill her first! You ain't got no right ter have her, nohow, 'cause hit'slike's not you-all done got a woman already somewheres, wherever 'twasyou-all come from; an' even if you ain't got no woman already, I sureain't a-goin' ter let you have her! What'd she ever do for you? Hit wasme what dragged you-all from the river when you was mighty nigh deadfrom licker an' too plumb sick ter save yourself! Hit's me that'skept from tellin' the Sheriff who you be an' a-takin' that therereward-money! Hit was me what jumped inter the river above Elbow Rockjust ter git your dad burned old book, when you'd done throwed hit plumbaway!

"I knowed first time I heard Auntie Sue name her what she'd do ter you!Any fool would a-knowed what a woman with a half-gal, half-boy name likeher'n would do, an' she's done hit, --she sure has! But she ain't a-goin'ter do no more! You-all belongs ter me a heap more'n you do ter her, --ifhit comes ter that, --though, I ain't a-foolin' myself none a-thinkin'that sich as you could ever take up with sich as me, --me bein' what Iam. No, sir; I ain't never fooled myself ary bit like that, Mr. Burns. But hit ain't a-makin' no difference how ugly an' crooked an' no 'countI be outside; the inside of me is a-lovin' you like she never could, nernobody else, I reckon. An' I'll just go on a-lovin' you, no matter whathappens; an' I ain't a-carin' whether you got a woman already er not, er whether you-all have robbed er killed, er what you done. An'--an'--soI'm a-tellin' you, you'd best not let her come back here no more, 'cause--'cause I just naturally can't stand hit ter see youunstergether! 'Fore God, I'm a-tellin' you true, --I'll sure hurt her!"

The girl's voice raised to a pitch of frenzied excitement, and, whirling, she pointed to the river, as she cried: "Look out there! Whatdo you-all reckon your fine Betty Jo lady would do if I was ter gither ketched in them there rapids? What do you-all reckon the Elbow Rockwater would do ter her? I'll tell you what hit'd do: Hit would smash an'grind an' tear an' hammer that there fine, straight body of hers'til hit was all broken an' twisted an' crooked a heap worse'n what Ibe, --that's what hit would do; an' hit would scratch an' cut an' beat upthat pretty face an' mess up her pretty hair an' choke her an' smotherher 'til she was all blue-black an' muddy, an' her eyes was red an'starin', an' she was nothin' but just an ugly lump of dirt; an' hitwouldn't even leave her her fine clothes neither, --the Elbow Rock waterwouldn't, --hit'd just naturally tear 'em off her, an' leave her 'thoutary thing what's makin' you love her like you're a-doin'! An' wherewould all her fine schoolin' an' smart talk an' pretty ways be then? Eh?She wouldn't be no better, nor half as good as me, I'm a-tellin' you, onct Elbow Rock got done with her!"

The poor creature finished in wild triumph; then suddenly, as thoughspent with the very fury of her passion, she turned from the river, andsaid dully: "You'd sure best not let her come back, sir! 'Fore God, Iain't a-wantin' ter do hit, but hit seems like I can't help myself; Ican't sleep for wantin' ter fix hit so, --so's you just couldn't wantter have her no more'n you're a-wantin' me. I--I--sure ain't a-foolin'myself none, not ary bit, a-thinkin' you-all could ever git terlikin' sich as me; but, I can't help sort of dreamin' 'bout hit an'a-pretendin', an'--an' all the while I'm a-knowin', inside er me like, that there ain't nobody, --not Auntie Sue, nor this here Betty Jo, northat there other woman, nor anybody, --what kin care for you like I'ma-carin', --they just naturally couldn't care like me; 'cause--'cause, you see, sir, I ain't got nobody else, --ain't no man but you ever evenbeen decent ter me. I sure ain't got nobody else--"

The distraught creature's sobs prevented further speech, and she droppeddown on the ground, weak and exhausted; her poor twisted body shakingand writhing with the emotion she could not voice. 

For a little while, Brian Kent himself was as helpless as Judy. He couldonly stand dumbly, staring at her as she crouched at his feet. Then, very gently, he lifted her from the ground, and tried as best he couldto comfort her. But he felt his words to be very shallow and inadequate, even though his own voice was trembling with emotion. 

"Come, Judy, dear, " he said, at last, when she seemed to have in ameasure regained her self-control. "Come. You must go back to the house, child. "

Drawing away from his supporting arm, she answered, quietly: "I ain'tno child, no more, Mr. Burns: I'm sure a woman, now. I'm just as much awoman as--as--she is, if I be like what I am. I'm plumb sorry I had terdo this; but I just naturally couldn't help hit. You ain't got no callter be scared I'll do hit again. "

When they were nearing the house, Judy stopped again, and, for a longminute, looked silently out over the moonlit river, while Brian stoodwatching her. 

"Hit is pretty, ain't hit, Mr. Burns?" she said at last. "With the hillsall so soft an'--an' dreamy-like, an' them clouds a-floatin' 'way upthere over the top of Table Mountain; with the moon makin' 'em allsilvery an' shiny 'round the edges, an' them trees on yon side the riverlookin' like they was made er smoke er fog er somethin' like that; an'the old river hitself a-layin' there in The Bend like--like a long stripof shinin' gold, --hit sure is pretty! Funny, I couldn't never see hitthat a-way before, --ain't hit?"

"Yes, Judy; it is beautiful to-night, " he said. 

But Judy, apparently without hearing him, continued: "'Seems like I cansense a little ter-night what Auntie Sue an' youuns are allus a-talkin''bout the river, --'bout hit's bein' like life an' sich as that. An' hit'pears like I kin kind of git a little er what you done wrote 'bout hitin your book, --'bout the currents an' the still places an' the roughwater an' all. I reckon as how I'm a part of your river, too, ain't I, Mr. Burns?"

"Yes, Judy, " he answered, wonderingly; "we are all parts of the river. "

"I reckon you're right, " she continued. "Hit sure 'pears ter be thata-way. But I kin tell you-all somethin' else 'bout the river what youdidn't put down in your book, Mr. Burns: There's heaps an' heaps ersnags an' quicksands an' sunk rocks an' shaller places where hit looksdeep an' deep holes where hit looks shaller, an' currents what's hid'way down under that'll ketch an' drag you in when you ain't a-thinkin', an' drown you sure. 'Tain't all of the river what Auntie Sue an' youunskin see from the porch. You see, I knows 'bout hit, --'bout them otherthings I mean, --'cause I was borned and growed up a-knowin' 'bout'em; an'--an'--the next time you-all writes er book, Mr. Burns, I 'lowyou-all ought ter put in 'bout them there snags an' things, 'cause folkssure got ter know 'bout 'em, if they ain't a-wantin' ter git drowned. "

When Judy had gone into the house, Brian again sat alone on the porch. 

An hour, perhaps, had passed when a voice behind him said: "Why, Brian, are you still up? I supposed you were in bed long ago. "

He turned to see Auntie Sue, standing in the doorway. 

"And what in the world are you prowling about for, this time of thenight?" Brian retorted, bringing a chair for her. 

"I am prowling because I couldn't sleep, --thinking about you, Brian, "she answered. 

"I fear that is the thing that is keeping me up, too, " he returnedgrimly. 

"I know, " she said gently. "Sometimes, one's self does keep one awake. Is it--is it anything you care to tell me? Would it help for me toknow?"

For some time, he did not answer; while the old teacher waited silently. At last, he spoke, slowly: "Auntie Sue, what is the greatest wrong thata woman can do?"

"The greatest wrong a woman can do, Brian, is the greatest wrong that aman can do. "

"But, what is it, Auntie Sue?" he persisted. 

"I think, " she answered, --"indeed I am quite sure, --that the greatestwrong is for a woman to kill a man's faith in woman; and for a man tokill a woman's faith in man. "

Brian Kent buried his face in his hands. 

"Am I right, dear?" asked the old gentlewoman, after a little. 

And Brian Kent answered: "Yes, Auntie Sue, you are right--that is thegreatest wrong. "

Again they were silent. It was as though few words were needed betweenthe woman of seventy years and this man who, out of some great trouble, had been so strangely brought to her by the river. 

Then the silvery-haired old teacher spoke again: "Brian, have you everwondered that I am so alone in the world? Have you ever asked yourselfwhy I never married?"

"Yes, Auntie Sue, " he answered. "I have wondered. "

"Many people have, " she said, with simple frankness. Then--"I am goingto tell you something, dear boy, that only two people in the worldbeside myself ever knew, and they are both dead, many years now. I amgoing to tell you, because I feel--because I think--that, perhaps, it may help you a little. I, too, Brian, had my dreams when I was agirl, --my dreams of happiness, --such as every true woman hopes for;--ofa home with all that home means;--of a lover-husband;--of littleones who would call me 'mother';--and my dreams ended, Brian, on abattlefield of the Civil War. He went from me the very day we werepromised. He never returned. I have always felt that we were as trulyone as though the church had solemnized and the law had legalized ourunion. I promised that I would wait for him. "

"And you--you have kept that promise? You have been true to thatmemory?" Brian Kent asked, wonderingly. 

"I have been true to him, Brian;--all the years of my life I have beentrue to him. "

Brian Kent bowed his head, reverently. 

Rising, the old gentlewoman went close to him, and put her hands on hisshoulders. "Brian, dear, I have told you my secret because I thoughtit might help you to know. Oh, my boy--my boy, --don't--don't letanything--don't let anyone--kill your faith in womanhood! No matter howbitter your experience, you can believe, now, that there are women whocan be faithful and true. Surely, you can believe it now, Brian, --youmust!"

And as he caught her hands in his, and raised his face to whisper, "I dobelieve, Auntie Sue, " she stooped and kissed him. 

Then, again, Brian Kent was alone in the night with his thoughts. 

And the river swept steadily on its shining way through the moonlitworld to the distant sea. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

AN AWKWARD SITUATION. 

Frequent letters from Betty Jo informed Brian and Auntie Sue of thatpractical and businesslike young woman's negotiations with variousEastern publishers, until, at last, the matter was finally settled toBetty Jo's satisfaction. 

She had contracted with a well-known firm for the publication of thebook. The details were all arranged. The work was to begin immediately. Betty Jo was returning to the little log house by the river. 

Brian drove to Thompsonville the morning she was to arrive, and itseemed to him that "Old Prince" had never jogged so leisurely along thewinding river road, yet he was at the little mountain station nearly anhour before the train was due. 

Those weeks had been very anxious weeks to Brian, in spite of AuntieSue's oft-repeated assurances that no publisher could fail to recognizethe value of his work. And, to be entirely truthful, Brian himself, deep down in his heart, felt a certainty that his work would receiverecognition. But, still, he would argue with himself, his feelingof confidence might very well be due to the dear old gentlewoman'senthusiastic faith in him rather than in any merit in the book itself;and it was a well-established fact--to all unpublished writers atleast--that publishers are a heartless folk, and exceedingly loth toextend a helpful hand to unrecognized genius, however great the worth ofits offering. He could scarcely believe the letters which announced thegood news. It did not seem possible that this all-important first steptoward the success which Auntie Sue so confidently predicted for hisbook was now an accomplished fact. 

And now that Betty Jo's mission was completed, it seemed months ago thathe had said good-bye to her and had watched the train disappear betweenthe hills. But when at last the long whistle echoing and reechoing fromthe timbered mountain-sides announced the coming of the train that wasbringing her back, and the train itself a moment later burst into viewand, with a rushing roar of steam and wheels and brakes, came to a stopat the depot platform, and there was Betty Jo herself, it seemed that itwas only yesterday that she had gone away. 

Very calm and self-possessed and well poised was Betty Jo whenshe stepped from the train to meet him. She was very capable andbusinesslike as she claimed her baggage and saw it safely in the springwagon. But still there was a something in her manner--a light in thegray eyes, perhaps, or a quality in the clear voice--that meant worldsmore to the man than her simple statement, that she was glad to see himagain. Laughingly, she refused to tell him about her trip as they rodehome, saying that Auntie Sue must hear it all with him. And so consciouswas the man of her presence there beside him that, somehow, theprospective success or failure of his book did not so much matter, afterall. 

In the excitement of the joyous meeting between Auntie Sue and BettyJo, Judy's stoical self-repression was unnoticed. The mountain girl wentabout her part of the household work silently with apparent indifferenceto the young woman's presence. But when, after the late dinner was over, Auntie Sue and Brian listened to Betty Jo's story, Judy, unobserved, wasnearby, so that no word of the conversation escaped her. 

Three times that night, when all was still in the little log house bythe river, the door of Judy's room opened cautiously, and the twistedform of the mountain girl appeared. Each time, for a few minutes, shestood there in the moonlight that shone through the open window into thequiet room, listening, listening; then went stealthily to the door ofthe room where Betty Jo was sleeping, and each time she paused beforethat closed door to look fearfully about the dimly lighted living room. Once she crept to Brian's door, and then to Auntie Sue's, and once shesilently put her hand on the latch of that door between her and BettyJo; but, each time, she went stealthily back to her own room. 

Betty Jo awoke early that morning. Outside her open window thebirds were singing, and the sun, which was just above the highermountain-tops, was flooding the world with its wealth of morning beauty. The music of the feathery chorus and the golden beauty of the lightthat streamed through the window into her room, with the fresh enticingperfume of the balmy air, were very alluring to the young woman justreturned from the cities' stale and dingy atmosphere. 

Betty Jo decided instantly that she must go for a before-breakfast walk. From the window, as she dressed, she saw Brian going to the barn withthe milk-pail, and heard him greet the waiting "Bess" and exchange acheery good-morning with "Old Prince, " who hailed his coming with a lowwhinny. 

Quietly, so as not to disturb Auntie Sue, Betty Jo slipped from thehouse and went down the gentle slope to the river-bank, and strolledalong the margin of the stream toward Elbow Rock, --pausing sometimes tolook out over the water as her attention was drawn to some movement ofthe river life, or turning aside to pluck a wild flower that caughther eye. She had made her way thus leisurely two-thirds of the distanceperhaps from the house to Elbow Rock bluff when Judy suddenly confrontedher. The mountain girl came so unexpectedly from among the bushes thatBetty Jo, who was stooping over a flower, was startled. 

"Judy!" she exclaimed. "Goodness! child, how you frightened me!" shefinished with a good-natured laugh. But as she noticed the mountaingirl's appearance, the laugh died on her lips, and her face was gravewith puzzled concern. 

Poor Judy's black hair was uncombed and dishevelled. The sallow, old-young face was distorted with passion, and the beady eyes glitteredwith the light of an insane purpose. 

"What is it, Judy?" asked Betty Jo. "What in the world is the matter?"

"What'd you-all come back for?" demanded Judy with sullen menace inevery word. "I done told him not ter let you. Hit 'pears ter me youunsought ter have more sense. "

Alarmed at the girl's manner, Betty Jo thought to calm her by saying, gently: "Why, Judy, dear, you are all excited and not a bit likeyourself. Tell me what troubles you. I came back because I love to behere with Auntie Sue, of course. Why shouldn't I some if Auntie Suelikes to have me?"

"You-all are a-lyin', " returned Judy viciously. "But you-all sure can'tfool me. You-all come back 'cause he's here. "

A warm blush colored Betty Jo's face. 

Judy's voice raised shrilly as she saw the effect of her words. 

"You-all knows dad burned well that's what you come back for. But hitain't a-goin' ter do you no good; hit sure ain't. I done told him. Isure warned him what'd happen if he let you come back. I heard you-alla-talkin' yesterday evenin' all 'bout his book an' what a great man thatthere publisher-feller back East 'lows he's goin' ter be. An' I kin see, now, that you-all has knowed hit from the start, an' that's why you-allbeen a-fixin' ter git him away from me. I done studied hit all out lastnight; but I sure ain't a-goin' ter let you do hit. "

As she finished, the mountain girl, who had worked herself into a frenzyof rage, moved stealthily toward Betty Jo, and her face, with thoseblazing black eyes, and its frame of black unkempt hair, and itsexpression of insane fury, was the face of a fiend. 

Betty Jo drew back, frightened at the poor creature's wild andthreatening appearance. 

"Judy!" she said sharply. "Judy! What do you mean!"

With a snarling grin of malicious triumph, Judy cried: "Scared, ain'tyou! You sure got reason ter be, 'cause there ain't nothin' kin stop menow. Know what I'm a-goin' ter do? I'm a-goin' ter put you-all in theriver, just like I told him, an' old Elbow Rock is a-goin' ter makeyou-all broken an' twisted an' ugly like what my pap made me. Oh, hit'llsure fix that there fine slim body of your'n, an' that there pretty facewhat he likes ter look at so, an' them fine clothes'll be all wet an'mussed an' torn off you. You-all sure will be a-lookin' worse'n whatI ever looked the next time he sees you, --you with your no-'count, half-gal and half-boy name!"

As the mountain girl, with the quickness of a wild thing, leaped uponher, Betty Jo screamed--one piercing cry, that ended in a choking gaspas Judy's hands found her throat. 

Brian, who was still at the barn, busy with the morning chores, heard. With all his might, he ran toward the spot from which the call came. 

Betty Jo fought desperately; but, strong as she was, she could neverhave endured against the vicious strength of the frenzied mountain-bredJudy, who was slowly and surely forcing her toward the brink of theriver-bank, against which the swift waters of the rapids swept withterrific force. 

A moment more and Brian would have been too late. Throwing Judy aside, he caught the exhausted Betty Jo in his arms, and, carrying her a littleback from the edge of the stream, placed her gently on the ground. 

Betty Jo did not faint; but she was too spent with her exertions tospeak, though she managed to smile at him reassuringly, and shook herhead when he asked if she was hurt. 

When Brian was assured that the girl was really unharmed, he turnedangrily to face Judy. But Judy had disappeared in the brush. 

Presently, as Betty Jo's breathing became normal, she arranged herdisordered hair and dress, and told Brian what the mountain girl hadsaid; and this, of course, forced the man to relate his experience withJudy that night when she had told him that Betty Jo must not come back. 

"I suppose I should have warned you, Miss Williams, " he finished; "butthe whole thing seemed to me so impossible, I could not believe therewas any danger of the crazy creature actually attempting to carry outher wild threat; and, besides, --well, you can see that it was ratherdifficult for me to speak of it to you. I am sorry, " he ended, withembarrassment. 

For a long moment, the two looked at each other silently; then BettyJo's practical common sense came to the rescue: "It would have beenawkward for you to try to tell me, wouldn't it, Mr. Burns? And now thatit is all over, and no harm done, we must just forget it as quickly aswe can. We won't ever mention it again, will we?"

"Certainly not, " he agreed heartily. "But I shall keep an eye on MissJudy, in the future, I can promise you. "

"I doubt if we ever see her again, " returned Betty Jo, thoughtfully. "Idon't see how she would dare go back to the house after this. I expectshe will return to her father. Poor thing! But we must be careful not tolet Auntie Sue know. " Then smiling up at him, she added: "It seems likeAuntie Sue is getting us into all sorts of conspiracies, doesn't it?What DO you suppose we will be called upon to hide from her next?"

At Brian's suggestion, they went first to the barn, where he quicklyfinished his work. Then, carrying the full milk-pail between them, theyproceeded, laughing and chatting, to the house, where Auntie Sue stoodin the doorway. 

The dear old lady smiled when she saw them coming so, and, returningtheir cheery greeting happily, added: "Have you children seen Judyanywhere? The child is not in her room, and the fire is not even made inthe kitchen-stove yet. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

BETTY JO FACES HERSELF. 

All that day Auntie Sue wondered about Judy, while Brian and Betty Joexhausted their inventive faculties in efforts to satisfy the dear oldlady with plausible reasons for the mountain girl's disappearance. 

During the forenoon, Brian canvassed the immediate neighborhood, andreturned with the true information that Judy had stopped at the firsthouse below Elbow Rock for breakfast, where she had told the peoplethat she was going back to her father, because she was "doggone tired ofworking for them there city folks what was a-livin' at Auntie Sue's. "

This was, in a way, satisfactory to Auntie Sue, because it assured herthat the girl had met with no serious accident and because she knew verywell the mountain-bred girl's ability to take care of herself in thehills. But, still, the gentle mistress of the log house by the river wastroubled to think that Judy would leave her so without a word. 

Betty Jo was so occupied during the day by her efforts to relieve AuntieSue that she had but little time left for thought of herself or forreflecting on the situation revealed in her encounter with Judy. Butmany times during the day the mountain girl's passionate accusation cameback to her, "You-all are a-lyin'! You-all come back 'cause HE is here. "Nor could she banish from her memory the look that was on Brian Kent'sface that morning when he was carrying her in his arms back from thebrink of the river-bank, over which the frenzied Judy had so nearly senther to her death. And so, when the day at last was over, and she wasalone in her room, it was not strange that Betty Jo should face herselfsquarely with several definite and pointed and exceedingly personalquestions. 

It was like Betty Jo to be honest with herself and to demand of herselfthat her problems be met squarely. 

"First of all, Betty Jo, " she demanded, in her downright, straightforward way of going most directly to the heart of a matter, "are you in love with Brian Kent?"

Without hesitation, the answer came, "I have not permitted myself tolove him. "

"You have not permitted yourself to love him? That means that you wouldbe in love with him if you dared, doesn't it?"

And Betty Jo, in the safe seclusion of her room, felt her cheeks burn asshe acknowledged the truth of the deduction. 

The next question was inevitable: "Is Brian Kent in love with you, BettyJo?"

And Betty Jo, recalling many, many things, was compelled to answer, fromthe triumphant gladness of her heart: "He is trying not to be, but hecan't help himself. And"--the downright and straightforward young womancontinued--"because I know that Brian Kent is trying so hard not to loveme is the real reason why I have not permitted myself to love him. "

But the clear-thinking, practical Betty Jo protested quickly: "You mustremember that you are wholly ignorant of Brian Kent's history, exceptfor the things he has chosen to tell you. And those things in his lifewhich he has confessed to you are certainly not the things that couldwin the love of a girl like you, even though they might arouse yourinterest in the man. Interest is not love, Betty Jo. Are you quite surethat you are not making the mistake that is most commonly made by youngwomen?"

Betty Jo was compelled to answer that she was not mistaking interestfor love, because had such been the case, she would not be able to soanalyze the situation. Betty Jo's quite womanly prejudice is admitted, because the prejudice was so womanly, and because Betty Jo herself wasso womanly. 

"Very well, Miss Betty Jo, " the young woman continued inexorably, "youare not permitting yourself to love Brian Kent because Brian Kent istrying not to love you. But, why is the man trying so hard not to loveyou?"

Betty Jo thought very hard over this question, and felt her waycarefully to the answer. "It might be, of course, that it is because heis a fugitive from the law. A man under such circumstances could easilyconvince himself that no good woman would permit herself to love him, and he would therefore, in reasonable self-defense, prevent himself fromloving her if he could. "

But surely Brian Kent had every reason to know that Betty Jo did not atall regard him as a criminal. Betty Jo, as Auntie Sue, recognized onlythe re-created Brian Kent. If that were all, they need only wait for therestitution which was so sure to come through his book. And Brian Kenthimself, through Auntie Sue's teaching and through his work, had cometo recognize only his real self, and not the creature of circumstanceswhich the river had brought to the little log house. Betty Jo felt surethat there was more than this that was forcing the man to defend himselfagainst his love for her. Thus she was driven to the conclusion thatthere was something in Brian Kent's history that he had not madeknown to her, --a something that denied him the right to love her, andthat, --reasoned poor Betty Jo in the darkness of her room, --could onlybe a woman, --a woman to whom he was bound, not by love indeed, --Betty Jocould not believe that, --but by ties of honor and of the law. 

And very clearly Betty Jo reasoned, too, that Brian's attitude towardher evidenced unmistakably his high sense of honor. The very factthat he had so persistently--in all their companionship, in their mostintimate moments together even--held this invisible and, to her, unknownbarrier between them, convinced her beyond a doubt of the essentialintegrity of his character, and compelled her admiration and confidence. 

"That is exactly it, Betty Jo, " she told herself sadly; "you love himbecause he tries so hard to keep himself from loving you. "

And thus Betty Jo proved the correctness of Auntie Sue's loving estimateof her character and justified the dear old teacher's faith in thesterling quality of her womanhood. 

Face to face with herself, fairly and squarely, the girl accepted thetruth of the situation for Brian and for herself, and determined hercourse. She must go away, --she must go at once. 

She wished that she had not returned to the log house by the river. She had never fully admitted to herself the truth of her feeling towardBrian until Judy had so unexpectedly precipitated the crisis; but, sheknew, now, that Judy was right, and that the real reason for her returnwas her love for him. She knew, as well, that her very love, --which, once fully admitted and recognized by her, demanded with all thestrength of her young womanhood the nearness and companionship of themate her heart had chosen, --demanded, also, that she help him to keepthat fine sense of honor and true nobility of character which had wonher. 

She understood instinctively that, --now that she had confessed her loveto herself, --she would, in spite of herself, tempt him in a thousandways to throw aside that barrier which he had so honorably maintainedbetween them. Her heart would plead with him to disregard his betterself, and come to her. Her very craving for the open assurance of hislove would tempt him, perhaps beyond his strength. And, yet, she knew astruly that, if he should yield; if he should cast aside the barrierof his honor; if he should deny his best self, and answer her call, itwould be disastrous beyond measure to them both. 

To save the fineness of their love, Betty Jo must go. If it should bethat they never met again, still she must go. 

But there were other currents moving in the river that night. In thesteady onward flow of the whole, Betty Jo's life-currents seemed to besetting away from the man she loved. But other currents, unknown to thegirl, who faced herself so honestly, and who so bravely accepted thetruth she found, were moving in ways beyond her knowledge. Directed andinfluenced by innumerable and unseen forces and obstacles, the currentswhich, combined, made the stream of life in its entirety, were weavingthemselves together, --interlacing and separating, --drawing close andpulling apart, --only to mingle as one again. 

Betty Jo saw only Brian Kent and herself, and their love which she nowacknowledged, and she had, as it were, only a momentary glimpse of thosesmall parts of the stream. 

Betty Jo could not know of those other currents that were moving somysteriously about her as the river poured itself onward so unceasinglyto the sea. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

JUDY'S CONFESSION. 

In spite of all their care, Brian and Betty Jo did not wholly convinceAuntie Sue that there was no more in Judy's disappearance than thereport from the neighbors indicated. The dear old lady felt that therewas something known to the young people that they were keeping from her;and, while she did not question their motives, and certainly did notworry, --for Auntie Sue never worried, --she was not satisfied with thesituation. When she retired to her room for the night, she told herself, with some spirit, that she would surely go to the bottom of the affairthe next morning. 

It happened that Auntie Sue went to the bottom of the affair much soonerthan she expected. 

It must have been about that same hour of the night when Betty Jo, afterreaching her decision to go away, retired to her bed, that Auntie Suewas aroused by a low knocking at the open window of her room. 

The old teacher listened without moving, her first thought being thather fancy was tricking her. The sound came again, and, this time, therecould be no mistake. Sitting up in her bed, Auntie Sue looked towardthe window, and, at the sound of her movement, a low whisper came fromwithout. 

"Don't be scared, Auntie Sue. Hit ain't nobody but just me. "

As she recognized Judy's voice, she saw the mountain girl's head andtwisted shoulders outlined above the window-sill. A moment more, andAuntie Sue was at the window. 

"Sh-h-h!" cautioned Judy. "Don't wake 'em up. I just naturally got tertell you-all somethin', Auntie Sue; but, I ain't a-wantin' Mr. Burnsan' that there Betty Jo woman ter hear. I reckon I best come through thewinder. "

Acting upon the word, she climbed carefully into the room. 

"Judy, child! What--?"

The mountain girl interrupted Auntie Sue's tremulous whisper with: "I'lltell hit ter you, ma'm, in a little bit, if you'll just wait. I got tersee if they are sure 'nough a-sleepin' first, though. "

She stole silently from the room, to return a few minutes later. "Theyare plumb asleep, both of 'em, " she said in a low tone, when she hadcautiously closed the door. "I done opened the doors ter their rooms, an' listened, an' shet 'em again 'thout ary one of 'em a-movin' even. I'll fix the winder, now, an' then we kin make a light. "

Carefully, she closed the window and drew down the shade. Then she litthe lamp. 

Auntie Sue, who was sitting on the bed, looked at the girl in bewilderedamazement. 

With a nervous laugh, Judy fingered her torn dress and dishevelled hair. "I sure am a sight, ain't I, ma'm? I done hit a-comin' through the breshin the dark. But, don't--don't--look so kinder lost like; you-all ain'tgot no call ter be scared of me. "

"Why, Judy, dear, I'm not afraid of you. Come, child; tell me what isthe trouble. "

At the kindly manner and voice of the old gentlewoman, those black eyesfilled with tears, which, for the moment, the mountain girl stoicallypermitted to roll down her thin sallow cheeks unheeded. Then, witha quick resolute jerk of her twisted body, she drew her dress sleeveacross her face, and said: "I--I--reckon I couldn't hate myself noworse'n I'm a-doin'. Hit seems like I been mighty nigh plumb crazy; but, I just naturally had ter come back an' tell you-all, 'cause you-all beenso good ter me. "

She placed a chair for Auntie Sue, and added: "You-all best makeyourself comfertable, though, ma'm. I'm mighty nigh tuckered out myself. Hit's a right smart way from where pap's a-livin' ter here, an' I donecome in a hurry. "

She dropped down on the floor, her back against the bed, and clasped herknees in her hands, as Auntie Sue seated herself. 

"Begin at the beginning, Judy, and tell me exactly what has happened, "said Auntie Sue. 

"Yes, ma'm, I will, --that's what I was aimin' ter do when I made up tercome back. "

And she did. Starting with her observation of Brian and Betty Jo, andher conviction of their love, she told of her interview with Brian thenight she warned him not to let Betty Jo return, and finished with theaccount of her attack on Betty Jo that morning. 

Auntie Sue listened with amazement and pity. Here, indeed, was a waywardand troubled life-current. 

"But, Judy, Judy!" exclaimed the gentle old teacher, "you would notreally have pushed Betty Jo into the river. She would have been drowned, child. Surely, you did not mean to kill her, Judy. "

The girl wrung her hands, and her deformed body swayed to and fro in thenervous intensity of her emotions. But she answered, stubbornly: "Thatthere was just what I was aimin' ter do. I'd a-killed her, sure, if Mr. Burns hadn't a-come just when he did. I can't rightly tell how hit was, but hit seemed like there was somethin' inside of me what was a-makin'me do hit, an' I couldn't, somehow, help myself. An'--an'--that ain'tall, ma'm; I done worse'n that, " she continued in a low, moaning wail. "Oh, my God-A'mighty! Why didn't Mr. Burns sling me inter the river an'let me be smashed an' drowned at Elbow Rock while he had me, 'stead oflettin' me git away ter do what I've gone an' done!"

Auntie Sue's wonderful native strength enabled her to speak calmly:"What is it you have done, Judy? You must tell me, child. "

The older woman's voice and manner steadied the girl, and she answeredmore in her usual colorless monotone, but still guarded so as not toawaken the other members of the household: "Hit seemed like Mr. Burnsketchin' me, like he did, an' me a-seein' him with her in his arms, mademe plumb crazy-mad, an' I 'lowed I'd fix hit so's he couldn't never haveher nohow, so I--I--done told pap 'bout him bein' Brian Kent whathad robbed that there bank, an' how there was er lot of reward-moneya-waitin' for anybody that'd tell on him. "

Auntie Sue was too shocked to speak. Was it possible that, now, when thereal Brian Kent was so far removed from the wretched bank clerk; whenhis fine natural character and genius had become so established, and hisbook was--No, no! It could not be! God could not let men be so cruel asto send Auntie Sue's Brian Kent to prison because that other Brian Kent, tormented by wrong environment, and driven by an evil combination ofcircumstances, had taken a few dollars of the bank's money! And BettyJo--No, no! Auntie Sue's heart cried out in protest. There must be someway. She would find some way. The banker--Homer Ward! Auntie Sue's mind, alert and vigorous as the mind of a woman of half her years, caught atthe thought of her old friend and pupil. She leaned forward in her chairover the girl who sat on the floor at her feet, and her voice was strongand clear with the strength of the spirit which dominated her frailbody. 

"Judy, did you tell any one else besides your father?"

"There wasn't nobody else ter tell, " came the answer. "An' pap, he'lowed he'd kill me if I said anythin' ter anybody 'fore he'd got themoney. He aims ter git hit all for hisself. "

"What will he do? Will he go to Sheriff Knox?"

"No, ma'm; pap, he 'lowed if he done that a-way, the Sheriff he'dtake most of the money. Pap's a-goin' right ter that there bank fellerhisself. "

"Yes, yes! Go on, Judy!"

"You see, ma'm, I done remembered the name of the bank an' where hit wasan' Mr. Ward's name an' all, on 'count of that there money letter whatyou done sent 'em an' us bein' so worried 'bout hit never gittin' therean' all that. An' pap, he knows er man over in Gardner what's on therailroad, you see, what'll let him have money enough for the trip, --alicker-man, he is, --an' pap's aimin' ter make hit over ter Gardner tergit the money in time ter ketch that there early mornin' train. Hit's aright smart way over the mountains, but I reckon's how pap'll makehit. Soon's pap left, I got ter thinkin' what I'd done, an' the moreI studied 'bout hit, --'bout Mr. Burns a-havin' ter go ter prison, an''bout you-all a-carin' for him the way you does, an' 'bout how happy youwas over his book, an'--an'--how good you'd been ter me, --the sorrierI got, 'til I just couldn't stand a-thinkin' 'bout hit no longer;an'--an'--so I come fast as I could ter tell you. I 'lowed you'd makeout ter fix hit some way so--Mr. Burns won't have ter go ter prison. Couldn't you-all send--send a telegraph ter the bank man, er somethin'?I'd git it inter Thompsonville for you, ma'm; an' Mr. Burns, he needn'tnever know nothin' 'bout hit. "

Auntie Sue was dressing when Judy finished speaking. With a physicalstrength that had its source in her indomitable spirit, she moved aboutthe room making the preparations necessary to her plan, and as sheworked she talked to the girl. 

"No, Judy, a telegram won't do. I must go to Homer Ward myself. Thatmorning train leaves Thompsonville at six o'clock. You must slip out ofthe house, and harness 'Old Prince' to the buggy as fast as you can. Youwill drive with me to Thompsonville, and bring 'Prince' back. You canturn him loose when you get near home, and he will come the rest of theway alone. You must not let Mr. Burns nor Betty Jo see you, becausethey mustn't know anything about what you have done. Do you understand, child?"

"Yes, ma'm, " said Judy, eagerly. She was on her feet now. 

"You can go to the neighbors and find some place to stay until Ireturn, " continued Auntie Sue. 

"You don't need ter worry none 'bout me, " said Judy. "I kin take careof myself, I reckon. But ain't you plumb seared ter go 'way on the carsalone an' you so old?"

"Old!" retorted Auntie Sue. "I have not felt so strong for twenty years. There is nothing for me to fear. I will be in St. Louis to-morrow night, and in Chicago the next forenoon. I guess I am not so helpless that Ican't make a little journey like this. Homer Ward shall never send myboy to prison, --never, --bank or no bank! Go on, now, and get 'Prince'and the buggy ready. We must not miss that train. " She pushed Judy fromthe room, and again cautioned her not to awaken Brian or Betty Jo. 

When she had completed her preparations for the trip, Auntie Sue wrotea short note to Betty Jo, telling her that she had been called awaysuddenly, and that she would return in a few days, and that shewas obliged to borrow Betty Jo's pocket-book. Grave as she felt thesituation to be, Auntie Sue laughed to herself as she pictured theconsternation of Betty Jo and Brian in the morning. 

Silently, the old lady stole into the girl's room to secure the moneyshe needed and to leave her letter. Then, as silently, she left thehouse, and found Judy, who was waiting with "Old Prince" and the buggy, ready to start. 

The station agent at Thompsonville was not a little astonished whenAuntie Sue and Judy appeared, and, with the easy familiarity of an oldacquaintance greeted her with, "Howdy, Auntie Sue! What in thunder areyou doin' out this time of the day? No bad news, I hope?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Jackson, " Auntie Sue answered easily. "I'm just going toChicago for a little visit with an old friend. "

"Sort of a vacation, eh?" returned the man behind the window, as hemade out her ticket. "Well, you sure have earned one, Auntie Sue. It'sgittin' to be vacation time now, too. Bunch of folks come in yesterdayto stay at the clubhouse for a spell. Pretty wild lot, I'd say, --wimmenas well as the men. I reckon them clubhouse parties don't disturb youmuch, though, if you be their nearest neighbor, --do they?"

"They never have yet, Mr. Jackson, " she returned. "Their place is on theother side of the river, and a mile above my house, you know. I see themin their boats on The Bend, though, and once in a while they call on me. But the Elbow Rock rapids begin in front of my place, and the clubhousepeople don't usually come that far down the river. "

She turned to Judy, and, with the girl, went out of the waiting roomto the platform, where she whispered: "You must start back right away, Judy. If your father is on the train, he might see you. "

"What if pap ketches sight of you-all?" Judy returned nervously. 

"He will not be so apt to notice me as he would you, " she returned, "even if he does catch a glimpse of me. And it can't be helped if hedoes. I'll be in Chicago as quick as he will, and I know I will see Mr. Ward first. Go on now, dear, and don't let Mr. Burns or Betty Jo seeyou, and be a good girl. I feel sure that everything will be all right. "

With a sudden awkward movement, poor Judy caught the old gentlewoman'shand and pressed it to her lips; then, turning, ran toward the buggy. 

When the train arrived, the station agent came to help Auntie Sue withher handbag aboard, and she managed to keep her friend between herselfand the coaches, in case Jap Taylor should be looking from a window. Asthe conductor and the agent assisted her up the steps, the agent said:"Mind you take good care of her, Bill. Finest old lady God-Almightyever made! If you was to let anything happen to her, you best never showyourself in this neighborhood again; we'd lynch you, sure!"

The conductor found a good seat for his lovely old passenger, and madeher as comfortable as possible. As he punched her ticket, he said, witha genial smile, which was the voluntary tribute paid to Auntie Sue byall men: "You are not much like the passengers I usually carry in thispart of the country, ma'm. They are mostly a rather rough-lookin' lot. "

She smiled back at him, understanding perfectly his intended compliment. "They are good people, though, sir, --most of them. Of course, there aresome who are a little wild, sometimes, I expect. "

The railroad man laughed again, shaking his head. "I should say so. Youought to see the specimen I've got in the smoker. I picked him up backthere at Gardner. Perhaps you have heard of him--Jap Taylor. He is aboutthe worst in the whole country, I reckon. "

"I have heard of him, " she returned. "I do hope he won't come into thiscoach. "

"Oh, he won't start anything on my train, " laughed the man in bluereassuringly. "He would never come in here, anyhow. Them kind alwaysstay in the smoker. Seems like they know where they belong. He ishalf-scared to death himself, anyway; he is going to Chicago, too, andI'll bet it's the first time in his life he has ever been farther fromthese hills than Springfield. "

CHAPTER XX. 

BRIAN AND BETTY JO KEEP HOUSE. 

When Brian went to the barn the next morning he found "Old Prince"standing at the gate. While he was still trying to find some plausibleexplanation of the strange incident, after unharnessing the horse andgiving him his morning feed, an excited call from Betty Jo drew hisattention. With an answering shout, he started for the house. Theexcited girl met him halfway, and gave him Auntie Sue's note. 

When Brian had read the brief and wholly inadequate message, they stoodlooking at each other, too mystified for speech. Brian read the note, again, aloud, speaking every word with slow distinctness. "Well, I'llbe hanged!" he ejaculated, at the close of the remarkable communication, staring at Betty Jo. 

"It wouldn't in the least surprise me if we were both hanged beforenight, " returned Betty Jo. "After this from Auntie Sue, I am preparedfor anything. What on earth DO you suppose has happened?"

Brian shook his head: "It is too much for me!"

Together they went to the house, and the place seemed strangelydeserted. Every possible explanation that suggested itself, theydiscussed and rejected. 

"One thing we can depend upon, " said Brian, at last, when they hadexhausted the resources of their combined imaginations: "Auntie Sueknows exactly what she is doing, and she is doing exactly the rightthing. I suppose we will know all about it when she returns. "

Betty Jo looked again at the note: "'I will be back in a few days, '" sheread slowly. "'Be good children, and take care of things. '"

Again, they regarded each other wonderingly. 

Then Betty Jo broke the silence with an odd little laugh: "I feel likewe were cast away on some desert island, don't you?"

"Something like that, " Brian returned. Then, to relieve the strain ofthe situation, he added: "I suppose 'Bess' will have to be milked andthe chores finished just the same. "

"And I'll get breakfast for us, " agreed Betty Jo, as he started back tothe barn. 

In the safe seclusion of the stable, with no one but "Old Prince" and"Bess" to witness his agitation, Brian endeavored to bring his confusedand unruly thoughts under some sort of control. 

"Several days; several days. " The words repeated themselves withannoying persistency. And they--Betty Jo and he, Brian Kent--were to"take care of things";--they were to keep house together;--they were tolive together, alone, --in the log house by the river, --alone. She waseven then preparing their breakfast. They would sit down at the tablealone. And there would be dinner and supper; and the evening, --just forthem. He would work about the place. She would attend to her householdduties. He would go to his meals, and she would be there expectinghim, --waiting for him. And when the tasks of the day were finished, theywould sit on the porch to watch the coming of the night, --Betty Joand he, Brian Kent--"What in God's name, " the man demanded of theindifferent "Bess, " did Auntie Sue mean by placing him in such asituation? Did she think him more than human?

It had not been easy for Brian to maintain that barrier between himselfand Betty Jo, even with the constant help of Auntie Sue's presence. Many, many times he had barely saved himself from declaring hislove; and, now, he was asked to live with her in the most intimatecompanionship possible. 

For the only time in his life Brian Kent was almost angry at Auntie Sue. "By all that was consistent, and reasonable, and merciful, and safe, " hetold himself, "if it was absolutely necessary for the dear old lady todisappear so mysteriously, why had she not taken Betty Jo along?"

In the meantime, while Brian was confiding his grievances to hisfour-footed companions in the barn, Betty Jo was expressing herself inthe kitchen. 

"Betty Jo, " she began, as she raked the ashes from the stove preparatoryto building the fire, "it appears to me that you have some seriousconsidering to do, and"--with a glance toward the barn, as she went outto empty the ash-pan--"you must do it quickly before that man comes forhis breakfast. You were very right, last night, in your decision, togo away. It is exactly what you should have done. I am more than everconvinced of that, this morning. But you can't go now. Even if AuntieSue had not taken your pocket-book and every penny in it, you couldn'trun away with Auntie Sue herself gone. If she hadn't wanted you to stayright here for some very serious reason, Betty Jo, she would havetaken you with her last night. Auntie Sue very pointedly and definitelyexpects you to be here when she returns. And she will be away severaldays, --several days, Betty Jo. " She repeated the words in a whisper. "And during those several days, you are to keep house for the man youlove;--the man who loves you;--the man whom you must keep from tellingyou his love, --no matter how your heart pleads for him to tell you, youmust not permit him to speak. He will be coming in to breakfast in a fewminutes, and you will sit down at the table with him, --across the tablefrom him, --facing him, --Betty Jo, --just like--"

She looked in the little mirror that hung beside the kitchen window, and, with dismay, saw her face flushed with color that was not caused bythe heat of the stove. "And you will be forced to look at him across thetable, and he will look at you, --and--and you must not, --" she stampedher foot, --"you dare not look like THAT, Betty Jo. 

"And then there will be the dinner that you will cook for him, and thesupper; and the evenings on the porch. O Lord! Betty Jo, what ever willyou do? How will you ever save the fineness of your love? If you wereafraid to trust yourself with the help of Auntie Sue's presence, whatin the world can you do without her--and you actually keeping housewith him? Oh, Auntie Sue! Auntie Sue!" she groaned, "you are the dearestwoman in the world and the best and wisest, but you have blunderedterribly this time! Why DID you do such a thing! It is not fair to him!It is not fair to me! It is not fair to our love!

"All of which, "--the practical Betty Jo declared a moment later, wipingher eyes on the corner of her apron, and going into the other room toset the table for breakfast, --"all of which, Betty Jo, does not in theleast help matters, and only makes you more nervous and upset than youare. 

"One thing is certain sure, " she continued, while her hands were busywith the dishes and the table preparations: "If we can endure this test, we need never, never, never fear that anything nor anybody can ever, ever make us doubt the genuineness of our love. Auntie Sue has certainlyarranged it most beautifully for Brian Kent and Betty Jo Williams tobecome thoroughly acquainted. "

Betty Jo suddenly paused in her work, and stood very still: "I wonder, "she said slowly, --"can it be, --is it possible, --what if Auntie Sue hasbrought about this situation for that very reason?"

"Breakfast ready?" cried Brian at the kitchen-door, and his voice was sohearty and natural that the girl answered as naturally: "It will beas soon as you are ready for it. I forget, do you like your eggs threeminutes or four?"

They really managed that breakfast very well, even if they did sitopposite each other so that each was forced to look straight acrossthe table into the face of the other. Or, perhaps, it was because theylooked at each other so straight and square and frankly honest that thebreakfast went so well. 

And because the breakfast went so well, they managed the dinner and thesupper also. 

"I have been thinking, " said Brian at the close of their evening meal, looking straight into the gray eyes over the table, "perhaps it might bebetter for you to stay at neighbor Tom's until Auntie Sue returns. I'llhitch up 'Old Prince' and drive you over, if you say. Or, we might findsome neighbor woman to come here to live with us, if you prefer. "

"You don't like my housekeeping, then?" asked Betty Jo. 

"Like it!" exclaimed Brian; and the tone of his voice approached thedanger-point. 

Betty Jo said quickly: "I'll tell you exactly what I think, Mr. Burns:Auntie Sue said we were to be good children, and take care of thingsuntil she returned. She did not say for me to shirk my part by going toneighbor Tom's or by having any one come here. Don't you think we can doexactly what Auntie Sue said?"

"Yes, " returned Brian, heartily; "I am sure we can. And do youknow, --come to think about it, --I believe the dear old lady would bedisappointed in us both if we dodged our--well, --" he finished withemphasis, --"our responsibilities. "

And after that, somehow, the evening on the porch went as well as thebreakfast and dinner and supper had gone. 

It was the second day of their housekeeping that Betty Jo noticedsmoke coming from the stone chimney of the clubhouse up the river. Shereported her observation to Brian when he came in from his work fordinner. During the afternoon, they both saw boats on the quiet waters ofThe Bend, and at supper told each other what they had seen. And in theevening they together watched the twinkling lights of the clubhousewindows, and once they heard voices and laughter from somewhere on theriver as though a boating party were making merry. 

Two days later, Brian and Betty Jo were just finishing dinner when astep sounded on the porch, and a man appeared in the open doorway. 

The stranger was dressed in the weird and flashy costume considered byhis class to be the proper thing for an outing in the country, and hisface betrayed the sad fact that, while he was mentally, spiritually, andphysically greatly in need of a change from the unclean atmospherethat had made him what he was, he was incapable of benefiting by morewholesome conditions of living. He was, in fact, a perfect specimen ofthat type of clubman who, in order to enjoy fully the beautiful life ofGod's unspoiled world, must needs take with him all of the sordid andvicious life of that world wherein he is most at home. 

With no word of greeting, he said, with that superior air which so manycity folk assume when addressing those who live in the country: "Haveyou people any fresh vegetables or eggs to sell?"

Brian and Betty Jo arose, and Brian, stepping forward, said, with asmile: "No, we have nothing to sell here; but I think our neighbor, Mr. Warden, just over the hill, would be glad to supply you. Won't you comein?"

The man stared at Brian, turned an appraising eye on Betty Jo; thenlooked curiously about the room. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said, removing his cap, "I thought, when Ispoke, that you were natives. My name is Green, --Harry Green. There isa party of us stopping at the clubhouse, up the river, there;--just outfor a bit of a good time, you know. We are from St. Louis, --first timeany of us were ever in the Ozarks, --friends of mine own the clubhouse. "

"My name is Burns, " returned Brian. "We noticed your boats on the river. You are enjoying your outing, are you?"

Again the man looked curiously from Brian to Betty Jo. "Oh, yes; wecan stand it for awhile, " he answered. "We're a pretty jolly bunch, yousee;--know how to keep things going. It would kill me if I had to livehere in this lonesome hole very long, though. Don't you find it ratherslow, Mrs. Burns?"

Poor Betty Jo's face turned fairly crimson. She could neither answer thestranger nor meet his gaze, but stood with downcast eyes;--then lookedat Brian appealingly. 

But Brian was as embarrassed as Betty Jo; while the stranger, as heregarded them, smiled with an expression of insolent understanding. 

"I guess I have made another mistake, " he said, with a meaning laugh. 

"You have, " returned Brian, sharply, stepping forward as he spoke; forthe man's manner was unmistakable. "Be careful, sir, that you do notmake another. "

Mr. Green spoke quickly, with an airy wave of his hand: "No offense;no offense, I assure you. " Then as he moved toward the door, he added, still with thinly veiled insolence: "I beg your pardon for intruding. Iunderstand, perfectly. Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns! Good-afternoon, miss!"

Brian followed him out to the porch; and the caller, as he went down thesteps, turned back with another understanding laugh: "I say, Burns, youare a lucky devil. Don't worry about me, old man. I envy you, by Jove!Charming little nest. Come over to the club some evening. Bring thelittle girl along, and help us to have a good time. So-long!"

Mr. Harry Green probably never knew how narrowly he escaped beingmanhandled by the enraged but helpless Brian. 

Brian remained on the porch until he saw the man, in his boat, leave theeddy at the foot of the garden and row away up the river. 

In the house, again, the two faced each other in dismay. 

Betty Jo was first to recover: "I am sure that it is quite time forAuntie Sue to come home and take charge of her own household again. Don't you think so, Mr. Burns?"

And Brian Kent most heartily agreed. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW. 

The members of the clubhouse party were amusing themselves thatafternoon in the various ways peculiar to their kind. 

At one end of the wide veranda overlooking the river a group sat at acard table. At the other end of the roomy lounging place, men and women, lying at careless ease in steamer-chairs and hammocks, were smoking andchatting about such things as are of interest only to that strangeclass who are educated to make idleness the chief aim and end of theirexistence. On the broad steps leading down to the tree-shaded lawn, which sloped gently to the boat landing at the river's edge, stillother members of the company were scattered in characteristic attitudes. Across the river, in the shade of the cottonwoods that overhang thebank, a man and a woman in a boat were ostensibly fishing. In a hammockstrung between two trees, a little way from the veranda, lay a woman, reading. 

Now and then a burst of shrill laughter broke the quiet of thesurrounding forest. A man on the steps called a loud suggestive jest tothe pair in the boat, and the woman waved her handkerchief in answer. The card-players argued and laughed over a point in their game. Someone shouted into the house for Jim, and a negro man in white jacketappeared. When the people on the veranda had expressed their individualtastes, the one who had summoned the servant called to the woman in thehammock under the tree, "What is yours, Martha?"

Without looking up from her book, the woman waved her hand, andanswered, "I am not drinking this time. Thanks. "

A chorus of derisive shouts and laughter came from the veranda. Butthe woman went on reading. "Oh, let her alone!" protested some one, good-naturedly. "She was going a little strong, last night. She'll beall right by and by, when she gets started again. "

The negro, Jim, had returned with his loaded tray, and was passing amongthe members of the company with his assortment of glasses, when some onecalled attention to Harry Green, who was just pulling his boat up to thelanding after his visit to the little log house down the river. 

A boisterous chorus greeted the boatman: "Hello, Harry! Did you findanything? You're just in time. What'll you have?"

With a wave of greeting, the man fastened his boat to the landing, andstarted up the slope. 

"He'll have a Scotch, of course!" said some one. "Did anybody ever knowhim to take anything else? Go and get it, Jim. He'll be nearly dead fora drink after rowing all that distance. "

The woman in the hammock lowered her book, and lay watching the man ashe came up the path toward the steps. 

Harry Green, who, apparently, was a person of importance among them, seated himself in an easy chair on the veranda, and accepted the glassproffered by Jim. 

"Did you find any eggs, Harry?" demanded one. The man first refreshedhimself with a long drink; then looked around with a grin of amusedappreciation: "I didn't get any eggs, " he said; "but I found the nestall right. "

A shout of laughter greeted the reply. 

"What sort of nest, Harry? Duck? Turkey? Hen? Dove? Or rooster?" camefrom different members of the chorus. 

Raising his glass as though offering a toast, he answered: "Love! mychildren; love!"

A yell of delight came from the company, accompanied by a volley of:"A love-nest! Well, what do you know about that! Good boy, Harry! TakesHarry to find a love-nest! He's the boy to send for eggs! I should say, yes! Martha will like that! Oh, won't she!"

This last remark turned their attention toward the woman in the hammock, and they called to her: "Martha! Oh, Martha! Come here! You betterlook after Harry! Harry has found a love-nest! Told you something wouldhappen if you let him go away alone!"

Putting aside her book, the woman came to join the company on theveranda. 

She was rather a handsome woman, but with a suggestion of coarseness inform and features, though her face, in spite of its too-evident signs ofdissipation, was not a bad face. 

Seating herself on the top step, with her back against the post in anattitude of careless abandonment, she looked up at the negro who stoodgrinning in the doorway. "Bring me a highball, Jim: you know my kind. "Then to the company: "Somebody give me a cigarette. "

Harry tossed a silver case in her lap. Another man, who sat near, leanedover her with a lighted match. 

Expelling a generous cloud of smoke from her shapely lips, shedemanded: "What is this you are all shouting about Harry having anotherlove-nest?"

During the answering chorus of boisterous laughter and jesting remarks, she drank the liquor which the negro brought. 

Then Harry, pointing out Auntie Sue's house, which was easily visiblefrom where they sat, related his experience. And among the manyconjectures, and questions, and comments offered, no one suggested eventhat the man and the woman living in that little log house by the rivermight be entirely innocent of the implied charge. For those who arethemselves guilty, to assume the guilt of others is very natural andaltogether human. 

In the moment's quiet which followed the arrival of a fresh supply ofdrinks, the woman called Martha said: "But what is the man like, Harry?You have enthused quite enough about the girl. Suppose you tell us aboutthe man in the case. "

Harry gave a very good description of Brian Kent. 

"Oh, damn!" suddenly cried Martha, shaking her skirt vigorously. She hadspilled some of the liquor from her glass. 

A woman on the outer edge of the circle whispered to her nearestneighbor, and a hush fell over the group. 

"Well, " said Martha, drinking the liquor remaining in her glass, "whythe devil don't we find out who they are, if we are so curious?"

"Find out! How? We'll find out a lot! What would you do, --ask them theirnames and where they are from?" came from the company. 

"It is easy enough, " retorted Martha. "There is that native girl thatMolly picked up the day we landed here to help her in the kitchen. Shemust belong in this neighborhood somewhere. I'll bet she can tell ussomething. What is her name?"

"Judy, --Judy Taylor. Great idea! Good! Send her out here, Jim, "responded the others. 

When the deformed mountain girl appeared before them, she looked fromface to face with such a frightened and excited expression on hersallow, old-young features, and such a wild light in her black beadyeyes, that they regarded her with silent interest. 

Judy spoke first, and her shrill monotone emphasized her excited stateof mind: "That there nigger said as how Missus Kent was a-wantin' tersee me. Be ary one of youuns sure 'nough Missus Kent?"

The group drew apart a little, and every face was turned from Judy tothe woman sitting on the top step of the veranda with her back againstthe post. 

Judy went slowly toward the woman, her beady eyes fixed and staring asthough at some ghostly vision. The woman rose to her feet as Judy pausedbefore her. 

"Be you-all Brian Kent's woman?" demanded Judy. 

The excited exclamation from the company and the manner of the womansuddenly aroused the mountain girl to a realization of what she had donein speaking Brian Kent's name. With an expression of frightened dismay, she turned to escape; but the group of intensely interested spectatorsdrew closer. Every one waited for Martha to speak. 

"Yes, " she said, slowly, watching the mountain girl; "I am Mrs. BrianKent. Do you know my husband?"

Judy's black beady eyes shifted slyly from one face to another, and hertwisted body moved uneasily. 

"No, ma'm; I ain't a-sayin' I knows him exactly. I done heard tell 'bouthim nigh 'bout a year ago, when there was some men from the city comethrough here a-huntin' him. Everybody 'lows as how he was drowned atElbow Rock. "

"The body was never found, though, " murmured one of the men in thegroup. 

"Who lives in that little log house over there, Judy?" Harry Green askedsuddenly, pointing. 

"There? Oh, that there's Auntie Sue's place. I 'lowed everybody knowedthat, " returned the girl. 

"Who is Auntie Sue?" came the next question. 

One of the women answered, before Judy could speak: "Auntie Sue is thatold-maid school-teacher they told us about. Don't you remember, Harry?"

"Is Auntie Sue at home now, girl?" asked Mrs. Kent. 

Judy's gaze was fixed on the ground as she replied: "I don't know, ma'm. I ain't got no truck with anybody on yon side the river. "

"Is there any one living with Auntie Sue?" asked some one; and in thesame breath from another came the question, "Who is Mr. Burns?"

Judy jerked her twisted shoulders and threw up her head with animpatient defiance, as she returned shrilly: "I'm a-tellin' youuns Idon't know nothin' 'bout nobody. Hit ain't no sort er use for youuns terpester me. I don't know nothin' 'bout hit, an' I wouldn't tell youunsnothin' if I did. "

And with this, the mountain girl escaped into the house. 

While her friends on the veranda were looking at each other inquestioning silence, Mrs. Kent, without a word, turned and walked awayinto the woods. 

As she disappeared among the trees, one of the men said, in a low tone:"You better go after her, Harry. She is on, all right, that it's BrianKent. She never did believe that story about his death, you know. Thereis no knowing what she'll do when she gets to thinking it all over. "

"It is a darned shame, " exclaimed one of the women, "to have our partyspoiled like this!"

"Spoiled nothing, " answered another. "Martha is too good a sport tospoil anything. Go on, Harry. Cheer her up. Bring her back here. We'llall help get her good and drunk to-night, and she'll be all right. "

There was a laugh at this, and some one said: "A little somethingwouldn't hurt any of us just now, I'm thinking. Here, Jim!"

Harry Green found Mrs. Kent sitting on the riverbank some distance abovethe boat landing. 

She looked up at the sound of his approach, but did not speak. Droppingdown beside her, the man said: "I'm damned sorry about this, Martha. I never dreamed I was starting anything, or I would have kept my mouthshut. "

"It is Brian, all right, Harry, " she answered, slowly. "It is funny, buthe has been on my mind all day. I never dreamed that it was this partof the country where he was supposed to have been drowned, or I wouldn'thave come here. "

"Well, what does it matter, anyway?" returned the man. "I don't see thatit can make any difference. We don't need to go down there where he is, and it is damned certain that they won't call on us. "

Looking out over the river, the woman spoke as if thinking aloud: "Thisis just the sort of place he would love, Harry--the river and hills andwoods. He never cared for the city--always wanted to get away intothe country somewhere. Tell me, what is she really like? Does she looklike--like--well, --like any of our crowd?"

One by one, the man picked a number of pebbles from among the deadleaves and the short grass within reach of his hand, as he answered:"Oh, I was just kidding when I raved about her to the bunch. " One byone, he flipped the bits of stone into the water. "She really doesn'tamount to much. Honestly, I hardly noticed her. "

The woman continued speaking as though thinking her thoughts aloud:"Brian was a good man, Harry. That bank affair was really my fault. Henever would have done such a thing if I hadn't devilled him all the timefor more money, and made such a fuss about his wasting so much time inhis everlasting writing. I'd hate to have him caught and sent to the'pen' now. "

"You're a good sport, Martha, " he returned heartily. "I know just howyou feel about it. And I can promise you that there is not one of ourcrowd that will ever whisper a thing. They are not that kind, and youknow how they all like you. Come, dear. Don't bother your head about itany more. I don't like to see you like this. Let us go up to the house, and show them how game you are, --shall we?"

He put his arm about her, but the woman gently pushed him away. "Don'tdo that, now, Harry. Let me think. "

"That is just what you must not do, " he retorted, with a laugh. "Thinking can't help matters. Come, let us go get a drink. That is whatyou need. "

She looked at him some time before she answered; then, with a quickmovement, she sprang to her feet:

"All right! You're on!" she cried, with a reckless laugh. "But you'll gosome if you keep up with me to-night. "

And so, that evening, while Brian Kent and Betty Jo from the porch ofthe little log house by the river watched the twinkling lights of theclubhouse windows, the party with mad merriment tried to help a woman toforget. 

But save for the unnatural brightness of her eyes and the heightenedcolor in her face, drink seemed to have little effect on Martha Kentthat night. When at a late hour the other members of the wild company, in various flushed and dishevelled stages of intoxication, finallyretired to their rooms, Martha, in her apartment, seated herself at thewindow to look away over the calm waters of The Bend to a single lightthat showed against the dark mountainside. The woman did not know thatthe light she saw was in Brian Kent's room. 

Long after Betty Jo had said good-night, Brian walked the floor inuneasy wakefulness. The meeting with the man Green and his too-evidentthoughts as to the relations of the man and woman who were livingtogether in the log house by the river filled Brian with alarm; whilethe very presence of the man from the city awoke old apprehensions thatin his months of undisturbed quiet in Auntie Sue's backwoods home hadalmost ceased to be. Through Auntie Sue's teaching and influence; hiswork on his book; the growing companionship of Betty Jo and their love, Brian had almost ceased to think of that absconding bank clerk whohad so recklessly launched himself on a voyage to the unknown in thedarkness of that dreadful night. But, now, it all came back to him withmenacing strength. 

The man, Green, would talk to his companions of his visit to the loghouse that afternoon. He would tell what he had discovered. Curiositywould lead others of the clubhouse party to call. Some one mightremember the story of the bank clerk, who was supposed to have lost hislife in that neighborhood, but whose body was never found. There mighteven be one in the party who knew the former clerk. Through them thestory would go back to the outside world. There would be investigationsby those whose business it was never to forget a criminal who hadescaped the law. 

Brian felt his Re-Creation to be fully established; but what if hisidentity should be discovered before the restitution he would makeshould be also accomplished? And always, as he paced to and fro in hislittle room in the log house, there was, like a deep undercurrent in theflow of his troubled thought, his love for Betty Jo. 

It is little wonder that, to Brian Kent, that night, the voices of theriver were filled with fearful doubt and sullen, dreadful threatenings. 

And what of the woman who watched the tiny spot of light that markedthe window of the room where the re-created Brian Kent kept his lonelyvigil? Did she, too, hear the voices of the river? Did she feel thepresence of that stream which poured its dark flood so mysteriouslythrough the night between herself and the man yonder?

Away back, somewhere in the past, the currents of their lives in theonward flow of the river had drawn together. For a period of time, theirlife-currents had mingled, and, with the stream, had swept onward asone. Other influences--swirls and eddies and counter-currents of otherlives--had touched and intermingled until the current that was the manand the current that was the woman had drawn apart. For months, theyhad not touched; and, now, they were drawing nearer to each other again. Would they touch? Would they again mingle and become one? What was thismysterious, unseen, unknown, but always-felt, power of the river thatsets the ways of its countless currents as it sweeps ever onward in itsunceasing flow?

The door of her room opened. Harry Green entered as one assured of awelcome. The woman at the window turned her head, but did not move. Going to her, the man, with an endearing word, offered a caress; but sheput him aside. "Please, Harry, --please let me be alone to-night?"

"Why, Martha, dear! What is wrong?" he protested, again attempting todraw her to him. 

Resisting more vigorously, she answered: "Everything is wrong! You arewrong! I am wrong! All life is wrong! Can't you understand? Please leaveme. "

The man drew back, and spoke roughly in a tone of disgust: "Hell! Ibelieve you love that bank clerk as much as you ever did!"

"Well, and suppose that were true, Harry?" she answered, wearily. "Suppose it were true, --that I did still love my husband? Could thatmake any difference now? Can anything ever make any difference now? Youwill tire of me before long, just as you have grown tired of the otherswho were before me. Don't you suppose I know? You and our friends havetaught me many things, Harry. I know, now, that Brian's dreams wereright. That his dreams could never be realized, does not make themfoolish nor wrong. His dreams that seemed so foolish--such impossibleideals--were more real, after all, than this life that we think so real. WE are the dreamers, --we and our kind, --and our awakening is as sure tocome as that river out there is sure of reaching the sea. "

The man laughed harshly: "You are quite poetical, to-night. I believe Ilike you better, though, when you talk sense. "

"I am sorry, Harry, " she returned. "Please don't be cross with me! Gonow, --please go!"

And something forced the man to silence. Slowly, he left the room. Thewoman locked the door. Returning to the window, she fell on her knees, and stretched her hands imploringly toward the tiny spot of light thatstill shone against the dark shadow of the mountain-side. 

Between the mighty walls of tree-clad hills that lifted their solemncrests into the midnight sky, the dark river poured the sombre strengthof its innumerable currents, --terrible in its awful power; dreadful, inits mysterious and unseen forces; irresistible in its ceaseless, onwardrush to the sea of its final and infinite purpose!

And here and there on the restless, ever-moving surface of the shadowy, never-ending flood twinkled the reflection of a star. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

AT THE EMPIRE CONSOLIDATED SAVINGS BANK. 

The President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank looked up from thepapers on his desk as his secretary entered from the adjoining room andstood before him. 

"Well, George?"

The secretary smiled as he spoke: "Mr. Ward, there is an old lady outhere who insists that you will see her. The boys passed her on to me, because, --well, she is not the kind of woman that can be refused. Shehas no card, but her name is Wakefield. She--"

The dignified President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bankelectrified his secretary by springing from his chair like a schoolboyfrom his seat at the tap of the teacher's dismissing bell. "Auntie Sue!I should say she couldn't be refused! Where is she?" And before thesecretary could collect his startled thoughts to answer, Homer T. Wardwas out of the room. 

When the smiling secretary, the stenographers, and other attendingemployees had witnessed a meeting between their dignified chief andthe lovely old lady, which strengthened their conviction that the greatfinancier was genuinely human, President Ward and Auntie Sue disappearedinto the private office. 

"George, " said Mr. Ward, as he closed the door of that sacred innersanctuary of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, "remember I am not into any one;--from the Secretary of the Treasury to the Sheriff, I am notin. "

"I understand, sir, " returned the still smiling George. And from thatmoment until Homer T. Ward should open the door, nothing short of aregiment could have interrupted the interview between Auntie Sue and herold pupil. 

Placing the dear old lady tenderly in a deep, leather-upholstered chair, Mr. Ward stood before her as though trying to convince himself thatshe was real; while his teacher of those long-ago, boyhood days gazedsmilingly up at him. 

"What in the name of all that is unexpected are you doing here, AuntieSue?" he demanded; "and why is not Betty Jo with you? Isn't the girlever coming home? There is nothing the matter with her, is there? Ofcourse not, or you would have wired me. "

It was not at all like the bank president to ask so many questions allat once. 

Auntie Sue looked around the private office curiously, then smilinglyback to the face of the financier. 

"Do you know, Homer, " she said with her chuckling little laugh, "I--I--am almost afraid of you in here. Everything is so grand andrich-looking; and there were so many men out there who tried to tell meyou would not see me. I--I am glad I didn't know it would be like this, or I fear I never could have found the courage to come. "

Homer T. Ward laughed, and then--rather full-waisted as he was--wentdown on one knee at the arm of her chair so as to bring his face levelwith her eyes. 

"Look at me, Auntie Sue, " he said; "look straight through me, just asyou used to do years and years ago, and tell me what you see. "

And the dear old lady, with one thin soft hand on his heavy shoulder, answered, as she looked: "Why, I see a rather naughty boy, whom I oughtto spank for throwing spitballs at the old schoolroom ceiling, " sheretorted. "And I am not a bit afraid to do it either. So sit right overthere, sir, and listen to me. "

They laughed together then; and if Auntie Sue wiped her eyes as theschoolboy obediently took his seat in the big chair at the banker'sdesk, Homer T. Ward's eyes were not without a suspicious moisture. 

"Tell me about Betty Jo first, " the man insisted. "You know, Auntie Sue, the girl grows dearer to me every year. "

"Betty Jo is that kind of a girl, Homer, " Auntie Sue answered. 

"I suppose it is because she is all I have to love, " he said, "but, youknow, ever since Sister Grace died and left the fatherless little kidto me, it seems like all my plans have centered around her; and now thatshe has finished her school; has travelled abroad, and gone through withthat business-college course, I am beginning to feel like we should sortof settle down together. I am glad for her to be with you this summer, though, for the finishing touches; and when she comes home to stay, youare coming with her. "

Auntie Sue shook her head, smiling: "Now, Homer, you know that issettled: I will never leave my little log house by the river until Ihave watched the last sunset. You know, my dear boy, that I would bemiserable in the city. "

It was an old point often argued by them, and the man dismissed it, now, with a brief: "We'll see about that when the time comes. But, why didn'tyou bring Betty Jo with you?"

"Because, " Auntie Sue answered, "I came away hurriedly, on a veryimportant trip, for only a day, and it is necessary for her to stay andkeep house while I am gone. The child must learn to cook, Homer, even ifshe is to inherit all your money. "

"I know, " answered the banker;--"the same as you make me work when Ivisit you. But your coming to me sounds rather serious, Auntie Sue. Whatis your trouble?"

The dear old lady laughed, nervously; for, to tell the truth, she didnot quite know how she was going to manage to present Brian Kent's caseto Homer T. Ward without presenting more than she was at this time readyto reveal. 

"Why, you see, Homer, " she began, "it is not really my trouble as muchas it is yours, and it is not yours as much as it is--"

"Betty Jo's?" he asked quickly, when she hesitated. 

"No! no!" she cried. "The child doesn't even know why I am here. Justtry to forget her for a few minutes, Homer. "

"All right, " he said; "but you had me worried for a minute. "

Auntie Sue might have answered that she was somewhat worried herself;but, instead, she plunged with desperate courage: "I came to see youabout Brian Kent, Homer. "

It is not enough to say that the President of the Empire ConsolidatedSavings Bank was astonished. "Brian Kent?" he said at last. "Why, AuntieSue, I wrote you nearly a year ago that Brian Kent was dead. "

"Yes, I know; but he was not--that is, he is not. But the Brian Kentyour detectives were hunting was--I mean--is. "

Homer T. Ward looked at his old teacher as though he feared she hadsuddenly lost her mind. 

"It is like this, Homer, " Auntie Sue explained: "A few days afteryour detective, Mr. Ross, called on me, this stranger appeared in theneighborhood. No one dreamed that he was Brian Kent, because, you see, he was not a bit like the description. "

"Full beard, I suppose?" commented the banker, grimly. 

"Yes: and every other way, " continued Auntie Sue. "And he has beenworking so hard all winter; and everybody in the country respects andloves him so; and he is one of the best and truest men I ever knew;and he is planning and working to pay back every cent he took; and Icannot--I will not--let you send him to prison now. "

The lovely old eyes were fixed on the banker's face with sweet anxiety. 

Homer T. Ward was puzzled. Strange human problems are often presentedto men in his position; but, certainly, this was the strangest;--his oldteacher pleading for his absconding clerk who was supposed to be dead. 

At last he said, with gentle kindness: "But, why did you come to tell meabout him, Auntie Sue? He is safe enough if no one knows who he is. "

"That is it!" she cried. "Some one found out about him, and is cominghere to tell you, for the reward. "

The banker whistled softly. "And you--you--grabbed a train, and beat 'emto it!" he exclaimed. "Well, if that doesn't--"

Auntie Sue clasped her thin hands to her breast, and her sweet voicetrembled with anxious fear: "You won't send that poor boy to prison, now, will you, Homer? It--it--would kill me if such a terrible thingwere to happen now. Won't you let him go free, so that he can do hiswork, --won't you, Homer? I--I--" The strain of her anxiety was almosttoo much for the dear old gentlewoman's physical strength, and as hervoice failed, the tears streamed down the soft cheeks unheeded. 

In an instant the bank president was again on his knees beside herchair. 

"Don't, Auntie Sue: don't, dear! Why, you know I would do anythingin the world you asked, even if I wanted to send the fellow up; but Idon't. I wouldn't touch him for the world. It is a thousand times betterto let him go if he is proving himself an honest man. Please, dear, don't feel so. Why, I will be glad to let him off. I'll help him, AuntieSue. I--I--am as glad as you are that we didn't get him. Please don'tfeel so about it. There, there, --it is all right, now. "

So he comforted and reassured her until she was able to smile throughher tears. "I knew I could depend on you, Homer. "

A few minutes later, she said: "And what about that man who is coming toclaim the reward, Homer?"

"Never you mind him!" cried the banker; "I'll fix that. But, tell me, Auntie Sue, where is young Kent now?"

"He is working in the neighborhood, " she returned. 

He looked at her shrewdly. "You have seen a lot of him, have you?"

"I have seen him occasionally, " she answered. Homer T. Ward nodded hishead, as if well pleased with himself. "You don't need to tell me anymore. I understand, now, exactly. It is very clear what has reformedBrian Kent; you have been up to your old tricks. It is a wonder youhaven't taken him into your house to live with you, --to save him fromassociating with bad people. "

He laughed, and when Auntie Sue only smiled, as though humoring him inhis little joke, he added: "By the way, has Betty Jo seen this latestpatient of yours? What does she think of his chances for completerecovery?"

"Yes, " Auntie Sue returned, calmly; "Betty Jo has seen him. But, really, Homer, I have never asked her what she thought of him. "

"Do you know, Auntie Sue, " said the banker, reflectively, "I never didbelieve that Brian Kent was a criminal at heart. "

"I know he is not, " she returned stoutly. "But, tell me, Homer, how didit ever happen?"

"Well, you see, " he answered, "young Kent had a wife who couldn'tsomehow seem to fit into his life. Ross never went into the details withme, fully, because that, of course, had no real bearing on the fact thathe stole the money from the bank. But it seems that the youngster wasrather ambitious, --studied a lot outside of business hours and that sortof thing. I know he made his own way through business college before hecame to us. The wife didn't receive the attention she thought she shouldhave, I suppose. Perhaps she was right at that. Anyway, she wanted agood time;--wanted him to take her out more, instead of spending hisspare time digging away at his books. And so it went the usual way, --shefound other company. Rather a gay set, I fancy; at least it led to herneeding more money than he was earning, and so he helped out his salary, thinking to pay it back before he was caught, I suppose. Then the crashcame, --some other man, you know, --and Brian skipped, which, of course, put us next to his stealing. I don't know what has become of the woman. The last Ross knew of her she was living in St. Louis, and running witha pretty wild bunch, --glad to get rid of Brian, I expect. She couldn'thave really cared so very much for him. 

"Do you know, Auntie Sue, I have seen so many cases like this one. I have been glad, many times, that I never married. And then, again, sometimes, I have seen homes that have made me sorry I never took thechance. I am glad you saved the boy, Auntie Sue: I am mighty glad. "

"You have made me very happy, Homer, " Auntie Sue returned. "But are yousure you can fix it about that reward? The man who is coming to claim itwill make trouble, won't he, if he is not paid, somehow?"

"Yes, I expect he would, " returned the president, thoughtfully. "And mydirectors might have something to say. And there are the Burns peopleand the Bankers' Association and all. Hum-m-m!"

Homer T. Ward considered the matter a few moments, then he laughed. "I'll tell you what we will do, Auntie Sue; we will let Brian Kent paythe reward himself. That would be fair, wouldn't it?"

Auntie Sue was sure that Brian would agree that it was a fair enougharrangement; but she did not see how it was to be managed. 

Then her old pupil explained that he would pay the reward-money to theman who was coming to claim it, and thus satisfy him, and that the bankwould hold the amount as a part of the debt which Brian was expected topay. 

Auntie Sue never knew that President Ward himself paid to the bankthe full amount of the money stolen by Brian Kent in addition to thereward-money which he personally paid to Jap Taylor, in order to quiethim, and thus saved Brian from the publicity that surely would havefollowed any other course. 

It should also be said here that Judy's father never again appeared inthe Ozarks; at least, not in the Elbow Rock neighborhood. It might bethat Jap Taylor was shrewd enough to know that his reputation would notpermit him to show any considerable sum of money, where he wasknown, without starting an investigation; and for men of his typeinvestigations are never to be desired. 

Or it is not unlikely that the combination of money and the city provedthe undoing of the moonshiner, and that he came to his legitimate andlogical end among the dives and haunts of his kind, to which he wouldsurely gravitate. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS. 

The day following that night of Brian Kent's uneasy wakefulness was ahard day for the man and the woman in the little log house by the river. 

For Brian, the morning dawned with a sense of impending disaster. Heleft his room while the sky was still gray behind the eastern mountains, and the mist that veiled the brightness of the hills seemed to hide inits ghostly depths legions of shadowy spirits that from his past hadassembled to haunt him. The sombre aisles and caverns of the dimlylighted forest were peopled with shadowy memories of that life which hehad hoped would never again for him awake. And the river swept throughits gray world to the crashing turmoil at Elbow Rock like a thing doomedto seek forever in its own irresistible might the destruction of itsever-living self. 

As one moving in a world of dreams, he went about his morning's work. "Old Prince" whinnied his usual greeting, but received no answer. "Bess"met him at the barnyard gate, but he did not speak. The sun leapedabove the mountain-tops, and the world was filled with the beauty ofits golden glory. From tree and bush and swaying weed, from forest andpasture, and garden and willow-fringed river-bank, the birds voicedtheir happy greetings to the new day. But the man neither saw nor heard. 

When he went to the house with his full milk-pail, and Betty Jo met himat the kitchen-door with her cheery "Good-morning!" he tried resolutelyto free himself from the mood which possessed him, but only partiallysucceeded. Several times, as the two faced each other across thebreakfast table, Brian saw the gray eyes filled with questioninganxiety, as though Betty Jo, also, felt the presence of some forbiddingspectre at the meal. 

After several vain attempts to find something they could talk about, Betty Jo boldly acknowledged the situation by saying: "What in the worldis the matter with us, this morning, Mr. Burns? I am possessed with thefeeling that there is some one or something behind me. I want to lookover my shoulder every minute. "

At her words, Brian involuntarily turned his head for a quick backwardglance. 

"There!" cried Betty Jo, with a nervous laugh, not at all like hernormal, well-poised self. "You feel it, too!"

Brian forced a laugh in return: "It is the weather, I guess. " He triedto speak with casual ease. "The atmosphere is full of electricity thismorning. We'll have a thunder-storm before night, probably. "

"And was it the electricity in the air that kept you tramping up anddown your room last night until almost morning?" she demanded abruptly, with her characteristic opposition to any evasion of the question atissue. 

Brian retorted with a smile: "And how do you know that I tramped up anddown my room last night?"

The color in Betty Jo's cheeks deepened as she answered, "I did notsleep very well either. "

"But, I surely did not make noise enough for you to hear in your room?"persisted Brian. 

The color deepened still more in Betty Jo's checks, as she answeredhonestly: "I was not in my room when I heard you. " She paused, and whenhe only looked at her expectantly, but did not speak, continued, in ahesitating manner quite unlike her matter-of-fact self: "When I couldnot sleep, and felt so as though there were somebody or something in thehouse that had no business here, I became afraid, and opened my door soI would not feel so much alone; and then I saw the light under the doorof your room, and, --" she hesitated, but finished with a little air ofdefiance, --"and I went and listened outside your door to see if you wereup. "

"Yes?" said Brian Kent, gently. 

"And when I heard you walking up and down, I wanted to call to you; butI thought I better not. It made me feel better, though, just to knowthat you were there; and so, pretty soon, I went back to my room again. "

"And then?" said Brian. 

"And then, " confessed Betty Jo, "whatever it was that was keeping meawake came back, and went on keeping me awake until I was simply forcedto go to you for help again. "

Poor Betty Jo! She knew very well that she ought not to be saying thosethings to the man who, while he listened, could not hide the love thatshone in his eyes. 

And Brian Kent, as he thought of this woman, whom he loved with all thestrength of his best self, creeping to the door of his room for comfortin the lonely night, scarcely dared trust himself to speak. At last, when their silence was becoming unbearable, he said, gently: "You poorchild! Why didn't you call to me?"

And Betty Jo, hearing in his voice that which told her how near he wasto the surrender that would bring disaster to them both, was aroused tothe defense. The gray eyes never wavered as she answered, bravely: "Iwas afraid of that, too. "

And so Betty Jo confessed her love that answered so to his need; but, in her very confession, saved their love from themselves. If she hadlowered her eyes--Brian Kent, in reverent acknowledgment, bowed hishead before her. Then, rising, he walked to the window, where he stoodfor some time looking out, but seeing nothing. 

"It was that horrid man coming yesterday that has so upset us, " saidBetty Jo, at last. "We were getting on so beautifully, too. I wish hehad gone somewhere else for his vegetables and eggs and things!"

Brian was able to smile at this as he turned to face her again, and theyboth knew that, --for that time, at least, --the danger-point was safelypast. 

"I wish so, too, " he agreed; "but never mind; Auntie Sue will be home ina day or two, and then everything will be all right again. "

But when he had taken his hat and was starting out for the day's work, Betty Jo asked, "What are you doing to-day?"

"I was going to work on the fence around the clearing, " he answered. "Why?"

"I--I--wish you could find something to do nearer the house, " came theslow answer. "Couldn't you work in the garden, perhaps?"

"I should say I could!" he returned heartily. 

All that forenoon, as Betty Jo went about her household duties she feltthe presence of the thing that filled her so with fear and dread. Withvigorous determination she scolded herself for being so foolish, andargued with herself that it was all a nervous fancy born of her restlessnight. But, the next moment, she would start with a sudden fear and turnquickly as if to face some one whose presence she felt behind her. AndBrian, too, as he worked in the garden, caught himself often in the actof pausing to look about with nervous apprehension. 

During the noonday meal they made a determined effort to laugh atthemselves, and by the time dinner was over had almost succeeded. Butwhen Brian, as he pushed back his chair, said, jestingly, "Well, am Ito work in the garden again this afternoon?" Betty Jo answered, emphatically, "Indeed you are! I will not stay another minute in thishouse alone. Goodness knows what I will do to-night!"

There was no jest in the man's voice as he answered: "I'll tell you whatyou will do to-night, --you will go to bed and you will go to sleep. Youwill leave the door to your room wide-open, and I shall lie right thereon that couch, so near that a whisper from you will reach me. We willhave no more of this midnight prowling, I promise you. If any ghostdares appear, we--"

The reassuring words died on Brian Kent's lips. His eyes, looking overBetty Jo's shoulders, were fixed and staring, and the look on his facesent a chill of horror to the girl's heart. She dared not move nor lookaround as he sat like a man turned to stone. 

A woman's laugh broke the dead silence. 

With a scream, Betty Jo sprung to her feet and whirled about. 

As one in a trance, Brian Kent arose and stood beside her. 

The woman, who stood in the open doorway, laughed again. 

Martha Kent's heavy drinking the night before, when her clubhousefriends in a wild debauch had tried to help her to forget, was theclimax of many months of like excesses. The mood in which she had sentthe man Green from her room was the last despairing flicker of herbetter instincts. Moved by her memories of better things, --of a betterlove and dreams and ideals, --she had spent a little hour or two insentimental regret for that which she had so recklessly cast aside. Andthen, because there was within her no foundation of abiding principlefor her sentiment, she had again put on the character which had soseparated her from the life of the man to whom she was married, indeed, but with whom she was never one. With the burning consciousness of whatshe might have been and of what she was ever tormenting her, she sank, as the hours passed, deeper and deeper into the quicksands of physicalindulgence until, in her mad determination to destroy utterly herability to feel remorse, she lost all mental control of herself, andresponded to every insane whim of her drink-disordered brain. 

As she stood there, now, in the doorway of that little log house by theriver, --face to face with the man and the woman who, though theywere united in their love, were yet separated by the very fact of herexistence, --she was, in all her hideous, but pitiful, repulsiveness, thelegitimate creation of those life-forces which she so fitly personified. 

Betty Jo instinctively drew closer to Brian's side. 

"Hello, Brian, dear!" said the woman, with a drunken leer. "Thought I'dcall to see you in your charming love-nest that Harry Green raved soabout. Can't you introduce me to your little sweetheart?"

"No?" she continued, and laughed again. Then coming an unsteady steptoward them, she added, thickly: "Very well, Brian, old sport; youwon't introduce me, --I'll have to introduce myself. " She grinned withmalicious triumph at Betty Jo: "Don't be frightened, my dear. It's allright. I'm nobody of importance, --just his wife, --that's all, --just hiswife. "

Betty Jo, with a little cry, turned to the man who stood as if strickendumb with horror. "Brian?" she said. "Oh, Brian?"

It was the first time she had ever addressed him by his given name, andBrian Kent, as he looked, saw in those gray eyes no hint of doubt orcensure, but only the truest love and sympathy. Betty Jo had not failedin the moment of her supreme testing. 

"It's true, all right, isn't it, Brian?" said Martha Kent. "I'm his wifefast enough, my dear. But you don't need to worry, --you two. I'm a goodsport, --I am. I've had my fun. No kick coming from me. Just called topay my respects, --that's all. So-long, Brian, old sport! Good-bye, mydear!"

With an uncertain wave of her hand, she staggered through the doorwayand passed from their sight. 

In the little log house by the river the two who had kept the finenessof their love stood face to face. 

For Betty Jo, the barrier which Brian Kent had maintained between themto protect her from his love was no longer a thing unknown. But therevelation, coming as it did, had brought no shadow of distrust or doubtof the man to whom she had so fully entrusted herself. It had, indeed, only strengthened her faith in him and deepened her love. 

For one glorious triumphal moment the very soul of the man exulted inthe truth which Betty Jo made known to him. Then he turned slowly away, for he dared not trust himself to look at her a moment longer. 

With bowed head he paced up and down the room. He went to the tablewhich held Auntie Sue's sewing-basket, and fingered the trifles there. Then, slowly, he passed through the open door to the porch, where BettyJo, through the window, near which she stood, saw him look away over theriver and the mountains. 

Suddenly, she saw him start, and stare intently at some nearer objectthat had caught his attention. As Betty Jo watched, he moved to the edgeof the porch, and, stooping, grasped the railing with his hands;--hishead and shoulders were thrust forward; his lips were parted; hiswhole attitude was that of the most intense and excited interest. Then, straightening up, he threw back his head, and laughed aloud. But hislaughter alarmed the girl, who ran to the door, crying, "What is it, Brian?"

"Look!" he shouted, madly, and pointed toward the river. "Look, BettyJo!"

Martha Kent, alone in one of the clubhouse boats, was rowing withdrunken clumsiness toward the head of the Elbow Rock rapids. 

The woman's friends had missed her, and, guessing, from some remark shehad made, where she had gone, had sent four men of the party after her;for they realized that she was in no condition to be alone in a boaton the river, particularly on that part of the stream near Auntie Sue'splace. After leaving Brian and Betty Jo, she had gone back to her boatin the eddy at the foot of the garden, and was pulling out into thestream when she saw her friends approaching. With a drunken laugh, shewaved her hand, and began rowing from them directly toward the swiftwater. The men shouted for her to stop, and pulled with all theirstrength. But the woman, taking their calls as a challenge, rowed theharder, while every awkward pull of the oars carried her nearer thedeadly grip of the current. 

Betty Jo, as she reached Brian's side, and saw what was happening on theriver, grasped the man's arm appealingly, with a cry: "Brian! Brian! Sheis going into the rapids! She will be carried down to Elbow Rock!"

But Brian Kent, for the moment, was beside himself. All that he hadsuffered, --all that the woman out there on the river had cost him inanguish of soul, --all that she had taken from him of happiness, --camebefore him with blinding vividness; and now, --now, --in her drunkenness, she was making her own way to her own destruction. 

"Of course she is!" he shouted, in answer to Betty Jo. "Her friendsyonder are driving her to it! Could anything be more fitting?"

As though grasped by powerful unseen hands beneath the surface, the boatshot forward. The woman, feeling the sudden pull of the current, stoppedrowing, and looked about as if wondering what had happened. Her friends, not daring to follow closer to the dangerous water, were pulling madlyfor the landing at the foot of the garden. The boat in the middle of theriver moved faster. 

"Look, Betty Jo, look!" shouted the man on the porch, madly. "It's gother now--the river has got her--look!"

With a scream of fear, the woman in the boat dropped her oars, andgrasped the gunwale of the little craft. 

Brian Kent laughed. 

Betty Jo shrank back from him, her eyes, big with horror, fixed uponhis face. Then, with a quick movement, she sprang toward him again, and, catching his arm, shook him with all her strength and struck him againand again with her fist. 

"Brian! Brian!" she cried. "You are insane!"

The man looked down at her for an instant with an expression ofbewildered astonishment on his face, as one awakened from a dream. Heraised his hand and drew it across his forehead and eyes. 

The boat with the helpless woman was already past the front of thehouse. 

Betty Jo cried again as if calling the man she loved from a distance:"Brian! Brian!"

With a sudden movement, the man jerked away from her. The next instant, he had leaped over the railing of the porch to the ground below and wasrunning with all his might toward the river, at an angle which would puthim opposite or a little below the boat when he reached the bank. 

With a sob, Betty Jo followed as fast as she could. 

As Brian Kent raced toward the river's edge, the powerful current drewthe boat with the woman into the first rough water of the rapids, and, as the skiff was shaken and tossed by the force that was sweeping itwith ever-increasing speed toward the wild turmoil at Elbow Rock, thewoman screamed again and again for help. 

The warring forces of the stream whirled the little craft about, andshe saw the man who was nearing the bank. She rose to her feet in therocking boat, and stretched out her arms, --calling his name, "Brian!Brian! Brian!" Then the impact of the boat against a larger wave ofthe rapids brought her to her knees, and she clung to the thwarts withpiteous cries. 

Betty Jo and the clubhouse men, who had overtaken her, saw Brian ashe reached the river opposite the boat. For a little way he raced thetumbling waters until he had gained a short distance ahead of the skiff;then they saw him, without an instant's pause, leap from the high bankfar out into the boiling stream. 

Running along the bank, the helpless watchers saw the man fighting hisway toward the boat. One moment, he disappeared from sight, draggedbeneath the surface by the powerful currents with which he wrestled. Thenext instant, the boiling waters would toss him high on the crest of arolling wave, only to drag him down again a second later. But, always, he drew nearer and nearer the object of his struggle, while the rapidsswept both the helpless woman and the tossing boat and the swimming manonward toward the towering cliff, and the thunder-roar of the mad watersbelow grew louder and louder. 

The splendid strength of arms and shoulders which Brian Kent hadacquired by his months of work with his ax on the timbered mountain-sidesustained him now in his need. With tremendous energy, he breasted themight of the furious river. To the watchers it seemed at times that itwas beyond the power of human muscles to endure the terrific strain. Then he gained the boat, and they saw him striving with desperate energyto drag it toward the opposite shore and so into the currents that wouldcarry it past the menacing point of the cliff and perhaps to the safetyof the quiet water below. 

All that human strength could do in that terrible situation, Brian Kentdid. But the task was beyond the power of mortal man. 

For an instant the breathless watchers on the bank thought there was achance; but the waters with mad fury dragged their victims back, and, with terrific power, hurled them forward toward the frowning rocks. 

It was quickly over. 

In that wild turmoil of the boiling, leaping, seething, lashing, hammering waves, the boat, with the woman who crouched on her knees onthe bottom, and the man who clung to the side of the craft, appeared fora second lifted high in the air. The next instant, the crash of breakingwood sounded above the thundering roaring of the waters. The man andthe woman disappeared. The wreck of the boat was flung again and againagainst the cliff, until, battered and broken, it was swept away aroundthe point. 

Against the dark wall of rock Brian Kent's head and shoulders appearedfor an instant, and they saw that he held the woman in his arms. Thefurious waters closed over them. For the fraction of a second, the man'shand and arm appeared again above the surface, and was gone. 

Betty Jo sank to the ground with a low cry of anguish, and hid her face. 

Another moment, and she was aroused by a loud shout from one of the menwho had caught a glimpse of the river's victims farther out at the pointof the rocky cliff. 

Springing to her feet, Betty Jo started madly up the trail that leadsover the bluff. The men followed. 

Immediately below Elbow Rock there is a deep hole formed by the watersthat pour around the point of the cliff, and below this hole a widegravelly bar pushing out from the Elbow Rock side of the stream forcesthe main volume of the river to the opposite bank. In the shallow wateragainst the upper side of the bar they found them. 

With the last flicker of his consciousness, Brian Kent had felt his feettouch the bottom where the water shoals against the bar, and, with hislast remaining strength, had dragged himself and the body of the womaninto the shallows. 

Betty Jo was no hysterical weakling to spend the priceless seconds ofsuch a time in senseless ravings. The first-aid training which she hadreceived at school gave her the necessary knowledge which her nativestrength of character and practical common sense enabled her to apply. Under her direction, the men from the clubhouse worked as they probablynever had worked before in all their useless lives. 

But the man and the woman whose life-currents had touched andmingled, --drawn apart to flow apparently far from each other, but drawntogether again to once more touch, and, as one, to endure the testingof the rapids, --the man and the woman had not brought to the terribleordeal the same strength. 

One was drawn into the Elbow Rock rapids by the careless indifferenceand the reckless spirit that was born of the life she had chosen; byher immediate associates and environment; and by the circumstances thatwere, at the last analysis, of her own making. 

The other braved the same dangers, strong in the splendid spirit thathad set him against such terrible odds to attempt the woman's rescue. From his work on the timbered mountain-side, from his life in the cleanatmosphere of the hills, and from the spiritual and mental companionshipof that little log house by the river, he had brought to his testing thesplendid strength which enabled him to endure. 

Somewhere in that terrible conflict with the wild waters at Elbow Rock, while the man whose life she had so nearly ruined by her wantonness wasfighting to save her, the soul of Martha Kent went from the bruised andbattered body which Brian drew at last from the vicious grasp of thecurrents. 

But the man lived. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

JUDY'S RETURN. 

In the early evening twilight of the day following the tragedy at ElbowRock, Betty Jo was sitting on the porch, to rest for a few minutes inthe fresh air, after long hours of watching beside Brian's bed. 

A neighbor woman had come to help, but Betty Jo would not leave the sideof the man she loved as he fought his way slowly out of the dark shadowof the death that had so nearly conquered him. Nor, indeed, would Brianlet her go, for even in those moments when he appeared most unconsciousof the life about him, he seemed to feel her presence. All throughthe long, long hours of that anxious night and day she had watched andwaited the final issue;--feeling the dark messenger very close at times, but gaining hope as the hours passed and her lover won his way nearerand nearer to the light;--courageous always;--giving him the best of herstrength, so far as it was possible to give him anything;--making himfeel the steady, enduring fullness of her love. 

At last, they felt that the victory was won. The doctor, satisfied thatthe crisis was safely past, went his way to visit other patients. Byevening, Brian was resting so easily that the girl had stolen away for afew minutes, leaving the neighbor to call her if he should waken. 

Betty Jo had been on the porch but a short time when a step sounded onthe gravel walk that led from the porch steps around the corner of thehouse. A moment more, and Judy appeared. 

The mountain girl stopped when she saw Betty Jo, and the latter went tothe top of the steps. 

"Good-evening, Judy!" said Betty Jo, quietly. "Won't you come in?"

Slowly, with her black beady eyes fixed on Betty Jo's face, Judy went upthe steps. 

As the mountain girl reached the level of the porch-floor, Betty Jo drewa little back toward the door. 

Judy stopped instantly, and stood still. Then, in a low tone, she said:"You-all ain't got no call ter be afeared, Miss Betty Jo. You hain'tnever goin' ter have no call ter be scared of me again, never. "

"I am so glad for you to say that, Judy, " returned Betty Jo, smiling. "Idon't want to be afraid of you, and I am not really; but--"

"Ain't you-all plumb a-hatin' me for what I done?" asked Judy, wonderingly. 

"No, no; Judy, dear, I don't hate you at all, and you must know thatAuntie Sue loves you. "

"Yes, " Judy nodded her head, thoughtfully. "Auntie Sue just naturallyloves everybody. Hit wouldn't be no more'n nature, though, for you-allter hate me. I sure have been poison-mean. "

"But that is all past now, Judy, " said Betty Jo, heartily. "Come and sitdown?" She started toward the chairs. 

But the mountain girl did not move, except to shake her head in refusalof the hospitable invitation. 

"I ain't a-goin' ter put my foot inside this house, nor set withyou-all, nor nothin' 'til I've said what I done come ter say. "

Betty Jo turned back to her again: "What is it, Judy?"

"Auntie Sue done told me not ter let you-all er Mr. Burns see me 'tilshe come back. But I can't help hit, an' if I don't talk 'bout thatnone, I reckon she ain't a-goin' ter mind so much. You-all don't knowthat I seed Auntie Sue that night 'fore she went away, an' that hit wasme took her ter the station with 'Old Prince, ' an' brung him back, didyou?"

"No, " said Betty Jo, "I did not know; and if Auntie Sue told you not totell us about it, I would rather you did not, Judy. "

"I ain't aimin' ter, " Judy returned; "but Auntie Sue don't know nothin''bout what's happened since she went away, an' hit's that what'sa-makin' me come ter you-all. "

Betty Jo, seeing that the poor girl was laboring under some intenseemotional stress, said, gently: "What is it that you wish to tell me, Judy? I am sure Auntie Sue will not mind, if you feel so about it. "

The mountain girl's eyes filled and the tears streamed down her sallowcheeks, while her twisted shoulders shook with the grief she could notsuppress, as she faltered: "My God-A'mighty! Miss Betty Jo, I--I--didn'taim ter do hit! I sure didn't! 'Fore God, I'd er let 'em kill me first, if I'd only had time ter think. But hit--hit--was me what told thatthere woman how Mr. Burns was Brian Kent. Hit's--hit's--me what's terblame for gittin' her killed in the river an' him so nigh drowned. OGod! O God! If he'll only git well!

"An' I ain't a-feelin' toward you-all like I did, Miss Betty Jo. Ican't no more. I done left them clubhouse folks, after I knowed what hashappened, an' all day I been hangin' 'round here in the bresh. An' LucyWarden she done told me, this afternoon, 'bout how you-all was takin'care of Mr. Burns, an' how you just naturally wouldn't let him die. An'--an'--I kin see, now, what hit is that makes Auntie Sue and him an'you-all so different from that there clubhouse gang an' pap an' me. An'I ain't a-wantin' ter be like I been, no more, ever. I'd a heap ratherjump inter the river an' drown myself. 'Fore God, I would! An' I wantter come back an' help you-all take care of him; an' live with AuntieSue; an'--an'--be a little might like youuns, if I kin. Will you let me, Miss Betty Jo? Will you? I most know Auntie Sue would, if she was here. "

Before the mountain girl had finished speaking, Betty Jo's arm wasaround the poor twisted shoulders, and Betty Jo's eyes were answeringJudy's pleading. 

And so, when Auntie Sue came home, it was Judy who met her at thestation, with "Old Prince" and the buggy; and as they drove down thewinding road to the little log house by the river, the mountain girltold the old gentlewoman all that had happened in her absence. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

THE RIVER. 

Brian Kent recovered quickly from the effects of his experience in theElbow Rock rapids, and was soon able again to take up his work on thelittle farm. Every day he labored in the garden, or in the clearing, orat some task which did not rightly fall to those who rented the majorpart of Auntie Sue's tillable acreage. 

Auntie Sue had told him about her visit to the President of the EmpireConsolidated Savings Bank, and of the arrangement made by the banker--asshe understood it--for Brian's protection. But while the dear old ladyexplained that Homer T. Ward was one of her pupils, she did not revealthe relation between Brian's former chief and Betty Jo. Neither AuntieSue nor Betty Jo, for several very good reasons, was ready for Brian toknow the whole truth about his stenographer. It was quite enough, theyreasoned, for him to love his stenographer, and for his stenographerto love him, without raising any more obstacles in the pathway of theirhappiness. 

As the busy weeks passed, several letters came from the publishers ofBrian's book, --letters which made the three in the little log houseby the river very happy. Already, in the first reception of this newwriter's work, those who had undertaken to present it to the public sawmany promises of the fulfillment of their prophecies as to its success. When the third letter came, a statement of the sales to date wasenclosed, and, that afternoon, Betty Jo went to Brian where he was atwork in the clearing. 

When they were comfortably, not to say cozily, seated on a log in theshade at the edge of the forest, she announced that she had come for avery serious talk. 

"Yes?" he returned; but he really looked altogether too happy to beexceedingly serious. 

"Yes, " she continued, "I have. As your accredited business agent and--"she favored him with a Betty Jo smile--"shall I say manager?"

"Why not managing owner?" he retorted. 

"I am glad you confirm my promotion so readily, " she returned, with acharming touch of color in her cheeks, "because that, you see, helps meto present what I have to say for the good of the firm. "

"I am listening, Betty Jo. "

"Very well; tell me, first, Brian, just exactly how much do you owe thatbank, reward-money and all, and Auntie Sue, interest and everything?"

Brian went to his coat, which lay on a near-by stump, and returned witha small pocket account-book. 

"I have it all here, " he said, as he seated himself close beside heragain. And, opening the book, he showed her how he had kept a carefulrecord of the various sums he had taken from the bank, with the dates. 

"Oh, Brian, Brian!" she said with a little cry of delight, "I am soglad, --so glad you have this! It is exactly what I want for my weddingpresent. It was so thoughtful of you to fix it for me. "

Thus by a characteristic, Betty Jo turn she made the little book ofpainful memories a book of joyous promise. 

When they again returned to the consideration of business matters, Brian gave her the figures which answered her questions as to his totalindebtedness. 

Again Betty Jo exclaimed with delight: "Brian, do you see? Take yourpencil and figure quick your royalties on the number of books sold asgiven in the publishers' statement. "

Brian laughed. "I have figured it. "

"And your book has already earned more than enough to pay everything, "said Betty Jo. "Isn't that simply grand, Brian?"

"It is pretty 'grand, ' all right, " he agreed. "The only trouble is, Imust wait so long before the money is due me from the publishers. "

"That is exactly what I came to talk about, " she returned quickly. "Itried to have it different when I made the arrangements with them, butthe terms of payment in the contract are the very best I could get; andso I have planned a little plan whereby you--that is, we--won't need towait for your freedom until the date of settlement with the publishers. "

"You have a plan which will do that?" Brian questioned, doubtfully. 

She nodded vigorously, with another Betty Jo smile. "This is the plan, and you are not to interrupt until I have finished everything: I happento have some money of my very, very own, which is doing nothing butearning interest--"

At the look on Brian's face, she stopped suddenly; but, when he startedto speak, she put her hand quickly over his mouth, saying: "You werenot to say a single word until I have finished. Play fair, Brian, dear;please!"

When he signified that he would not speak, she continued in her mostmatter-of-fact and businesslike tone: "There is every reason in theworld, Brian, why you should pay off your debt to the bank and to AuntieSue at the earliest possible moment. You can think of several reasonsyourself. There is me, for instance. 

"Very well. You have the money to your credit with the publishers; butyou can't use it yet. I have money that you can just as well use. Youwill make an assignment of your royalties to me, all in proper form, tocover the amount you need. You will pay me the same interest my money isnow earning where it is. 

"I will arrange for the money to be sent to you in the form of acashier's cheque, payable to the banker, Homer T. Ward, so the nameBrian Kent does not appear before we are ready, you see. You will makebelieve to Auntie Sue that the money is from the publishers. You willsend the cheque to Mr. Bank President personally, with a statementof your indebtedness to him properly itemized, interest figured oneverything. You will instruct him to open an account for you with thebalance. And then--then, Brian, you will give dear Auntie Sue a chequefor what you owe her, with interest of course. And we will all be sohappy! And--and--don't you think I am a very good managing owner? Youdo, don't you?"

When he hesitated, she added: "And the final and biggest reason of allis, that I want you to do as I have planned more than I ever wantedanything in the world, except you, and I want this so because I wantyou. You can't really refuse, now, can you?"

How, indeed, could he refuse?

So they worked it out together as Betty Jo had planned; and when thetime came for the last and best part of the plan, and Brian confessed toAuntie Sue how he had robbed her, and had known for so long that she wasaware of his crime against her, and finished his confession by givingher the cheque, it is safe to say that there was nowhere in all theworld more happiness than in the little log house by the river. 

"God-A'mighty sure helped me to do one good turn, anyway, when I jumpedinter the river after that there book when Mr. Burns done throw'd hitaway, " commented the delighted Judy. 

And while they laughed together, Betty Jo hugged the deformed mountaingirl, and answered: "God Almighty was sure good to us all that day, Judy, dear!"

It was only a day later when Auntie Sue received a letter from Homer T. Ward which sent the dear old lady in great excitement to Betty Jo. Thebanker was coming for his long-deferred vacation to the log house by theriver. 

There was in his letter a kindly word for his former clerk, Brian Kent, should Auntie Sue chance to see him; much love for his old teacher andfor the dearest girl in the world, his Betty Jo. 

But that part of Homer T. Ward's letter which most excited AuntieSue and caused Betty Jo to laugh until she cried was this: The greatfinancier, who, even in his busy life of large responsibilities, foundtime for some good reading, had discovered a great book, by a new andheretofore unknown writer. The book was great because every page of it, Homer T. Ward declared, reminded him of Auntie Sue. If the writer hadknown her for years, he could not have drawn a truer picture of hercharacter, nor presented her philosophy of life more clearly. It was aremarkable piece of work. It was most emphatically the sort of writingthat the world needed. This new author was a genius of the rarest andbest sort. Mr. Ward predicted boldly that this new star in the literaryfirmament was destined to rank among those of the first magnitude. Already, among the banker's closest book friends, the new book was beingdiscussed, and praised. He would bring a copy for Auntie Sue and BettyJo to read. It was not only the book of the year;--it was, in Homer T. Ward's opinion, one of the really big books of the Century. 

"Well, " commented Betty Jo, when they had read and reread that part ofthe letter, "dear old Uncle Homer may be a very conservative banker, but he certainly is more than liberal when he touches on the question ofthis new author. Won't we have fun, Auntie Sue! Oh, won't we!"

Then they planned the whole thing, and proceeded to carry out theirplan. 

Brian was told only that Mr. Ward was coming to visit Auntie Sue, andthat he must be busy somewhere away from the house when the bankerarrived, and not come until he was sent for, because Auntie Sue mustmake a full confession to her old pupil of the part she had playedin the Re-Creation of Brian Kent before Homer T. Ward should meet hisformer clerk. 

Brian, never dreaming that there were other confessions to be made, smilingly agreed to do exactly as he was told. 

When the momentous day arrived, Betty Jo met her uncle in Thompsonville, and all the way home she talked so continuously of her school, and askedso many questions about his conduct and life and their many Chicagofriends, that the helpless bank president had no chance whatever ofasking her a single embarrassing question. But, when dinner was over(Brian had taken his lunch with him to the clearing), Homer T. Wardwanted to know things. 

"Was Brian Kent still working in the neighborhood?"

Auntie Sue informed him that Brian was still working in theneighborhood. 

"Betty Jo had seen the bank clerk?" Betty Jo's uncle supposed. "What didshe think of the fellow?"

Betty Jo thought Brian Kent was a rather nice fellow. 

"And how had Betty Jo been amusing herself while her old uncle wasslaving in the city?"

Betty Jo had been doing a number of things: Helping Auntie Sue with herhousework; learning to cook; keeping up her stenographic work; reading. 

"Reading?" That reminded him, and forthwith Mr. Ward went to his room, and returned with the book. 

And then those two blessed women listened and admired while heintroduced them to the new genius, and read certain favorite passagesfrom the great book, and grew enthusiastic on the new author, saying allthat he had written in his letter and many things more, until Betty Jocould restrain herself no longer, but ran to him, and took the book fromhis hands, and, with her arms around his neck, told him that he was thedearest uncle in the world, because she was going to marry the man whowrote the book he so admired. 

There were long explanations after that: How the book so highly valuedby Banker Ward had actually been written in that very log house by theriver; how Auntie Sue had sent for Betty Jo to assist the author withher typewriting; how the author, not knowing who Betty Jo was, hadfallen in love with his stenographer, and, finally, how Betty Jo'sauthor-lover was even then waiting to meet her guardian, still notknowing that her guardian was the banker Homer T. Ward. 

"You see, uncle, dear, " explained Betty Jo, "Auntie Sue and I wereobliged to conspire this little conspiracy against my man, because, youknow, authors are funny folk, and you never can tell exactly what theyare going to do. After giving your heart to a genius as wonderful as youyourself know this one to be, it would be terrible to have him refuseyou just because you were the only living relative of a rich oldbanker;--it would, wouldn't it, uncle, dear?"

And, really, Homer T. Ward could find reason in Betty Jo's argument, which ended with that fatal trick question. 

Taking his agreement for granted, Betty Jo continued: "And, you see, Auntie Sue and I were simply forced to conspire a little against you, uncle, dear, because you know perfectly well that, much as I needed theadvantage of associating with such an author-man in the actual writingof his book, you would never, never have permitted me to fall in lovewith him before you had discovered for yourself what a great man hereally is, and I simply had to fall in love with him because God mademe to take care of a genius of some sort. And if you don't believe that, you can ask Judy. Judy has found out a lot about God lately. 

"You won't think I am talking nonsense, or am belittling the occasionwill you, uncle, dear?" she added anxiously. "I am not, --truly, I amnot, --I am very serious. But I can't help being a little excited, can I?Because it is terrible to love a banker-uncle, as I love you, and atthe same time to love a genius-man, as I love my man, and--and--not knowwhat you two dearest men in the world are going to do to each other. "

And, at this, the girl's arms were about his neck again, and the girl'shead went down on his shoulder; and he felt her cheek hot with blushesagainst his and a very suspicious drop of moisture slipped down insidehis collar. 

When he had held Betty Jo very close for a while, and had whisperedcomforting things in her ear, and had smiled over her shoulder at hisold teacher, the banker sent the girl to find her lover while he shouldhave a serious talk with Auntie Sue. 

The long shadows of the late afternoon were on the mountain-side whenBrian Kent and Betty Jo came down the hill to the little log house bythe river. 

The girl had said to him simply, "You are to come, now, Brian;--AuntieSue and Mr. Ward sent me to tell you. "

She was very serious, and as they walked together clung closely to hisarm. And the man, too, seeming to feel the uselessness of words for suchan occasion, was silent. When he helped her over the rail-fence at thelower edge of the clearing, he held her in his arms for a little; thenthey went on. 

They saw the beautiful, tree-clad hills lying softly outlined in theshadows like folds of green and timeworn velvet, extending ridgeon ridge into the blue. They saw the river, their river, making itsgleaming way with many a curve and bend to the mighty sea, that washidden somewhere far beyond the distant sky-line of their vision; andbetween them and the river, at the foot of the hill, they saw the littlelog house with Auntie Sue and Homer T. Ward waiting in the doorway. 

When the banker saw the man at Betty Jo's side, his mind was far fromthe clerk whom he had known more than a year before in the city. Histhoughts were on the author, the scholar, the genius, whose book hadso compelled his respect and admiration. This tall fellow, with theathletic shoulders and deeply tanned face, who was dressed in the rudegarb of the backwoodsman, with his coat over his arm, his ax on hisshoulder, and his dinner-pail in his hand, --who was he? And why wasBetty Jo so familiar with this stranger, --Betty Jo, who was usuallyso reserved, with her air of competent self-possession? Homer T. Wardturned to look inquiringly at Auntie Sue. 

His old teacher smiled back at him without speaking. 

Then, Betty Jo and Brian Kent were standing before him. 

"Here he is, Uncle Homer, " said the girl. 

Brian, hearing her speak those two revealing words, and seeing her go tothe bank president, who put his arm around her with the loving intimacyof a father, stood speechless with amazement, looking from Homer T. Wardand Betty Jo to Auntie Sue and back to the banker and the girl. 

Mr. Ward, still not remembering the bank clerk in this re-created BrianKent, was holding out his hand with a genial smile. 

As the bewildered Brian mechanically took the hand so cordiallyextended, the older man said: "It is an honor, sir, to meet a man whocan do the work you have done in writing that book. It is impossible toestimate the value of such a service as you have rendered the race. Youhave a rare and wonderful gift, Mr. Burns, and I predict for you a lifeof remarkable usefulness. "

Brian, still confused, but realizing that Mr. Ward had not recognizedhim, looked appealingly at Betty Jo and then to Auntie Sue. 

Auntie Sue spoke: "Mr. Ward is the uncle and guardian of Betty Jo, Brian. "

"'Brian'!" ejaculated the banker. 

Auntie Sue continued: "Homer, dear, Betty Jo has presented HER author, Mr. Burns;--permit me to introduce MY Brian Kent!"

And Judy remarked that evening, when, after supper, they were all on theporch watching the sunset: "Hit sure is dad burned funny how all tangledan' snarled up everythin' kin git 'fore a body kin think most, an', then, if a body'll just keep a-goin' right along, all ter onct hit's allstraightened out as purty as anythin'. "

They laughed happily at the mountain girl's words, and the dear oldteacher's sweet voice answered: "Yes, Judy; it is all just like theriver, don't you see?"

"Meanin' as how the water gits all tangled an' mixed up when hit'sa-boilin' an' a-roarin' like mad down there at Elbow Rock, an' then allter onct gits all smooth an' calm like again, " returned Judy. 

"Meaning just that, Judy, " returned Auntie Sue. "No matter how tangledand confused life seems to be, it will all come straight at the last, if, like the river, we only keep going on. "

And when the dreamy Indian-summer days were come and the blue haze ofautumn lay softly over the brown and gold of the beautiful Ozark hills, the mountain folk of the Elbow Rock neighborhood gathered one day at thelittle log house by the river. 

It was a simple ceremony that made the man and the woman, who were sodear to Auntie Sue, husband and wife. But the backwoods minister was notwanting in dignity, though his dress was rude and his words plain; andthe service lacked nothing of beauty and meaning, though the guestswere but humble mountaineers; for love was there, and sincerity, andstrength, and rugged kindliness. 

And when the simple wedding feast was over, they all went down tothe river-bank, at the lower corner of the garden, where, at the eddylanding, a staunch John-boat waited, equipped and ready. 

When the last good-byes were spoken, and Brian and Betty Jo put out fromthe little harbor into the stream, Auntie Sue, with Judy and Homer T. Ward, went back to the porch of the little log house, there to watch thebeginning of the voyage. 

With Brian at the oars, the boat crossed the stream to the saferwaters close to the other shore, and then, with Betty Jo waving herhandkerchief, and the neighbor men and boys running shouting along thebank, swept down the river, past the roaring turmoil of the Elbow Rockrapids into the quiet reaches below, and away on its winding coursebetween the tree-clad hills. 

"I am so glad, " said Auntie Sue, her dear old face glowing with love, and her sweet voice tremulous with feeling, "I am so glad they chose theriver for their wedding journey. "

Note. --This biographical sketch of Harold Bell Wright will give thereader a knowledge and understanding of the life-work, aims and purposesof the author as expressed through his books. It is reprinted on thesepages in response to popular demand. --The Publishers. 

HAROLD BELL WRIGHT

A Biography

By ELSBERY W. REYNOLDS

The biography of a man is of importance and interest to other men justto the degree that his life and work touches and influences the life ofhis time and the lives of individuals. 

Only in a feeble way, at best, can the life story of any man be told onthe printed page. The story is better as it is written on the hearts ofmen and women and the man himself does the writing. 

He lives longest who lives best. He who carves deepest against corrodingtime is he who touches with surest hand the greatest number of humanhearts. 

He may or may not be a prodigy of physical strength. He may or may notbe a tower of mental energy. But so long as this old world stands theman with an overpowering desire for all that is best for the race tobe in the race, whose life is in tune with the divine and with the goodthat is within us all, whether he be orator, writer, artist or artisan, is a giant among men. 

That which we read makes a deeper and more lasting impression on ourlives than that which we see or hear. An author with millions of readersmust be a great central power of thought and influence, at least, in hisown day and generation. We can understand the truth of this through astudy of the aims and life purposes of Harold Bell Wright as expressedthrough his books and the circumstances under which they were written. The wonderful popularity of this author is well estimated by themillions of copies of his books that have been sold. This is also thegreatest testimonial that can be given to the merit of his work. Thegreat heart of the reading public is an unprejudiced critic. "Is notthe greatest voice the one to which the greatest number of hearts listenwith pleasure?"

When a man has attained to great eminence under adverse circumstances wesometimes wonder to what heights he might have climbed under conditionsmore favorable. Who can tell? It is just as easy to say what the youngman of twenty will be when a matured man of forty. The boy of povertymakes a man of power while the boy nursed in the lap of luxury makesa man of uneventful life, and, again, a life started with a handicapremains so through its possible three score years and ten and the lifebegun with advantages multiplies its talents ten and a hundred fold. 

So, after all, is not the heart of man the real man and is it notthe guiding star of his ambition, his will, his determination, hisconscience?

Harold Bell Wright, the second of four sons, was born May 4, 1872, inRome, Oneida County, New York. From an earlier biographer we quote thefollowing:

"Some essential facts must be dug from out the past where they lieembedded in the detrital chronicles of the race. Say, then, that awayback in 1640 a ship load of Anglo-Saxon freedom landed in New England. After a brief period some of the more venturesome spirits emigrated tothe far west and settled amid the undulations of the Mohawk valleyin central New York. Protestant France also sent westward someGallic chivalry hungering for freedom. The fringe of this garment ofcivilization spread out and reached also into the same valley. Englishdetermination and Huguenot aspiration touched elbows in the war forpolitical and religious freedom, and touched hearts and hands inthe struggle for economic freedom. Their generations were a genuinearistocracy. Mutual struggles after mutual aims cemented casualacquaintance into enduring friendship. William Wright met, lovedand married Alma T. Watson. To them four sons were born. A carpentercontractor, a man who builds, contrives and constructs, is joined toa woman into whose soul of wholesome refinement come images of daintybeauty, where they glow and grow radiant. With lavish unrestraint thelife of this French woman pours itself into her sons. The third childdied in infancy. The eldest survived his mother by some thirteen years. The youngest is a constructive mechanical engineer. The second son isHarold Bell Wright. 

"During ten years this mother and this son live in rare intimacy. Theboy's first enduring impression of this life is the vision of the motherbending affectionately over him while criticising the water color sketchhis unpracticed fingers had just made. Crude blendings and faultylines were pointed out, then touched into harmony and more accurateperspective by her quick skill. Together their eyes watched shades danceon sunny slopes, cloud shadows race among the hills or lie lazily in thevalley below. 

"Exuberant Nature and ebullient boy loved each other from the first. Alone, enravished, he often wandered far in sheer joy of living. Hebrings, one day, from his rambles a bunch of immortelles which mothergraciously receives. Twenty years later the boy, man-grown, bowsreverently over a box of withered flowers--the same bouquet the mothertook that day and laid away as a precious memento of his boyish love. Such was the first decade. 

"A ten-year-old boy, motherless, steals from harsh labor and yet harshersurroundings, runs to the home of sacred memories, clambers to theattic, and spends the night in anguished solitude. This was his firstGethsemane. For ten years buffeted and beaten, battling with adversity, sometimes losing but never lost, snatching learning here and there, hating sham, loving passionately, misunderstood, misapprehended, toostubbornly proud to ask apologies or make useless explanations, fightingpoverty in the depths of privation, wrestling existence from toil heloathed, befriending many and also befriended much, but always face toface with the grim tragedy which has held part of the stage since Eden. 

"Such was the second decade. The first was spent on hill sides whereshadows only made the light more buoyant as they fled away. The secondwas passed in the valley where the shadow hung lazily till the cloudgrew very black and drenched the soil. 

"Lured to college, he undertook to acquire academic culture. As iswell known, college life with its professorial anecdotes and jokes, itsstudent pranks and grind, is routine drudgery and cob-webbery prose. Bookish professors and conventional students rarely have just such ananimate problem of French artistry and Bohemian experience to solve. They did nobly, to be sure, but here was a mind which threw over themall the glamour of romance. "

Mr. Wright entered the Preparatory Department of Hiram College at theage of twenty, having previously accepted the faith and identifiedhimself with the Christian Church in the little quarry town of Grafton, Ohio. He continued active in the different departments of work in hischurch all during his school years with the ultimate result of hisentering the ministry. 

Having no financial means, while in school he made his way by doing oddjobs about town, house painting and decorating, sketching, etc. Aftertwo years of school life, while laboring to gain funds in order that hemight continue his schooling, he contracted from overwork and out-doorexposure a severe case of pneumonia that left his eyesight badlyimpaired and his constitution in such condition that, to the presentday, he has never fully recovered. 

Air castles were tumbled and hopes blasted when his physician advisedhim that it would be fatal to re-enter school for, at least, anotheryear. Whereupon, seeking health and a means of existence, starting froma point on the Mahoning river, he canoed with sketch and note book, butalone, down stream a distance of more than five hundred miles. Fromthis point, by train, he embarked for the Ozark mountains in southwestMissouri. Here, for some months, while gradually regaining his strength, he secured employment at farm work, sketching and painting at intervals. 

Once more, he found himself on bed-rock, taking his last cent to payexpress charges back to Ohio on some finished pictures, but, this time, fortune smiled promptly with a good check by return mail. 

It was while in the Ozarks that Harold Bell Wright preached his firstsermon. Being a regular attendant at the services, held in the littlemountain log school house, he was asked to talk to the people, oneSunday, when the regular preacher had failed to appear. 

From this Sunday morning talk, that could hardly be called a sermon, andothers that followed, he came to feel that he could do more good in theministry than he could in any other field of labor, and soon thereafteraccepted a regular pastorate at Pierce City, Missouri, at a yearlysalary of four hundred dollars. True to a resolve, that his work shouldbe that through which he could help the most people, he had now chosenthe ministry. A further resolve that he would give up this ministry, chosen with such earnest conviction, should another field of labor offermore extensive measures for reaching mankind, took him, in later years, into the field of literature. He left the ministry with many regrets butwith the same earnest conviction with which he had earlier chosen it. 

Following the publication of "The Shepherd of the Hills" his publishersassured him that he could secure greater results from his pen ratherthan his pulpit and prevailed upon him to henceforth make literature hislife work. This was in every way consistent with his teaching that everyman's ministry is that work through which he can accomplish the greatestgood. 

In the battle of life there is always the higher ground that the manycovet but few attain. In reaching this height Mr. Wright has given toa multitude, his time, strength and substance, that they, too, mightfurther advance. He is companionable, loving and loyal to his friends. He hates sham and hypocrisy and any attempt to glorify one's self bymeans other than the fruits of one's own labor. 

This boy, who, from the death of his mother, was driven into a hand tohand struggle with life for a bare existence, was necessarily forcedinto contact with much that was vicious and corrupt. But he in no waybecame a part of it. That same inherent love for mental cleanliness andspiritual truths that has so distinguished the works of the man kept theboy unstained in his unfortunate environment. 

Mr. Wright resigned his charge at Pierce City for the larger work atPittsburg, Kansas. In the second year of his pastorate--1899--hemarried Frances E. Long in Buffalo, New York. This union of love hadits beginning back in the school days at Hiram. Unto them have been bornthree sons, Gilbert Munger, 1901, Paul Williams, 1902, and Norman Hall, 1910. 

In Pittsburg, Mr. Wright received enthusiastic support from his churchpeople. Finances were soon in a satisfactory condition, and churchattendance reached the capacity of the building, but still the youngpastor was not satisfied. Pittsburg was a mining town, a young men'stown. A little city with saloons and brothels doing business on everyhand. His soul was on fire for his church to do a larger work and, withthe hope of arousing his people, he conceived the idea of writing "ThatPrinter of Udell's, " planning to read the story, by installments, onspecial evenings of successive weeks, to his congregation. 

Pittsburg was made the principal scene and the church of the story wasthe kind of church he wanted his Pittsburg charge to be. The teachingsset forth, through the preacher of the story, in the latter half ofthe book, are the identical things the author was preaching. The firstchapters of the story are very largely colored by Mr. Wright's earlylife, but they are by no means autobiographical. 

"That Printer of Udell's" was written without thought or intention ofoffering it for publication. During the author's ministry he made someof the warmest and most abiding friendships of his life, and it wasthrough certain of these friends that he was persuaded from reading thestory, as intended, but to offer it for publication, giving it, thus, awider usefulness. 

Having a leave of absence of several weeks from his church during thewinter of 1901-2 he accepted an invitation from the pastor of a Chicagochurch to hold a special meeting, and it was during this meetingthat the author and his publisher met for the first time. Mr. Wrightdelivered a sermon entitled "Sculptors of Life" that was so impressivethat I sought him out with entreaties to repeat his sermon as a lectureto a certain company of young people. 

The acquaintance thus begun very quickly became one of friendship, without any knowledge or thought that it would in time lead to aco-operative life work, and when the author later offered his book forpublication it was without request or thought of financial remuneration. Mr. Wright, however, was given a contract paying him the highest royaltythat was being paid for any author's first book. 

"That Printer of Udell's" was written almost entirely in the late hoursof the night and the very early hours of the morning. Great demands werebeing made on the author's time in the way of requests for officiatingand speaking at public and civic functions in addition to the now heavyrequirements of his church. His aggressive activities, backed by hissplendid spirit, fearlessness and courage in combating the evils of hislittle city made for him a host of admirers, alike, among his enemiesand friends. When he left to accept a pastorate in Kansas City, Missouri, his resignation was not accepted. 

After one year in Kansas City he found that he was not physically ableto carry out the great city work as he had dreamed it and planned it, on a scale that would satisfy his longings for service, and it made himseriously consider whether there was not some other way that would moreequally measure with his strength. He went again to the Ozarks, thistime for rest and meditation, and while there began writing "TheShepherd of the Hills. " This Story has a peculiar significance forthe author. He feels toward it as he can not feel for any of his otherbooks. "The Shepherd of the Hills" was written as a test. The strengthof the message he was able to put into the story and the response itshould find in the hearts of men and women was to decide for him hisministry henceforth, whether he would teach the precepts of the Man ofGalilee by voice or pen. It was a testing time that bore fruit not onlyin this simple, sweet story, that to quote an eminent divine, "is one ofthe greatest sermons of our day, " but resulted as well in the splendidvolumes that have followed. 

"The Shepherd of the Hills" was finished during the year of hispastorate at Lebanon, Missouri, and but for the sympathy, encouragementand helpful understanding of his church officers and membership, it isdoubtful if the story could ever have been completed. When Mr. Wrightdelivered the manuscript to his publishers the first of the year, 1907, for publication the next fall, he had accepted the pastorate of theChristian Church in Redlands, California, hoping this land of sunshinewould give him a larger measure of health. 

Some months later, resigning his Redlands pastorate, he went to theImperial Valley and there, the following year, wrote "The Calling of DanMatthews. " The church and its problems were weighing on the author andaffecting his life no less than when he was in the ministry and it wasonly natural that he should give to the world "a picture that is trueto the four corners of the earth. " Every incident in the story has itscounterpart in real life and, with but few exceptions, came under theauthor's personal observation. He did not get the real pleasure outof writing "The Calling of Dan Matthews" that he did the story whichpreceded it. But he could not, try as he would, escape it. 

The publication of "The Calling of Dan Matthews" in the fall of 1909 wasjust two years after the publication of "The Shepherd of the Hills. "

"The Winning of Barbara Worth" required more time and effort in thecollecting of material than any book the author had written, butprobably gave him, at least, as much pleasure. He is very careful withregard to descriptive detail, and even while writing "The Calling of DanMatthews" he was making a study of the desert and this great reclamationproject. Before sending his manuscript for publication he had it checkedover by the best engineers on the Pacific coast for inaccuracies in anyof his descriptions that involved engineering or reclamation problems. 

"The Winning of Barbara Worth" bears the distinction, without doubt, of being the only book ever published that called its publisher andillustrator from a distance of two and three thousand miles, into theheart of a great desert, for a consultation with its author. This storyof the Imperial Valley and its reclamation was written in the same studyas was "The Calling of Dan Matthews. " A study of rude construction, about eighteen by thirty-five feet, with thatched roof and outsidecovering of native arrow-weed and built entirely by the author himself. 

When Mr. Wright finished "The Winning of Barbara Worth"--so named inhonor of Ruth Barbara Reynolds--he was a sick man. He often worked thenight through, overtaxing his nerve and strength. For several months hevirtually dwelt within the four walls of his study and for a time it wasfeared he would not live to finish the book. He wrote the last chapterswhile confined to his bed, after which he was taken by easy stages, through the kindness of friends, to that part of Northern Arizona thatis so delightful to all lovers of the out-of-doors. In this bracingmile-high atmosphere he soon grew well and strong, almost to ruggedness, and on the day his book was published he was riding in a wild-horsechase over a country wild and rough where the writer of this sketchwould only care to go, carefully picking his way, on foot. So it wasweeks after publication before the author saw the first bound copyof his book. During these summer and fall months, while regaining hisstrength, he was busy with sketch and note book collecting material, forthis part of Arizona is the scene of his novel "When a Man's a Man. "

"Their Yesterdays" was written in Tucson, Arizona, and was published inthe fall of 1912, just one year after the publication of "The Winningof Barbara Worth. " In order to write this story, with the least possiblestrain on his nerves and vitality, Mr. Wright secluded himself in alittle cottage purchased especially for this work. His material wascollected from the observations of his thoughtful years and his intimateknowledge of human hearts. This book is, perhaps, more representativeof the real Harold Bell Wright than anything he has done. It is the truepresentation of his views on life, love and religion. I once asked Mr. Wright, in behalf of the faculty, to deliver an address to a graduatingclass of some twenty-odd young men of the Morgan Park Academy (Chicago). He was very busy and I suggested that without special effort he make thecommonplace remarks that one so often hears on like occasions. For thefirst time that I remember he somewhat impatiently resented a suggestionfrom me, saying "These young men are on the threshold of life and thevery best that is within me is due to them. I can give to them only sucha message as I would, were I to stand before judgment on the morrow. " Itwas with just this spirit that the author wrote "Their Yesterdays. "

Following "Their Yesterdays" the next book in order of publication was"The Eyes of the World, " published in the fall of 1914. It was writtenin the same arrow-weed study on Tecolote Rancho in the Imperial Valleywhere he wrote "The Calling of Dan Matthews" and "The Winning of BarbaraWorth. " Being fully in sympathy with the author's purpose in writingthis story, the campaign of advertising was of such educationalcharacter and so eventful in many ways, that it will long be rememberedby authors, publishers and reading public, and, we trust, make forcleaner books and pictures. 

As it was in the writing of "The Calling of Dan Matthews" so it was inthe writing of "The Eyes of the World, " the sense of duty stood highest. The modern trend in books and music and art and drama had so incensedthe author that "The Eyes of the World" was the result of his allimpelling desire for cleaner living and thinking. As is true of allwriters, there are sometimes those who fail to catch the message inMr. Wright's books. He is occasionally misunderstood, and that wasespecially true with "The Eyes of the World. " To the great majorityof people, clean living and thinking, the message was not to bemisinterpreted and to them the book is blessed. To that small minorityit was convicting and, from a few such, it brought forth condemnationwhich, in a fellow author here and there, was pronounced and emphasizedby envy and jealousy. To critics of this class Mr. Wright makes no replyand is not in the least disturbed. 

"The Uncrowned King, " a small volume--an allegory--published in 1910, to me, is one of the most delightful of Mr. Wright's books. Possibly, it has an added charm because of certain peculiar conditions. It waswritten in Redlands, California, during the winter of 1909-10, althoughthe notion for the little volume occurred to the author while living inKansas City. It was one of those times when the longing and will to doa work greater than the physical would permit seemed almost overpoweringwhen, unconsciously coming to his aid, a young woman talking to acompany of Christian Endeavorers chanced to remark, "After all, thereal kings of earth are seldom crowned. " All through the evening servicethoughts that this inspired kept running through the author's mind andlate that same night he wrote the outline which was only completed someyears later and given to his publishers to enrich the world. 

His first four novels in order of publication have been dramatizedand enjoyed by thousands from before the footlights and it has been adelight to renew acquaintances with old friends in this way. It remainedfor "The Eyes of the World" to be the first of his books to be presentedin a feature production of motion pictures. 

The likes and dislikes of Harold Bell Wright are quite pronounced. He isunpretending, cares not for the lime-light and avoids interviews for thepublic press. Loud, boisterous conversation is but little less offensiveto him than vulgarity in speech or action. His friends are strong, clean-minded men who are doing things in the world and are as necessaryto his being as the air to his existence, and his generosity to them isno less marked than his caring and providing for his family, which isalmost a passion. He is extremely fond of most forms of out-door life. The desert with its vast expanse, fierce solitude and varied colors isno less attractive to him than the peaceful quiet of wooded dells, thebeauty of flowering meadows or the rugged mountains with their roaringtrout streams that furnish him hours of sport with rod and line. Heenjoys hunting, horse-back riding or long tramps afoot. But when thereis work to be done it is the one thing that bulks largest and all elsemust wait. 

After finishing "The Eyes of the World, " Mr. Wright embarked on thebuilding of a home in the Santa Monica mountains near Hollywood, California. So in the summer of 1915 the little family of fivebegan making their residence in the new canyon home, one of nature'sdelightful spots. 

Then again, the author went into camp in the Arizona desert whilewriting "When a Man's a Man. " For he finds it very helpful to live inthe atmosphere of his story while doing the actual writing and he alsoavoids frequent interruption. I think he got more real enjoyment outof this story than any he has previously done. It is a story of theout-of-doors in this great unfenced land where a man must be a man. Isuppose, too, he enjoyed writing this work so much, partly, because itcomes so easy for him to just tell a story without the intervention ofsome nerve racking problem. The only book he has heretofore written thatis purely a story is "The Shepherd of the Hills, " and I sometimes wonderto what proportion of his readers does this Ozark story hold firstplace. For all such, I am sure, "When a Man's a Man" will find areception of special heartiness because it is just a fine, big, wholesome novel of simple sweetness and virile strength. 

I have written this sketch of Harold Bell Wright that you may know himas intimately, if possible, as if you had met him in person. But shouldyou have the opportunity of making his acquaintance do not deny yourselfthe pleasure. If you are a lover of his books I am sure you are just thekind of person that the author himself delights to meet. 

"Relay Heights, " February 15, 1916.