H. B. Wright .............................................................................................................................................1

DEAR AUNTIE SUE:.............................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I. A REMARKABLE WOMAN. ..........................................................................................2

CHAPTER II. THE MAN IN THE DARK.............................................................................................5

CHAPTER III. A MISSING LETTER....................................................................................................8

CHAPTER IV. THE WILL OF THE RIVER.......................................................................................12

CHAPTER V. AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN........................................................13

CHAPTER VI. IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER.....................................................................18

CHAPTER VII. OFFICERS OF THE LAW.........................................................................................21

CHAPTER VIII. THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW...................................................25

CHAPTER IX. AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION. ................................................................................30

CHAPTER X. BRIAN KENT DECIDES.............................................................................................35

CHAPTER XI. RECREATION..........................................................................................................39

CHAPTER XII. AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE..........................................................................44

CHAPTER XIII. JUDY TO THE RESCUE. .........................................................................................46

CHAPTER XIV. BETTY JO CONSIDERS. .........................................................................................52

CHAPTER XV. A MATTER OF BUSINESS......................................................................................59

CHAPTER XVI. THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE. ................................................................63

CHAPTER XVII. AN AWKWARD SITUATION. ..............................................................................68

CHAPTER XVIII. BETTY JO FACES HERSELF..............................................................................71

CHAPTER XIX. JUDY'S CONFESSION............................................................................................73

CHAPTER XX. BRIAN AND BETTY JO KEEP HOUSE. .................................................................77

CHAPTER XXI. THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW. ........................................................................81

CHAPTER XXII. AT THE EMPIRE CONSOLIDATED SAVINGS BANK. .....................................87

CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS. ........................................................................92

CHAPTER XXIV. JUDY'S RETURN..................................................................................................98

CHAPTER XXV. THE RIVER. ..........................................................................................................100

I have wondered many times, while writing this simple story of life and love, if you would ever forgive me

for putting you in a book. I hope you will, because if you do not, I shall be heartbroken, and you wouldn't

I fancy I can hear you say: "But, Harold, how COULD you! You know I never did the things you have made

me do in your story. You know I never lived in a little log house by the river in the Ozark Mountains! What

Well, to tell the truth, dear, I don't care so very much what people think if only they will love you; and that

they are sure to do, because,well, just because You must remember, too, that you will be eightyseven

years old the eighteenth of next November, and it is therefore quite time that someone put you in a book.

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

Forgive my impertinence, as you have always forgiven me everything; and love me just the same, because I

It happened during my first roaming visit to the Ozarks, when I had wandered by chance, one day, into the

Elbow Rock neighborhood. Twenty years it was, at least, before the time of this story. She was standing in

the door of her little schoolhouse, the ruins of which you may still see, halfway up the long hill from the log

It was that season of the year when the gold and brown of our Ozark Hills is overlaid with a filmy veil of

delicate blue haze and the world is hushed with the solemn sweetness of the passing of the summer. And as

the old gentlewoman stood there in the open door of that rustic temple of learning, with the deepshadowed,

wooded hillside in the background, and, in front, the rude clearing with its crooked rail fence along which the

scarlet sumac flamed, I thought,as I still think, after all these years,that I had never before seen such a

Fifty years had gone into the making of that sterling character which was builded upon a foundation of many

generations of noble ancestors. Without home or children of her own, the life strength of her splendid

womanhood had been given to the teaching of boys and girls. An oldmaid schoolteacher? Yes,if you will.

But, as I saw her standing there that day,tall and slender, dressed in a simple gown that was fitting to her

work,there was a queenly dignity, a stately sweetness, in her bearing that made me feel, somehow, as if I

had come unexpectedly into the presence of royalty. Not the royalty of caste and court and station with their

glittering pretenses of superiority and their superficial claims to distinction,I do not mean that; I mean that

true royalty which needs 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 in the yard covered the sound of my

approach, and she was looking far, far away, over the river which lay below at the foot of the hill; over the

forestclad mountains in the glory of their brown and gold; over the vast sweep of the treecrowned Ozark

ridges that receded wave after wave into the blue haze until, in the vastness of the distant sky, they were lost.

And something made me know that, in the moment's respite from her task, the woman was looking even

Her profile, cleanchiselled, but daintily formed, was beautiful in its gentle strength. Her hair was soft and

silvery like the gray mist of the river 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 knew that the high, unwavering purpose, the

loving sympathy, and tender understanding that shone in the calm depth of those eyes could belong only to

one who habitually looks unafraid beyond all earthly scenes. Only those who have learned thus to look

beyond the material horizon of our little day have that beautiful inner light which shone in the eyes of Auntie

Auntie Sue had come to the Elbow Rock neighborhood the summer preceding that fall when I first met her.

She had grown too old, she said, with her delightful little laugh, to be of much use in the larger schools of the

more thickly populated sections of the country. But she was still far too young, she stoutly maintained, to be

Tom Warden, who lived just over the ridge from the schoolhouse, and who was blessed with the largest wife,

the largest family, and the most pretentious farm in the county, had kinsfolk somewhere in Illinois. Through

these relatives of the Ozark farmer Miss Susan Wakefield had learned of the needs of the Elbow Rock school,

and so, finally, had come into the hills. It was the influential Tom who secured for her the modest position. It

was the motherly Mrs. Tom who made her at home in the Warden household. It was the Warden boys and

girls who first called her "Auntie Sue." But it was Auntie Sue herself who won so large a place in the hearts

of the simple mountain folk of the district that she held her position year after year, until she finally gave up

Not one of her Ozark friends ever came to know in detail the history of this remarkable woman's life. It was

known in a general way that she was born in Connecticut; that she had a brother somewhere in some

SouthAmerican country; that two other brothers had been killed in the Civil War; that she had taught in the

lower and intermediate grades of public schools in various places all the years of her womanhood. Also, it

"And that," said Uncle Lige Potter, voicing the unanimous opinion, of the countryside, "is a doggone funny

To which Lem Jordan,who was then living with his fourth wife, and might 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 this here

country, when you come to look at the sort of wimmen most of 'em are a marryin' most of the time."

Another matter of universal and neverfailing interest to the mountain folk was the unprecedented number of

letters that Auntie Sue received and wrote. That some of these letters written by their backwoods teacher

were addressed to men and women of such prominence in the world that their names were known even to that

remote Ozark district was a source of no little pride to Auntie Sue's immediate neighbors, and served to mark

It was during the fourth year of her life amid the scenes of this story,as I recall time,that Auntie Sue

invested the small savings of her working years in the little log house by the river and the eighty acres of land

The house was a substantial building of three rooms, a leanto kitchen, and a porch overlooking the river.

The log barn, with "Prince," a gentle old horse, and "Bess," a mildmannered, brindle cow, completed the

modest establishment. About thirty acres of the land were cleared and under cultivation of a sort. The

remaining acreage was in timber. The price, under the kindly and expert supervision of Tom Warden, was

fifteen dollars an acre. But Auntie Sue always laughingly insisted that she really paid fifty cents an acre for

The tillable land, except for the garden, she "let out on shares," always under the friendly guardianship of

neighbor Tom; while Tom's boys cared for the little garden in season, and saw to it that the woodpile was

always ample and ready for the stove. And, in addition to these fixed and regular homely services, there were

many offerings of helpful hands whenever other needs arose; for, as time passed, there came to be in all the

Elbow Rock district scarce a man, young or old, who did not now and then honor himself by doing some little

job for Auntie Sue; while the women and girls, in the same neighborly spirit, brought from their own humble

households many tokens of their loving thoughtfulness. And never did one visit that little log house by the

river without the consciousness of something received from the silveryhaired old teachera something

intangible, perhaps, which they could not have expressed in words, but which, nevertheless, enriched the

lives of those simple mountain people with a very real joy and a very tangible happiness.

For six years, Auntie Sue continued teaching the Elbow Rock school;climbing the hill in the morning from

her log house by the river to the cabin schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountainside above; 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 porch that overlooked the river, the sunset in the evening. And every year the daily 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 year the sunsets were to her eyes more beautiful; the evening skies to her understanding glowed with

And so, at last, her teaching days were over; that is, she taught no more in the log schoolhouse in the clearing

on the mountain side. But in her little home beside the river she continued her work; not from textbooks,

indeed, but as all such souls must continue to teach, until the sun sets for the last time upon their mortal days.

Workworn, toilhardened mountaineer mothers, whose narrow world denied them so many of the finer

thoughts and things, came to counsel with this childless woman, and to learn from her a little of the art of

contentment and happiness. Strong men, of rude dress and speech, whose lives were as rough as the hills in

which they were reared, and whose thoughts were often as crude as their half savage and sometimes lawless

customs, came to sit at the feet of this gentle one, who received them all with such kindly interest and

instinctive understanding. And young men and girls came, drawn by the magic that was hers, to confide in

this woman who listened with such rare tact and loving sympathy to their troubles and their dreams, and who,

Nor were the mountain folk her only disciples. Always there were the letters she continued to write,

addressed to almost every corner of the land. And every year there would come, for a week or a month, at

different times during the summer, men and women from the great world of larger affairs who had need of

the strength and courage and patience and hope 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 by Auntie Sue went to men and women who, in

their childhood school days, had received from her their first lessons in writing; and that her visitors, many of

them distinguished in the world of railroads and cities, were of that large circle of busy souls who had never

Thus it came that the garden was made a little larger, and two rooms were added to the house, with other

modest improvements, to accommodate Auntie Sue's grownup boys and girls when they came to visit her.

But never was there a hired servant, so that her guests must do their own household tasks, because, Auntie

It should also be said here that among her many pupils who lived beyond the skyline of the far, blue hills,

not one knew more of the real secret of Auntie Sue's life and character than did the Ozark mountaineers of the

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

A man stood at a window, looking out into the night. There was no light in the room. The stars were hidden

The house was a wretchedly constructed, longneglected building of a type common to those old river towns

that in their many years of uselessness have lost all civic pride, and in their own resultant squalor and filth

have buried their selfrespect. A dingy, scarcely legible sign over the treacherous board walk, in front, by the

sickly light of a smokegrimed kerosene lantern, announced that the place was a hotel.

Dark as it was, the man at the window could see the river. The trees that lined the bank opposite the town

were mere ghostly shadows against the gloomy masses of the low hills that rose from the water's edge,

indistinct, mysterious, and unreal, into the threatening sky. The higher mountains that reared their crests

beyond the hills were invisible. The stream itself swept sullenly through the night,a resistless flood of

dismal power, as if, turbid with wrecked souls, with the lost hopes and ruined dreams of men, it was fit only

The manner of the man at the window was as if some woeful spirit of the melancholy scene were calling him.

With head bowed, and face turned a little to one side, he listened intently as one listens to voices that are

muffled and indistinct. He pressed his face close to the glass, and with straining eyes tried to see more clearly

the ghostly trees, the sombre hills, and the gloomy river. Three times he turned from the window to pace to

and fro in the darkened room, and every time his steps brought him again to the casement, as if in obedience

to some insistent voice that summoned him. The fourth time, he turned from the window more quickly, with

The crackling snap of a match broke the dead stillness. The sudden flare of light stabbed the darkness. As he

applied the tiny, wavering flame to the wick of a lamp that stood on the cheap, old fashioned bureau, the

man's hand shook until the chimney rattled against the wire standards of the burner. Turning quickly from the

lighted lamp, the man sprang again to the window to jerk down the tattered, old shade. Facing about, he stood

with his back to the wall, searching the room with wide, fearful eyes. His fists were clenched. His chest rose

and fell heavily with his labored breathing. His face worked with emotion. With trembling limbs and

But, save for the wretched man himself, there was in that shabby, dingypapered, dirtycarpeted, poorly

Suddenly, the man laughed;and it was the reckless, despairing laughter of a soul that feels itself slipping

With hurried step and outstretched hands, he crossed the room to snatch a bottle of whisky from its place

beside the lamp on the bureau. With trembling eagerness, he poured a water tumbler half full of the red

liquor. As one dying of thirst, he drank. Drawing a deep breath, and shaking his head with a wry smile, he

spoke in hoarse confidence to the image of himself in the dingy mirror: "They nearly had me, that time."

The whisky steadied him for the moment, and with bottle and glass still in hand, he regarded himself in the

Had he stood erect, with the vigor that should have been his by right of his years, the man would have

measured just short of six feet; but his shouldersnaturally well setsagged with the weariness of

excessive physical indulgence; while the sunken chest, the emaciated limbs, and the dejected posture of his

misused body made him in appearance, at least, a wretched weakling. His clothingof good material and

well tailoredwas disgustingly soiled and neglected;the shoes thickly coated with dried mud, and the

oncewhite shirt, slovenly unfastened at the throat, without collar or tie. The face which looked back from

the mirror to the man was, without question, the countenance of a gentleman; but the broad forehead under

the unkempt redbrown hair was furrowed with anxiety; the unshaven cheeks were lined and sunken; the

finely shaped, sensitive mouth drooped with nervous weakness; and the blue, wellplaced eyes were

The poor creature looked at the hideous image of his ruined self as if fascinated with the horror of that which

had been somehow wrought. Slowly, as one in a trance, he went closer, and, without moving his gaze from

the mirror, placed the bottle and tumbler upon the bureau. As if compelled by those burning eyes that stared

so fixedly at him, he leaned forward still closer to the glass. Then, as he looked, the distorted features

twitched and worked grotesquely with uncontrollable emotions, while the quivering lips formed words that

were not even whispered. With trembling fingers he felt the unshaven cheeks and touched the unkempt hair

questioningly. Suddenly, as if to shut out the horror of that which he saw in the mirror, the man hid his face

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

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 once more toward the window. A moment he stood there, listening, listening; then

wheeling back to the whisky bottle and the glass on the bureau, he quickly poured, and drank again.

Nodding his head in the manner of one reaching a conclusion, he looked slowly about the room, while a

frightful grin of hopeless, despairing triumph twisted his features, and his lips moved as if he breathed

Moving, now, with a decision and purpose that suggested a native strength of character, the man quickly

packed a suitcase with various articles of clothing from the bureau drawers and the closet. He was in the act

of closing the suitcase when he stopped suddenly, and, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned away. Then, as

if struck by another thought, he stooped again over his baggage, and drew forth a fresh, untouched bottle of

"I guess you are the only baggage I'll need where I am going," he said, whimsically; and, leaving the open

suitcase where it lay, he crossed the room, and extinguished the light. Cautiously, he unlocked and opened

the door. For a moment, he stood listening. Then, with the bottle hidden under his coat, he stole softly from

A few minutes later, the man stood out there in the night, on the bank of the river. Behind him the outlines of

the scattered houses that made the little town were lost against the dusk of the hillside. From the ghostly

treeshadows that marked the opposite bank, the solemn hills rose out of the deeper darkness of the lowlands

that edged the stream in sombre mystery. There was no break in the heavy clouds to permit the gleam of a

friendly star. There was no sound save the soft swish of the water against the bank where he stood, the

chirping of a bird in the nearby willows, and the occasional splash of a leaping fish or water animal. But to

the man there was a feeling of sound. To the lonely human wreck standing there in the darkness, the river

From under the black wall of the night the dreadful flood swept out of the Somewhere of its beginning. Past

the man the river poured its mighty strength with resistless, smoothly flowing, terrible force. Into the

darkness it swept on its awful way to the Nowhere of its ending. For uncounted ages, the river had poured

itself thus between those walls of hills. For untold ages to come, until the end of time itself, the stream would

Out of the night, the voice of the river had called to the man, as he stood at the window of his darkened room.

And the man had come, now, to answer the call. Cautiously, he went down the bank toward the edge of the

dark, swirling water. His purpose was unmistakable. Nor was there any hint of faltering, now, in his manner.

The man's feet were feeling the mud at the margin of the stream when his legs touched something, and a low,

rattling sound startled him. Then he remembered. A skiff was moored there, and he had brushed against the

chain that led from the bow of the boat to the stump of a willow higher up on the bank. The man had seen the

skiff,a rude, flatbottomed little craft, known to the Ozark natives as a Johnboat,just before sunset that

evening. But there had been no boat in his thoughts when he had come to answer the call of the river, and in

the preoccupation of his mind, as he stood there in the night beside the stream, he had not noticed 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 had placed his bottle of whisky carefully in the boat, and was loosing the chain painter from the

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

Carefully, so that no sound should break the stillness, he stowed the chain in the bow, and then worked the

skiff around until it pointed out into the stream. Then, with his hands grasping the sides of the little craft, and

the weight of his body on one knee in the stern, he pushed vigorously with his free foot against the bank and

so was carried well out from the shore. As the boat lost its momentum, the strong current caught it and

Groping in the darkness, the man found his bottle of whisky, and working the cork out with his pocketknife,

Already, save for a single light, the town was lost in the night. As the man watched that red spot on the black

wall, the stream swung his drifting boat around a bend, and the light vanished. The dreadful mystery of the

river drew close. The world of men was far, very far away. Centuries ago, the man had faced himself in the

mirror, and had obeyed the voice that summoned him into the darkness. In fancy, now, he saw his empty boat

swept on and on. Through what varied scenes would it drift? To what port would the mysterious will of the

And the man himself,the human soulcraft,what of him? As he had pushed his material boat out into the

stream to drift, unguided and helpless, so, presently, he would push himself out from the shore of all that men

call life. Through what scenes would he drift? To what port would the will of an awful invisible stream carry

And then, with face upturned to the leaden clouds, he laughed aloudlaughed until the ghostly shores gave

Springing to his feet in the drifting boat, the man shook his clenched fist at the darkness, and with insane fury

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 the river in

Auntie Sue's little log house by the river was placed some five hundred yards back from the stream, on a

bench of land at the foot of Schoolhouse Hill. From this bench, the ground slopes gently to the riverbank,

which, at this point, is sheer and high enough to be well above 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 the river; and between the

At the lower corner of the garden, farthest from the house, the strong current had cut a deep inward curve in

the high shoreline, forming thus an eddy, which was margined on one side, at a normal stage of water, by a

narrow shelf of land between the water's edge and the foot of the main bank. A flight of rude steps led down

from the garden above to this natural landing, which, for three miles up and down the river, was the only

point, on Auntie Sue's side of the stream, where one could go ashore from a skiff.

From the porch of the house, one, facing up the river, looked over the gently sloping garden, over the eddy

lying under the high bank, and away over a beautiful reach of water known as The Bend,a wide, sweeping

curve which, a mile distant, is lost behind a wooded bluff where, at times, during the vacation or hunting

season, one might see the smoke from the stone chimney of a clubhouse which was built and used by people

who lived in the big, noisy city many miles from the peaceful Ozark scene. From the shore of The Bend,

opposite and above Auntie Sue's place, beyond the willows that fringe the water's edge, the low bottomlands

extend back three quarters of a mile to the foot of a heavily timbered ridge, beyond which rise the higher

hills. But directly across from Auntie Sue's house, this ridge curves sharply toward the stream; while less than

a quarter of a mile below, a mighty mountainarm is thrust out from a shoulder of Schoolhouse Hill, as if to

bar the river's way. The high bluff thus formed is known to the natives throughout all that region as Elbow

The quiet waters of The Bend move so gently on their broad course that from the porch, looking up the

stream, the eye could scarcely mark the current. But in front of the little log house, where the restraining

banks of the river draw closer together, the lazy current awakens to quickening movement. Looking down the

stream, one could see the waters leaving the broad and quiet reaches of The Bend above and rushing away

with fast increasing speed between the narrowing banks until, in all their vicious might, they dashed full

against the Elbow Rock cliff, where, boiling and tossing in mad fury, they roared away at a right angle and so

around the point and on to another quiet stretch below. And many were the tales of stirring adventure and

tragic accident at this dangerous point of the river's journey to the faraway sea. Skilled rivermen, by holding

their Johnboats and canoes close to the far shore, might run the rapids with safety. But no boat, once caught

in the vicious grip of the main current between the comparatively still waters of The Bend and that wild,

It was nearing the close of a late summer day, and Auntie Sue, as was her custom, stood on the porch

watching the sunset. In the vast field of sky that arched above the softly rounded hills there was not a cloud.

No wind stirred the leaves of the farreaching forests, or marred the bright waters of the quiet Bend that

mirrored back the green, treefringed banks and blueshadowed mountains. Faintly, through the hush, from

beyond the bottomlands on the other side of the stream, came the longdrawn "Whoee! Whoee!" of

farmer Jackson calling his hogs. From the hillside, back of the house, sounded the deep, mellow tones of a

cowbell, telling Auntie Sue that neighbor Tom's cattle were going home from their woodland pastures. A

company of crows crossed the river on leisure wing, toward some evening rendezvous. A waterfowl flapped

slowly up the stream. And here and there the swallows wheeled in graceful circles above the gleaming Bend,

or dipped, flashlike, to break the silvery surface. As the blue of the mountains deepened to purple, and the

rosy light from below the western hills flushed the sky, the silver sheen of the quiet water changed with the

changing tints above, and the shadows of the trees along the bank deepened until the shoreline was lost in

And even as the river gave back the light of the sky and the color of the mountains, so the gentle face of the

grayhaired woman, who watched with such loving reverence, reflected the beauty of the scene. The peace

and quiet of the evening of her life was as the still loveliness of that twilight hour.

And, yet, there was a suggestion of pathos in the loneliness of the slender figure standing there. Now and

again, she clasped her delicate hands 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 dearest dreams. Several times she turned her

head to look about, as if wishing for some one to share with her the beauty that moved her so. At last, she

called; and her voice, low and puretoned, had in it the quality that was in the light of her eyes.

From within the house, a shrill, querulous, drawling voice, so characteristic of the Southern "poorwhite"

A quick little smile deepened the crows'feet at the corners of Auntie Sue's eyes, as she called again with

gentle patience: "Do come and see the sunset, Judy, dear! It is so beautiful!" And, this time, in answer, Judy

From appearances, the poor creature's age might have been anywhere from fifteen to thirtyfive; for the

twisted and misshapen body, angular and hard; the scrawny, wry neck; the oldyoung face, thin and sallow,

with furtive, beadyblack eyes, gave no hint of her years. As a matter of fact, I happened to know that Judith

Taylor, daughter of the notorious Ozark moonshiner, Jap Taylor, was just past twenty the year she went to

Looking obliquely at the old gentlewoman, with a curious expression of mingled defiance, suspicion, and

affection on her almost vicious face, Judy drawled, "Was youall ayellin' for me?"

"Yes, Judy; I want you to help me watch the sunset," Auntie Sue answered, with bright animation; and,

Judy's sly, evasive eyes did not cease to regard the illumined face of her old companion as she returned, in

her dry, highpitched monotone: "I don't reckon as how youall are aneedin' much help, seein' as how you

are allus awatchin' hit. A body'd think youall was mighty nigh old 'nough, by now, ter look at hit alone."

Auntie Sue laughed, a low, musical, chuckling laugh, and, with a hint of loving impatience in her gentle

voice, replied to Judy's observation: "But, don't you understand, child? It adds so to one's happiness to share

lovely scenes like this. It makes it all so muchso muchwell,BIGGER, to have some one enjoy it with

you. Come, dear!" And she held out her hand with a gesture of entreaty, and a look of yearning upon her dear

Judy, still slyly watchful, went cautiously nearer; and Auntie Sue, putting an arm lovingly about the crooked

shoulders of the mountain girl, pointed again toward the west as she said, in a low voice that vibrated with

The black eyes shifted, and the oldyoung, expressionless face turned toward the landscape, which lay before

them in all its wondrous beauty of glowing sky and tinted mountain and gleaming river. And there might

have been a faint touch of softness, now, in the querulous monotone as Judy said: "I can't see as how hit

could be ary bigger. Hain't ary reason, as I kin see, why hit should be ary bigger if hit could. Lord knows

there's 'nough of hit as 't is; rough 'nough, too, as youall 'd sure know if youall had ter trapse over them

"But, isn't it wonderful tonight, Judy? It seems to me I have never seen 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," returned the mountain girl. "I was borned over there on yon side that there flattopped mountain,

nigh the mouth of Red Creek. I growed up on the river, mostly;learned ter swim an' paddle er Johnboat

'fore I kin remember. Red Creek, hit heads over there behind that there long ridge, in Injin Holler. There's a

She checked herself suddenly, and shot a fearful sidewise look at Auntie Sue; then turned and pointed in the

opposite direction with a pretense of excited interest. "Look down there, ma'm! See how black the old river is

where she smashes inter Elbow Rock, an' how white them waves be where the water biles an' throws hitself.

Hit'd sure git you if you was ter git ketched in there with er Johnboat, wouldn't hit? Listen, ma'm! You kin

"I think I like The Bend best, though, Judy. See how perfectly those trees and hills are mirrored in the river;

and how the water holds the color of the sky. Don't you think God is good to make the world so beautiful for

"'Beautiful'!" cried poor, deformed Judy, in a voice that shrilled in vicious protest. "If there is a God, like

youall are allus a talkin' 'bout, an' if He sure 'nough made them things, like youall sees 'em, He sure hain't

But the mountain girl rebelliously continued: "Look at me! Just look at me! If that there God of your'n is so

allfired 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 dad burned ornery kind of a God I call Him!"

For some time, Auntie Sue did not speak, but stood with her face upturned 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 cloud

anywhere. Yesterday evening, you remember, we could not see the sunset at all, the clouds were so heavy

"Youall best set down then," said Judy, speaking again in her querulous, drawling monotone. "I'll fetch a

chair." She brought a comfortable rustic rockingchair from the farther end of the porch; then disappeared

into the house, to return a moment later with a heavy shawl. "Hit'll be aturnin' cold directly, now the sun's

Auntie Sue thanked her with gentle courtesy, and, reaching up, caught the girl's hand as Judy was awkwardly

arranging the wrap about the thin old shoulders. "Won't you bring a chair for yourself, and sit with me

But Judy pulled her hand away roughly, saying: "Youall ain't got no call ter do sich as that ter me. I'll set

awhile with you but I ain't aneedin' no chair." And with that, she seated herself on the floor, her back against

The last of the evening was gone from the sky, now. The soft darkness of a clear, starlight night lay over the

land. A gentle breeze stole over the mountains, rustled softly through the forest, and, drifting across the river,

Judy was first to break the silence: "I took notice neighbor Tom brung youall a right smart bunch of letter

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

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

"I was plumb scared at the time, you oughten ter sent hit just in er letter that away. Hit sure looked like a

heap of money ter be atrustin' them there ornery postoffice fellers with, even if hit was funny,

newfangled money like that there was. Why, ma'm, you take old Tod Stimson, down at the Ferry, now, an'

"Argentine notes the money was, Judy. I felt sure that it would be all right because, you know, Brother John

sent it just in a letter all the way from Buenos Aires. And, you remember, I folded it up in extra heavy paper,

and put it in two envelopes, one over the other, and mailed it at Thompsonville with my own hands."

"Hit sure looks like hit ought ter be safe er nough, so long as hit warn't mailed at the Ferry where old Stimson

Then, after a silence of several minutes, she added, in a more reassuring voice: "I reckon as how hit'll be all

right, ma'm. I wouldn't worry myself, if I was you. That there bankplace, like as not, gits er right smart lot of

letters, an' hit stands ter reason the feller just naturally can't write back ter ev'rybody at once."

"Of course," agreed Auntie Sue. "It is just some delay in their acknowledgment, that is all. Perhaps they are

waiting to find out if the notes are genuine; or it may be that their letter to me went astray, and will have to be

returned to them, and then remailed all over again. I feel sure I shall hear from them in a few days."

So they talked until the moon appeared from behind the dark mountains that, against her light, were

silhouetted on the sky. And, as the old gentlewoman watched the queen of the night rising higher and higher

on her royal course, and saw the dusky landscape transformed to a fairyscene of ethereal loveliness, Auntie

With the enthusiasm that never failed her, the silveryhaired teacher tried to give the backwoods girl a little

of her wealth of vision. But though they looked at the same landscape, the eyes of twenty could not see that

which was so clear to the eyes of seventy. Poor Judy! The river, sweeping on its winding way through the

hills, from the springs of its faraway beginnings to the ocean of its final endeavor,in all its varied moods

and changes,in all its beauty and its irresistible power,the river could never mean to Judy what it meant

"Hit sure is er fine night for to go 'possum huntin'," said the girl, at last, getting to her feet and standing in her

twisted attitude, with her wry neck holding her head to one side. "Them there Jackson boys'll sure be out."

From the edge of the timber that borders the fields of the bottom lands across the river, came the baying of

hounds. "There they be now," said Judy. "Hear 'em? The Billingses, 'cross from the clubhouse, 'll be out, too,

I reckon. When hit's moonlight, they're allus ahuntin' 'possum an' 'coon. When hit's dark, they're out on the

river agiggin' for fish. Well, I reckon I'll be agoin' in, now, ma'm," she concluded, with a yawn. "Ain't no

use in a body stayin' up when there ain't nothin' ter do but 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

For an hour longer, the old gentlewoman sat on the porch of her little log house by the river, looking out over

the moonlit scene. Nor did she now, as when she had watched the sunset, crave human companionship. In

spirit, she was far from all earthly needs or cares,where no troubled thoughts could disturb her serene

Had Auntie Sue remained a few minutes longer on the porch, that evening, she might have seen an object

Swinging easily around the curve above the clubhouse, it would not have been visible at first, because of the

deep shadows of the reflected trees and mountains. But, presently, as it drifted on into the broader waters of

The Bend, it emerged from the shadows into the open moonlit space, and then, to any one watching from the

porch, the dark object, drawing nearer and nearer in the bright moonlight, would have soon shaped itself into

a boatan empty boat, the watcher would have said, that had broken from its moorings somewhere up the

river;and the watcher would have heard, through the still, night air, the dull, heavy roar of the mad waters

Drifting thus, helpless in the grip of the main current, the little craft apparently was doomed to certain

destruction. Gently, it would float on the easy surface of the quiet, moonlit Bend. In front of the house, it

would move faster and faster. Where the river narrows, it would be caught as if by mighty hands hidden

beneath the rushing flood, and dragged onward still faster and faster. About it, the racing waters would leap

and boil in their furious, headlong career, shaking and tossing the helpless victim of their might with a

vicious strength from which there would be no escape, until, in the climax of the river's madness, the object

of its angry sport would be dashed against the cliff, and torn, and crushed, and hammered by the terrific

weight of the rushing flood against that rocky anvil, into a battered and shapeless wreck.

The drifting boat drew nearer and nearer. It reached the point where the curve of the opposite bank draws in

to form the narrow raceway of the rapids. It began to feel the stronger pull of those hidden hands that had

carried it so easily down The Bend. And thenand thenthe unguided, helpless craft responded to the

gentle pressure of some swirl or crosscurrent in the main flow of the stream, and swung a little to one side. A

few feet farther, and the new impulse became stronger. Yielding easily to the current that drew it so gently

across the invisible dividingline between safety and destruction, the boat swung in toward the shore. A

minute more, and it had drifted into that encircling curve of the bank where the current of the eddy carried it

The boat seemed undecided. Would it hold to the harbor of safety into which 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 the dangerline, and, for a moment, hung on the

very edge. Three times, the invisible hands which held it drew it gently back to safety. And so, finally, the

little craft, so helpless, so alone, amid the many currents of the great river, came to rest against the narrow

The light in the window of Auntie Sue's room went out. The soft moonlight flooded mountain and valley and

stream. The mad waters at Elbow Rock roared in their wild fury. Always, always, irresistibly, inevitably,

Before the sun was high enough to look over Schoolhouse Hill, the next morning, Judy went into the garden

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 to hurry the gathering of the full crop, so the boys would come when it was

most convenient; and, in the meantime, Judy would continue to dig from day to day all that were needed for

the kitchen in the little log house by the river. In spite of her poor crooked body, the mountain girl was strong

As one will when first coming out of doors in the morning, Judy paused a 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 of

fog, through which the river moved in stealthy silence,a dull thing of mystery, with only here and there a

touch of silvery light upon its clouded surface. The cottonwoods and willows, on the opposite shore, were

mere dreams of trees,gray, formless, and weird. The air was filled with the dank earthsmell. The heavy

thundering roar of the neverending war of the waters at Elbow Rock came louder and more menacing, but

But to Judy, the morning was only the beginning of another day; she looked, but did not see. To her, the

many everchanging moods of Nature were without meaning. With her basket in hand, she went down to the

lower end of the garden, where she had dug potatoes the time before, and where she had left the fork sticking

A few minutes served to fill the basket; but, before starting back to the house, the mountain girl paused again

to look out over the river. Perhaps it was some vague memory of Auntie Sue's talk, the night before, that

prompted her; perhaps it was some instinct, indefinite and obscure;whatever it was that influenced her,

Judy left her basket, and went to the brink of the high bank above the eddy for a closer view of the water.

The next instant, with the quick movement of an untamed creature of her native mountain forests, the girl

sprang back, and crouched close to the ground to hide from something she had seen at the foot of the bank.

Every movement of her twisted body expressed amazement and fear. Her eyes were wild and excited. She

looked carefully about, as if for dangers that might be hidden in the fog. Once, she opened her mouth as if to

call. Halfrising, she started as if to run to the house. But, presently, curiosity apparently overruled her fear,

and, throwing herself flat on the ground she wormed her way back to the brink of the riverbank. Cautiously,

without making a sound, she peered through the tall grass and weeds that fringed the rim above the eddy.

The boat, which some kindly impulse of the river had drawn so gently aside from the stronger current that

would have carried it down the rapids to the certain destruction waiting at Elbow Rock, still rested with its

bow grounded on the shore, against which the eddying water had pushed it. But the thing that had so startled

Judy was a man who was lying, apparently unconscious, on the wet and muddy bottomboards of the little

Breathlessly, the girl, looking down from the top of the bank, watched for some movement; but the dirty

huddled heap of wretched humanity was 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, nor fishingtackle of any sort. The man's hat

was missing. His clothing was muddy and disarranged. His position was such that she could not see the face.

Drawing back, Judy looked cautiously about; then, picking up a heavy clod of dirt from the ploughed edge of

the garden, and crouching again at the brink of the bank, ready for instant flight, she threw the clod into the

water near the boat. The still form in the boat made no movement following the splash. Selecting a smaller

clod, the girl threw the bit of dirt into the stern of the boat itself, where it broke in fragments. And, at this, the

"Hit's alive, all right," commented Judy to herself, with a grin of satisfaction, at the result of her investigation.

Carefully selecting a still smaller bit of dirt, she deliberately tossed it at the figure itself. Her aim was true,

and the clod struck the man on the shoulder, with the result that he stirred uneasily, and, muttering something

which Judy could not hear, half turned on his back so that the girl saw the haggard, unshaven face. She saw,

At sight of the bottle, the mountain girl rose to her feet with an understanding laugh. "Hell!" she said aloud;

"drunk,that's all dead drunk. I'll sure fetch him out of hit." And then, grinning with malicious delight,

she proceeded to pelt the man in the boat with clods of dirt until he scrambled to a sitting posture, and looked

"If you please," he said, in a hoarse voice, to the sallow, old young face that grinned down at him from the

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

"Well," returned the man in the boat, wearily, "I can assure you that it's not in the least my fault if I

disappoint you. I feel as bad about it as you do. However, I don't think I am so much alive that it makes any

"Yep; you sure did come mighty nigh hit. If your old Johnboat had acarried youall on down ter Elbow

Rock, 'stead of bein' ketched in the eddy here, youall would sure 'nough been atalkin' to the Devil by now."

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

Again, he regarded the empty bottle in his hand with studied interest. Then, tossing the bottle into the river,

"Listen, sister!" he said, nervously. "Is there any place around here where I can buy a drink? I need something

"Youall are at Auntie Sue's place," said Judy; "an' there sure ain't no chance for youall ter git ary licker

here. Where'd you all come from, anyhow? How'd youall git here 'thout no oars ner paddle ner nothin'?

"Your questions, my good girl, are immaterial and irrelevant," returned the man in the boat. "The

allimportant matter before us for consideration is,how can I get a drink? I MUST have a drink, I tell

you!" He held up his hands, and they were shaking as if with palsy. "And I must have it damned quick!"

"Youall sure do talk some powerful big words," said Judy, with critical interest. "Youall sure must be

"I don't know," Judy returned; "she's just Auntie Suethat's all I know. She sure is"

Again the man interrupted: "I think it would be well for me to interview this worthy aunt of yours." And then,

while he raised himself, unsteadily, to his feet, he continued, in a muttering undertone: "You don't seem to

appreciate the situation. If I don't get some sort of liquor soon, things are bound to happen."

He attempted to step from the boat to the shore; but the instability of the light, flatbottomed skiff, together

with his own unsteady weakness, combined to land him half in the water and half on the muddy bank where

he struggled helplessly, and, in his weakened condition, would have slipped wholly into the river had not

With a strength surprising in one of her apparent weakness, the mountain girl caught the stranger under his

shoulders and literally dragged him from the water. When she had further helped him to his feet, Judy

surveyed the wretched object of her beneficence with amused and curious interest.

The man, with his unkempt hair, unshaven, haggard face, bloodshot eyes, and slovenly dishevelled dress, had

appeared repulsive enough while in the boat; but, now, as he stood dripping with water and covered with

mud, there was a touch of the ridiculous in his appearance that brought a grin to the unlovely face of his

rescuer, and caused her to exclaim with unnecessary frankness: "I'll be dad burned if youall ain't a thing ter

As the poor creature, who was shaking as if with the ague, regarded the twisted form, the wry neck, and the

sallow, oldyoung face of the girl, who was laughing at him, a gleam of sardonic humor flashed in his

bloodshot eyes. "Thanks," he said, huskily; "you are something of a vision yourself, aren't you?"

The laughter went from Judy's face as she caught the meaning of the cruel words. "I ain't never laid no claim

ter bein' a beauty," she retorted in her shrill, drawling monotone. "But, I kin tell you all one thing, mister:

Hit was GodA'mighty Hisself an' my drunken pap what made me ter look like I do. While you,damn

At the mountain girl's illiterate words, so pregnant with meaning, a remarkable change came over the face

and manner of the man. His voice, even, for the moment, lost its huskiness, and vibrated with sincere feeling

as he steadied himself; and, bowing with courteous deference, said: "I beg your pardon, miss. That was

"Youall would adrownded, sure, if I had," she retorted, somewhat mollified by the effect of her

"Which," he returned, "would have been so beautifully right and fitting that it evidently could not be." And

"Something like that," he returned. And then, with a hint of ugliness in his voice and eyes, he rasped: "But,

look here, girl! do you think I'm going to stand like this all day indulging in idle conversation with you?

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. A part of the ascent he made on hands and knees. Several times he would

have fallen except for the girl's support. But, at last, they gained the top, and stood in the garden.

"That there is the house," said Judy, pointing. "But I don't reckon as how youall kin git ary licker there."

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

The two had nearly reached the steps at the end of the porch when Auntie Sue came from the house to see

why Judy did not return with the potatoes. The dear old lady paused a moment, startled at the presence of the

unprepossessing stranger in her garden. Then, with an exclamation of pity, she hurried to meet them.

The man, whose gaze as he shambled along was fixed on the ground, did not notice Auntie Sue until, feeling

Judy stop, he also paused, and raising his head looked full at the beautiful old lady.

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

With an expression of questioning bewilderment and rebuke on his haggard face, the man also turned to the

"I found him in er Johnboat what done come ashore last night, down there 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 got ary

"'Liquor'?" questioned Auntie Sue. "What in the world do you mean, child?" Then quickly to the

stranger;"My dear man, you are wringing wet. You must have been in the river. Come, come right in, and

let us do something for you." As she spoke, she went toward him with outstretched hands.

But the wretched creature shrank back from her, as if in fear;his whole body shaking with emotion; his

fluttering hands raised in a gesture of imploring protest;while the eyes that looked up at the saintly

countenance of the old gentlewoman were the eyes of a soul sunken in the deepest hell of shame and

The man's haggard, unshaven face twitched and worked with the pain of his suffering. He bit his lips and

fingered his quivering chin in a vain effort at selfcontrol; and then, as he looked up at her, the sunken,

bloodshot eyes filled with tears that the tormented spirit had no power to check.

For a little, they stood so. Then, as Auntie Sue faced him again, the stranger, with a supreme effort of his will,

gained a momentary control of his shattered nerves. Drawing himself erect and standing steady and tall

before her, he raised a hand to his uncovered head as if to remove his hat. When his hand found no hat to

"I am so sorry, madam," he said,and his voice was musically clear and cultured. "Please pardon me for

disturbing you? I did not know. This young woman should have explained. You see, when she spoke of

'Auntie Sue,' I assumed, of course,I mean,I expected to find a native woman who would" He paused,

smiling again, as if to assure her that he fully appreciated the humor of his ridiculous predicament.

"But, my dear sir," cried Auntie Sue, eagerly, "there is nothing to pardon. Please do come into the house and

But the stranger drew back, shaking his head sadly. "You do not understand, madam. It is not that my clothes

are unpresentable, it is I, myself, who am unfit to stand in your presence, much less to enter your house. I

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

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

The man's voice was hoarse and shaking, now, as he answered: "For God's sake, madam, don't touch me! Let

me go! You must! IIam not myself! You might not be safe with me! Ask hershe knows!" He turned

"He's done said hit, ma'm," said Judy, in answer to Auntie Sue's questioning look. "My pap, he was that way

when he done smashed me up agin the wall, when I was nothin' but a baby, an' hit made me grow up all

With one shamed glance at Auntie Sue, the wretched fellow looked down at the ground. His head drooped

forward. His shoulders sagged. His whole body seemed to shrink. Turning sadly away, he again started back

Slowly, he raised his eyes. The gentle old teacher spoke with fine spirit, now, but kindly still: "This is sheer

nonsense, my boy. You wouldn'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 his far overtaxed strength failed;his abused

nerves refused to bear more,and he sank,a pitiful, cowering heap at her feet. Hiding his face in his

Those two women managed, somehow, to get the almost helpless stranger into the house, where Auntie Sue,

after providing him with nightclothes, left by one of her guests, by tactful entreaty and judicial commands,

Then followed several days and nights of weary watching. There were times when the man lay with closed

eyes, so weak and exhausted that he seemed to be drifting out from these earthly shores on the deep waters of

that wide and unknown sea into which all the streams of life finally flow. But, always, Auntie Sue

miraculously held him back. There were other times when, by all the rules of the game, he should have worn

a straitjacket;when his delirium filled the room with all manner of horrid creatures from the pit; when

leering devils and loathsome serpents and gibbering apes tormented him until his unnatural strength was the

strength of a fiend, and his tortured nerves shrieked in agony. But Auntie Sue perversely ignored the rules of

the game. And never did the man, even in his most terrible moments, fail to recognize in the midst of the

hellish crew of his diseased imagination the silveryhaired old teacher as the angel of his salvation. Her

gentle voice had always power to soothe and calm him. He obeyed her implicitly, and, like a frightened child,

But no word of the man's lowmuttered, broken sentences, nor of his wildest ravings, ever gave Auntie Sue a

clue to his identity. She searched his clothes, but there was not a thing to give her even his name.

And, yet, that first day, when Judy would have gone to neighbor Tom's for help, Auntie Sue said "No." She

even positively forbade the girl to mention the stranger's presence in the house, should she chance to talk with

passing neighbors. "The river brought him to us, Judy, dear," she said. "We must save him. No one shall

know his shame, to humiliate and wound his pride and drag him down after he is himself again. Until he has

recovered and is once more the man I believe him to be, no one must see him or know that he is here; and no

And late, one evening, when Judy was fast asleep, and the man was lying very still after a period of feverish

tossing and muttering, the dear old gentlewoman crept quietly out of the house into the night. She was gone

some time, and when she returned again to the stranger's bedside she was breathless and trembling as from

some unusual exertion. And the following afternoon, when Judy came to her with the announcement that the

boat which had brought the man to them was no longer in the eddy below the garden, Auntie Sue said,

simply, that she was glad it was gone, and cautioned the girl, again, that the stranger's presence in the house

When the mountain girl protested, saying, "Youall ain't got no call ter be awearin' yourself ter the bone

atakin' care of such as him," Auntie Sue answered, "Hush, Judy! How do you know what the poor boy really

To which Judy retorted: "He's just triflin' an' ornery an' no 'count, that's what he is, or he sure wouldn't been

afloatin' 'round in that there old Johnboat 'thout ary gun, or fishin' lines, or hat even, ter say nothin' of that

Auntie Sue made no reply to the mountain girl's harsh summingup of the damning evidence against the

It was perhaps an hour later that Judy, quietly entering the room, happened upon a scene that caused her to

The man was sleeping, and the silveryhaired old maidenlady, seated on the side of the bed, was bending

over the unconscious stranger and gently stroking his tumbled, redbrown hair, even as a mother might

lovingly caress her sleeping child. And then, as Judy watched, breathless with wonder, the proud old

gentlewoman, bending closer over that still form on the bed, touched her lipssoft as a rosepetalto the

When she arose and saw Judy standing there, Auntie Sue's delicate old cheeks 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

"Your 'son'!" ejaculated the girl. "Why, ma'm, youall ain't never even been married, as I've ever hearn tell,

Auntie Sue drew her thin shoulders proudly erect, and, lifting her fine old face, answered the challenging

question with splendid spirit: "No, I have never been married; but I might have been; and if I had, I suppose I

The vanquished Judy retreated to the kitchen, where, in safety, she sank into a chair, convulsed with laughter,

Then came the day when the man, weak and worn with his struggle, looked up at his gentle old nurse with the

light of sanity in his deep blue eyes. Very tired eyes they were, and filled with painful memories,filled,

She smiled down at him with delighted triumph, and drawing a chair close beside the bed, seated herself and

"You are much better, this morning," she said cheerily. "You will soon be all right, now." And as she looked

into the eyes that regarded hers so questioningly, there was in her face and manner no hint of doubt, or

He spoke slowly, as if feeling for words: "I have been in Hell; and youyou have brought me out. Why did

"Because you are mine," she answered, with her low chuckling laugh. It was so good to have him able to talk

"Yes," she returned, with a hint of determined proprietorship in her voice; "because you belong to me. You

see, that eddy where your boat landed is my property, and so anything that drifts down the river and lodges

there belongs to me. Whatever the river brings to me, is mine. The river brought you, and so" She finished

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

"Oh, yes; the river," he said. "I wanted the river to do something for me, andand it did something quite

"Of course," she returned, eagerly, "the river is always like that. It always 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, and just keeps

going and going and going; and thousands and thousands of other springs, scattered all over the country, start

streams and creeks and branches that run into it, and make it bigger and bigger, as it winds and curves and

twists along, until it finally reaches the great sea, where its waters are united with all the waters from all the

rivers in all the world. And in all of its many, many miles, from that first tiny 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. An infinite variety

of days and nightsan infinite variety of skies and light and clouds and daybreaks and sunsetsan infinite

number and variety of currents and shoals and deep places and quiet spots and dangerous rapids and

eddiesand, along its banks, an endless change of hills and mountains and flats and forests and meadows

and farms and citiesand" She paused, breathless. And then, when he did not speak, but only watched

her, she continued: "Don't you see? Of course, the river never could be what you expect, any more than life

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

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

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

"Oh, my name is Susan E. WakefieldMISS Wakefield, if you please. I shall be seventyone years old the

eighteenth day of next November. And you must call me 'Auntie Sue,'just as every one else does."

"WakefieldWakefieldwhere have I seen that name?" He wrinkled his brow in an effort to remember.

"It is not unlikely," she returned, lightly. "It is not at all an uncommon name. And now that I am properly

"That is an Irish name," she said quickly; "and that is why your hair is so 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 pushed back his heavy hair; and her sweet old

voice was very low and gentle as she said: "My dear boy, I shall never ask you more. The river brought you

to me, and you are mine. You must not even think of anything else, just now. When you are stronger, and are

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

Swiftly, she leaned over, and, before he realized, he felt her lips touch his forehead. Then she was gone, and

Brian Kent's Irish eyes were filled with tears. Turning to the wall, he hid his face in the pillow.

As Auntie Sue was closing the door of her guest's room carefully behind her, Judy came from the kitchen in

"Hit's the Sheriff, ma'm," whispered Judy. "I was just acomin' ter tell you. I seed 'em from the

kitchenwinder. He's got two other men with him. Their hosses is tied ter the fence in front. What in hell will

"Go back into the kitchen, Judy, and stay there," she commanded, in a whisper; and went to open the front

Sheriff Knox was a big man, with a bluff, kindly manner, and a voice that made nothing of closed doors. He

returned Auntie Sue's greeting heartily, and, with one of his companions,a quiet, businesslooking

gentleman,accepted her cordial invitation to come in. The third man of the party remained near the saddle

"Well, Auntie Sue," said the Sheriff, settling his ponderous bulk in one of the old lady's rockingchairs,

which certainly was not built to carry such a weight, "how are you? I haven't seen you in a coon's age. I'll

swear, though, you ain't a minute older than you was when you first begun teachin' the little Elbow Rock

"I don't know, Sheriff," Auntie Sue returned, with a nervous little laugh. "I sometimes think that I am a few

The big officer's laughter almost shook the log walls of the house. To his 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 these Ozark

Mountains. What was it you paid for them?" He turned again to their smiling hostess. "Oh, yes; fifty cents an

acre for the land and fourteen dollars and a half for the sunsets. You'll have to be blamed careful not to

trespass on the sunsets in this neighborhood, Ross." Again, his hearty laugh roared out, while his chair

"You'll be all right, though, Ross," the Sheriff continued, "as long as you're with me. Auntie Sue and me have

been friends for about twenty year, now. I always stop to see her whenever I'm passing through the Elbow

Rock neighborhood, if I ain't in too big a hurry. Stayed with her a 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 her sunsets."

Then, as if the jesting allusion to his office reminded him of his professional duties, he added: "I plumb

forgot, Auntie Sue, this gentleman is Mr. Ross. He is one of William J. Burns's crack detectives. Don't be

Auntie Sue, while joining in the laughter, and acknowledging the introduction, regarded the businesslooking

"I think," she said, slowly,and the sweetness of her low, cultured voice was very marked in contrast to the

Sheriff's thundering tones,"I think, sir, that this is the first time in my life that I ever saw a real detective. I

Mr. Ross was captivated by the charm of this beautiful old gentlewoman, who regarded him with such

childlike interest, and who spoke with such sweet frankness and dignity. Smilingly, he returned:

"I fear, madam, that you would find me very disappointing. No one that I ever knew in my profession could

hope to live up to the reputation given us by the storybooks. No secret service man living can remotely

approximate the deeds performed by the detectives of fiction. We are very, very human, I can assure you."

"I am sure that you, at least, must be very kind," returned Auntie Sue, gently. And the cheeks of the

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

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

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

The officer's loud voice went on: "And Mr. Ross, here, works most of his time on these bank cases. Just now,

he is trailing a fellow that got away with a lot of money from the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, of

Chicago, about a month ago;that is, the man disappeared about a month ago. He had been stealing along

"The Empire Consolidated Savings Bank!" Auntie Sue spoke the words in a voice that was little more than a

whisper. It was to the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank that she had sent the money which she had received

from her brother in Buenos Aires; and Homer T. Ward, the president of that bank, was one of her old pupils.

Why, her stranger guest, in the other room there, was that very moment wearing one of the bank president's

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

Some source of strength, deephidden in her gentle nature, enabled Auntie Sue to control her emotions,

though her voice broke a little as she slowly repeated the man's name, "Brian Kent. And do I understand, sir,

The detective was too skilled not to notice Auntie Sue's manner and the break in her voice; but he never

dreamed that this old gentlewoman's agitation was caused by a deeper interest than a quite natural fear that a

With a courteous bow, the detective continued: "We do not know for sure that the man is in this

neighborhood, Miss Wakefield. There is really no cause 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 a dangerous character."

"I am glad," said Auntie Sue; and she laughed a little with a relief more 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, Miss Wakefield, 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 the river from here. He disappeared from the hotel one

night, leaving his suitcase and, apparently, everything he had with him, and not a soul that we can find has

seen him since. Of course, everybody says 'suicide.' He had been drinking heavily and acting rather queer the

two or 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 for him to give things that appearance in order to throw us off; and I can't get

away from the fact that a Johnboat that was tied to the bank near the hotel managed to break loose and drift

off down the river that same night. Working on my theory, we are following down the river, trying to get

trace of either the boat or the man. So far, we haven't heard of either, which rather strengthens me in my

belief that the boat and the man went away together. He is probably traveling nights, and lying up under the

willows in daylight. But he will be compelled to show himself somewhere, soon, in order to get something to

eat, for he couldn't have taken much with him, trying, as he was, to create the impression that he had

committed suicide. You have a wonderful view of the river here, Miss Wakefield."

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

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

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 any oneany stranger, I meanhas called at

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

Then Auntie Sue said, deliberately: "No, sir; we have not seen a stranger in this vicinity for several weeks.

The last one was a mulebuyer, who stopped to ask if he was on the right road to Tom Warden's; and that

"Oh, but surely you will stay for dinner," said Auntie Sue, while her dear heart was faint with fear lest they

accept, and thus bring about who could say what disastrous consequences through their meeting with Judy.

"Not this time, Auntie Sue," returned the Sheriff. "Mr. Ross is anxious to get on down the river as fast as he

can. He's got men on watch at White's Crossing, and if our man ain't passed there, or if we don't strike his

trail somewhere before we get there, we will jump back on the railroad, and get some boy to bring the horses

"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 work of his

organization; and now that I have met you,a real live detective,I shall be very careful, indeed, about

what I do in the future. 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 hand in 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'll agree to

be very lenient with you if I am ever assigned to a case in which you are to be brought to justice."

"I promise," returned the old lady, quickly. "I really wouldn't dare to refuse under the circumstances, would

"If this man Brian Kent should happen to appear in this vicinity, will you get a message as quickly as

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

"He is really a fine looking chap," the detective answered. "Thirty years oldfully six feet tallrather

slender, but well builtweighs about one hundred fiftya splendid headsmooth shavenreddish

hairdark blue eyesand a high, broad forehead. He is of Irish extractionis culturedvery courteous in

his manner and speechdresses welland knows a lot about books and authors and such things."

"I would surely know him from that description," said Auntie Sue, thinking of the wretched creature who had

fallen, sobbing, at her feet so short a time before. "But, you do not make him seem like a criminal at all. It is

strange that a man such as you describe should be a fugitive from the law, is it not?"

"We come in contact with many strange things in our business, Miss Wakefield," the Burns operative

answereda little sadly, Auntie Sue thought. "Life itself is so strange and complex, though you in your quiet

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

Sheriff Knox held out a newspaper to Auntie Sue: "Just happened to remember that I had it in my pocket," he

said. "It gives a pretty full account of this fellow Kent's case. You will notice there is a big reward offered for

his capture. If you can catch him for us, you'll make enough money to keep you mighty nigh all the rest of

your life." And the officer's great laugh boomed out at the thought of the old schoolteacher as a

"By the way, Sheriff," said Auntie Sue, as they were finally saying goodbye at the door, "you didn't happen

to ask at Thompsonville for my mail, did you, as you came through?" Her voice was trembling, now, with

"I'm plumb sorry, Auntie Sue, but I didn't. You see, we were so busy on this job, I clean forgot about

stopping here; and, besides, we might have caught our man before we got this far, you see."

"Of course," returned Auntie Sue, "I should have thought of that; but I have been rather anxious about an

important letter that seems to have been delayed. Some of the neighbors will probably be going to the office

today, though. Goodbye! You know you are always welcome, Sheriff; and you, too, Mr. Ross, if you

"A wonderful old woman, Ross," commented Sheriff Knox as they were riding away. And the quiet,

businesslooking detective, whose life had been spent in combating crime and deception, answered, as he

waved farewell to Auntie Sue, who watched them from the door of the little log house by the river, "A very

wonderful woman, indeed, the loveliest old lady I have ever met,and the most remarkable."

When she had watched Sheriff Knox and his two companions ride out of sight, Auntie Sue turned slowly

For what seemed a long time, the old gentlewoman and the deformed mountain girl stood silently looking at

each other. Then Auntie Sue nervously crossed the room to lay the newspaper, which the Sheriff had given

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

Judy spoke in her shrill, drawling monotone: "Youall have sure fixed hit this here time, hain't you? Can't

When Auntie Sue apparently could not reply, Judy continued: "Just as if hit wasn't more 'n enough for

youall ter go an' wear yourself plumb out atakin' keer of that there ornery, no'count feller, what I never

ought ter dragged out of the river nohow. An', now, youall got ter go an' just naturally lie like you did ter the

Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man. I was plumb scared to death alistenin' ter you through the crack in

the kitchen door. I 'lowed every minute they'd ketch you, sure. My LordA'mighty! ma'm, can't youall

figger what'll happen ter weuns if they ever finds out that weuns done had him hid right here in this here

house all the time? I never heard tell of such dad burned, fool doin's in all my born days! I sure wish ter God

that there old Johnboat had atuck him off down the river an' smashed him up agin Elbow Rock, like hit ort,

an' not afetched him ter our door ter git 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 Auntie Sue in a tremulous whisper, too

"Youall ain't aneedin' ter do hit but onct, neither. Onct is sure a heap plenty for that there big Sheriff man.

Just look what he did ter my pap! He's jailed pap seven times, that I kin rec'lect. GodA'mighty knows how

many times he ketched him 'fore I was borned. An' pap, he didn't do so mighty much ary time, neither."

"I just had to do it, Judy, dear," protested Auntie Sue. "It seemed as if I simply could not tell the truth:

Judy, unheeding her companion's agitation, continued reviewing the situation: "An' just look at all the money

"Yep, 'money:'that there reward what they'd apaid youall if youall hadn't alied like you did. I reckon

as how there'd abeen as much, maybe, as what was in that there letter youall done sent ter the bank an' ain't

never heard tell of since. Hit's most likely clean gone by now, an' here you done gone an' throw'd this other

"Judith Taylor," she said sharply, "how can you suggest such a wicked thing? Why, I wouldI wouldDIE

And it was Judy, now, who stood silent and abashed before the aroused Auntie 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 any onenot a soulknow that Mr.Mr.Burns is in the house, or that we ever

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

"I don't care what the detective man said!" retorted Auntie Sue. "I am telling you that his name is Brian

Burns, and you had better remember it! You had better remember, too, that if anybody ever finds out the truth

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

Auntie Sue went to the door of Brian Kent's room. But, with her hand outstretched toward the latch, she

hesitated. Had he heard? The Sheriff's voice had been so loud. She feared to enter, yet she knew that she

must. At last, she knocked timidly, and, when there was no answer, knocked again, louder. Cautiously, she

She tiptoed to the bed, and stood looking down upon the stranger for whom, without a shadow of

reason,one would have said,she had violated one of the most deeply rooted principles of her seventy

To Auntie Sue, daughter of New England Puritanism, and religious to the deeps of her being, a lie was

abhorrent,and she had lied, deliberately, carefully, and with painstaking skill she had lied. She had not

merely evaded the truth; she had lied,and that to save a man 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 could not feel one

twinge of regret for her sin. She could not even feel that she had, indeed, sinned. She had even a feeling of

pride and triumph that she had lied so successfully. She was troubled, though, about this new and wholly

unexpected development in her life. It had been so easy for her. She had lied so naturally, so instinctively.

She remembered how she had spoken to Brian Kent of the river and of life. She saw, now, that the river

symbolized not only life as a whole, with its many everchanging conditions and currents, amid which the

individual must live;the river symbolized, as truly, the individual life, with its everchanging moods and

motives,its evervarying and oftenconflicting currents of instinct and training,its infinite variety of

intellectual deeps and shallows,its gentle places of spiritual calm,and its wild and turbulent rapids of

"What hitherto unsuspected currents in her liferiver," she asked herself, "had carried her so easily into

falsehood? What strange forces were these," she wondered, "that had set her so suddenly against honesty and

truthfulness and law and justice? And this stranger,this wretched, haggardfaced, drunken creature, who

had been brought by the mysterious currents of life to her door,what was there in him that so compelled

her protecting interest? What was it within him, deeply hidden under the repellent exterior of his being, that

It was not strange that, in her mental and spiritual extremity, the dear old gentlewoman's lifelong habit

should lead her to kneel beside the stranger's bed and pray for understanding and guidance. It was significant

And, presently, as she prayed, she felt the man on the bed move. Then a hand lightly touched her hair. She

remained very still for a little,her head still bowed. The hand that touched so reverently the silvery gray

hair trembled a little. Slowly, the old teacher raised her face to look at him; and the Irish blue eyes of Brian

Kent were wide with wondering awe and glowing with a light that warmed her heart and strengthened her.

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

"I think it was because I couldn't do anything else," she answered, with her little chuckling laugh. Then she

added, seriously: "How could I let them take you away? Are you not mine? Did not the river bring you to

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

"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 a little at a time. Then, when I knew that it was going to be discovered, I

"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 being a thief is so small in comparison with other things which you might have been, but

which you are not, and of so little importance in comparison with what you really ARE, that I can't feel so

"Why, you see," she answered, "I can't think of THAT man as being YOU at all. THAT was something that

the accident of your being a thief did to you,like catching cold, and being sick, after accidentally falling in

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 do it. Circumstances" he paused, biting his lip, and turning away.

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

"I cannot tell you about her, now," he said. "Some day, perhaps, when I am further away from it. But she is

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

"I did not mean for you to tell me now," she returned. "I only wanted you to know that, even though I am an

It was not until quite late in the evening that Auntie Sue took up the newspaper which Sheriff Knox had given

her. Judy had retired to her room, and Brian Burnsas they had agreed he should be calledwas fast

Tomorrow, Brian was going to sit up. His clothing had been washed and ironed and pressed, and Auntie Sue

was making some little repairs in the way of darning and buttons. She had finished, and was putting her

needle and scissors in the sewingbasket on the table beside her, when she noticed the paper, which she had

The article headed "BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS" was not long. It told, in a matteroffact, newspaper

way, how Brian Kent had, at different times, covering a period of several months, taken various sums from

the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, and gave, so far as was then known, the accumulated amount which

he had taken. The dishonest clerk had employed several methods in his operations; but the particular

incidentread Auntie Suewhich had led to the exposure of Kent's stealings was the theft of a small sum

of money in banknotes, which had been sent to the bank in a letter by one of the bank's smaller depositors.

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

She, too, had sent a sum of money in a letter for deposit to her small account in this bank from which Brian

Kent had stolen. She would not have sent the familiar paper currency of the United States that way; but, this

money was in Argentine notes. Her brother from faraway Buenos Aires had sent it to her, saying that it

would help to keep her during the closing years of her life; and she had added it to her small savings with a

feeling of deepest gratitude that her last days were now fully provided for. And she had received from the

Taking up the paper with hands that trembled so she scarce could distinguish the words, she read the

Suddenly, she recalled the man's puzzled expression when she had told him her name, and she seemed to hear

She looked at the date of the paper. Beyond all doubt, the man sleeping there in the other room;the man

whom she had saved from a suicide's end in the river;whom she had nursed through the hell of delirium

tremens;whom she had yearned over as over her own son, and for whom, to save from the just penalty of

his crime, she had liedbeyond all doubt that man had robbed her of the money that was to have insured to

Carefully, Auntie Sue laid the garment she had just mended with such loving care, with the rest of Brian

Kent's clothing, on the nearby chair. Rising, she went with slow, troubled step to the porch.

There was no moon, that night, to turn the waters of The Bend into a stream of silvery light. But the stars

were shining bright and clear, and she could see the river where it made its dark, mysterious way between the

walls of shadowy hills; and borne to her ears on the gentle night wind came the deep, thundering roar of the

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; and she felt very lonely, very tired, and very old. With her beautiful old face upturned

to the infinite sky, where shining worlds are scattered in such lavish profusion, she listened, listened to the

river that, with its countless and complex currents, swept so irresistibly onward along the way that was set for

it by Him who swung those starworlds in the limitless space of that mighty arch above. And something of

the spirit that broods ever over the river must have entered into the soul of Auntie Sue. When she turned back

into the house, there was a smile on her face, though her eyes were wet with tears.

Going to the chair that held Brian Kent's clothing, she took the garments in her arms and pressed them to her

When she returned to the livingroom, she again took up the newspaper. Very carefully, that her sleeping

companions in the house might not hear her, she went to the kitchen, the paper in her hand. Very carefully,

During the next few days, Brian Kent rapidly regained his strength. No one seeing the tall, selfpossessed

gentleman who sat with Auntie Sue on the porch overlooking the river, or strolled about the place, could have

imagined him the wretchedly repulsive creature that Judy had dragged from the eddy so short a time before.

And no one,exempting, perhaps, detective Ross,would have identified this bearded guest of Auntie

Sue's as the absconding bank clerk for whose arrest a substantial reward was offered.

But Mr. Ross had departed from the Ozarks, to report to the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank that, to the

best of his knowledge and belief, Brian Kent had been drowned. Homer T. Ward, himself, wrote Auntie Sue

about the case, for the detective had told the bank president about his visit to the little log house by the river,

and the banker knew that his old teacher would wish to hear the conclusion of the affair.

The facts upon which the detective based his conclusion that Brian Kent was dead, were, first of all, the man's

general character, temperament, habits, and ambitions,aside from his thefts from the bank,prior to the

time of his exposure and flight, and his known mental and physical condition at the time he disappeared from

The detective reasoned (and there are thousands of cases that could be cited to support his contention) that by

such a man as Brian Kent,knowing, as he must have known, the comparative certainty of his ultimate

arrest and conviction, and being in a mental and nervous condition bordering on insanity, as a result of his

constant brooding over his crime and the excessive drinking to which he had resorted for relief,by such a

man, death would almost inevitably be chosen rather than a life of humiliation and disgrace and

Acting upon the supposition, however, that the man had gone down the river in that missing boat, and that the

appearance of suicide was planned by the fugitive to trick his pursuers, the detectives ascertained that he had

provided no supplies for a trip down the river. The man would be compelled to seek food. The mountain

country through which he must pass was sparsely settled, and for a distance that would have taken a boat

many days to cover, the officers visited every house and cabin and camp on either side of the river without

finding a trace of the hunted man. The river had been watched night and day. The net set by the Burns

operatives touched every settlement and village for many miles around. And, finally, the battered and broken

". . . And so, my dear Auntie Sue," Banker Ward wrote, in conclusion, "you may rest in peace, secure in the

certainty that my thieving bank clerk is not lurking anywhere in your beautiful Ozarks to pounce down upon

you unawares in your little house beside the river. The man is safely dead. There is no doubt about it. I regret,

more than I can express, that you have been in any way disturbed by the affair. Please think no more about it.

"By the way, you made a great impression upon detective Ross. He was more than enthusiastic over your

graciousness and your beauty. I never heard him talk so much before in all the years I have known him.

Needless to say, I indorsed everything he said about the dearest old lady in the world, and then we celebrated

Auntie Sue went with the letter to Brian, and acquainted him with that part of the banker's communication

which related to the absconding clerk; but, about her relation to the president of the Empire Consolidated

"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. No horrid old detectives dogging your steps, or waiting behind every bush and tree

to pounce upon you. There is nothing, now, to prevent your being the kind of man that you always meant to

be,and really ARE, too,except for youryour accidental tumble in the river," she finished with her low

chuckling laugh. "And, some day," she went on, with conviction, "when you have established

yourself,when you have asserted your REAL self, I mean,and have paid back every penny of the

money, Homer T. Ward and Mr. Ross and everybody will be glad that they didn't catch you before you had a

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

For a long minute he looked at her without speaking, then turned his face away to gaze out over the river and

Slowly, he said: "I wish I could be sure. There was a time when I waswhen I believed in myself. It seems

to me, now, that it was years and years ago. I thought, then, that nothing could shake me in my purpose; that

nothing could check me in my ambition. I saw myself going straight on to the goal I had set for myself as

certainly aswell, as your river ever there goes on to the sea. But now" He shook his head sadly.

Auntie Sue laughed. "You foolish boy. My river out there doesn't go straight at all. It meets all sorts of

obstacles, and is beset by all sorts of conflicting influences, and so is forced to wind and twist and work its

way along; but, the big, splendid thing about the river is that it keeps going on. It never stops to turn back. No

matter what happens to it, it never stops. It goes on and on and on unto the very end, until it finally loses itself

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

Ho exclaimed passionately: "But you do not knowyou cannot know how my life, my dreams, my plans,

She answered calmly, pointing to Elbow Rock: "Look there, Brian. See how the river is broken into bits. See

how its smoothly flowing, onward sweep is suddenly changed to wild, chaotic turmoil; how it rages and

fumes and frets and smashes itself against the rocks. But it goes on just the same. Life cannot be always calm

and smoothly flowing like the peaceful Bend. But life can always go on. Life must always go on. And you

will find, my dear boy, that a little way below Elbow Rock there is another quiet stretch."

"Auntie Sue, was there ever a break in your life? Were your dreams and plans 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 managed to go on. I felt, then, as you feel now; but, somehow, I managed, and so

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 he himself had made the hard spot. "But, now," she continued, "I am hoping that the

"Why, you can," she returned quickly. "Of course you can. Perhaps that is why the current landed your boat

at my garden, instead of carrying you on down the rapids to Elbow Rock. Who can say?"

A new light kindled in the man's eyes as his sensitive nature took fire at Auntie Sue's words. "I could do

anything for a woman like you, Auntie Sue," he said quietly, but with a conviction that left no room for

She answered: "You are simply to go on with your lifejust as if no Elbow Rock had ever disturbed you;

She left him, then, to think out his problem alone; for the teacher of so many years' experience was too wise

But when the end of the day was come, they again sat together on the porch and watched the miracle of the

sunset hour. And no word was spoken by them, now, of life and its problems and its meanings. As one listens

to the song of a bird without thought of musical notes or terms; as one senses the fragrance of a flower

without thought of the chemistry of perfume; as one feels the presence of spring in the air without thought of

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 river and mountain and starry sky were veiled

in dreamy mystery, did Auntie Sue speak: "Oh, it is so good to have some one to share it with,some one

And so the old gentlewoman, whose lifework was so nearly finished, and the man in the flush of his manhood

years, whose life had been so nearly wrecked, were drawn very close by a something that came to them out of

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

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

"If that isn't just like youyou child!" cried the old teacher. "You are all alike,you boys and girls. You all

"You will do something, certainly," she answered; "but, before you can DO anything that is worth doing, you

"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 so you are not going to fail again. You are

not going away somewhere, you don't know where, to do something you don't know what. You are going to

stay right here, and just BE something. Then, when the time comes, you will do whatever is yours to do as

naturally and as inevitably as the birds sing, as the blossoms come in the spring, or as the river finds its way

And more than ever Brian Kent felt in the presence of Auntie Sue as a little boy to whom the world had

But, after a while, he shook his head, smiling wistfully. "No, no, Auntie Sue, that sounds all true and right

"For one thing," he returned, "I cannot risk the danger to you. After all, as long as I am living, there is a

"As for that," she answered quickly, "the chances of your being identified are a thousand times greater if you

go into the world again too soon. Some day, of course, you must go; but you are safer now right here.

And"she added quickly"it would be no easier for me, dear boy, totohave it happen somewhere

"But, Auntie Sue," he protested, "I am not a gentleman of means that I can do nothing indefinitely; neither am

I capable of living upon your hospitality for an extended period. I must earn my bread and butter."

The final sentence came with such a lifting of his head, such a look of stern decision, and such an air of pride,

that the gentle old schoolteacher laughed until her eyes were filled with tears; and Judy, at the crack in the

kitchen door, wondered if the mistress of the little log house by the river were losing her mind.

"Oh, Brian! Brian!" cried Auntie Sue, wiping her eyes. "I knew you would come to the 'bread and butter' at

last. That is where all our philosophies 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 you can'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 of means, 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 two poorest people in the world,to be anything like as pretentiously respectable and properly

When the man could make no reply, but only looked at her with a muchpuzzled and stillproud expression,

she continued, half laughingly, but well pleased with him: "Please, Brian, don't look so haughtily injured. I

Instantly, the man's face changed. He put out his hands protestingly, and his blue eyes filled, as he said,

She answered quickly: "We are considering the future. What has been, is past. Our river is already far beyond

that point in its journey. Don't let us try to turn the waters back. I promise you I am going to be very, very

"I must tell you, first," she began, "that, except for a very small amount in thein a savings bank, I have

"What a shame," Brian Kent exclaimed, "that a woman like you can give her life to the public schools for

barely enough salary to keep her alive during her active years, and then left in her old age with no means of

Auntie Sue chuckled with appreciation of the rather grim humor of the situation. What would Brian Kent,

indignant at the public neglect of the schoolteacher, say of the man who had robbed her of the money that

was to provide for her closing years? "After all, most public sins are only individual sins at the last," she said,

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

Auntie Sue came quickly back to her subject: "Only thirty acres of my little farm is under cultivation. The

remaining fifty acres is wild timberland. If I could have that fifty acres also in cultivation, with the money

that the timber would bring,which would not be a great deal,I would be fairly safe for thefor the rest

"I mean," she answered, "that, if you choose to stay for awhile, you need not feel that you would be accepting

my hospitality as charity," she returned gently. "I am not exactly offering you a job: I am only showing you

how you could, without sacrificing your pride, remain in this quiet retreat for awhile before returning to the

"It would be heaven, Auntie Sue," he returned earnestly. "I want to stay so bad that I fear myself. Let me

think it over until to morrow. Let me be sure that I am doing the right thing, and not merely the thing I want

She liked his answer, and did not mention the subject again until Brian himself was ready. And, strangely

Brian had walked along the riverbank below the house to a spot just above the point where the high bluff

The bank here is not so high above the roaring waters of the rapids, for the spur of the mountain which forms

the cliff lies at a right angle to the river, and the greater part of the cliff is thus on the shore, with its height

growing less and less as it merges into the main slope of the mountainside. From the turn in the road, in

front of the house, a footpath leads down the bank of the river to the cliff, and, climbing stairlike up the face

of the steep bluff, zigzags down the easier slope of the downriver side, to come again into the road below.

The road itself, below Elbow Rock, is forced by the steep side of the mountainspur and the precipitous bluff

to turn inland from the river, and so, climbing by an easier grade up past Tom Warden's place, crosses the

ridge above the schoolhouse, and comes back down the mountain again in 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 following the

Brian, seated on the riverbank a little way from the path where it starts up the bluff, was trying to decide

whether it would be better for him to follow his desire and stay with Auntie Sue for a few weeks or months,

or whether he should not, in spite of the land he might clear for her, return to the world where he could more

And as he sat there, the man was conscious that he had reached one of those turningpoints that are found in

every life where results, momentous and farreaching, are dependent upon comparatively unimportant and

temporary issues. He could not have told why, and yet he felt a certainty that, for him, two widely separated

futures were dependent upon his choice. Nor could he, by thinking, discover what those futures held for him,

nor which he should choose. Even as his boat that night had hung on the edge of the eddy,hesitating on the

dividingline between the two currents, so the man himself now felt the pull of his lifecurrents, and

Looking toward the house, he thought how like the life offered by Auntie Sue was to the quiet waters of The

Bend, andhis mind finished the similehow like the life to which he would go was to the rapids at Elbow

Rock; and, yet, he reflected, the waters could never reach the sea without enduring the turmoil of the rapids.

And, again, the thought came, "The Bend is just as much the river as the troubled passage around the rock."

When he had given up life, and, to all intent and purpose, had left life behind him, the river, without his will

or knowledge, had mysteriously elected to save him from the death he had chosen as his only refuge from the

utter ruin that had seemed so inevitable. As the currents of the river had carried his boat to the eddy at the

foot of Auntie Sue's garden, the currents of life had mysteriously brought him to the saving influence of

Auntie Sue herself. Should he push out again into the stream to face the danger he knew beset such a course?

or should he wait for a season in the secure calm of the harbor she offered until he were stronger? Brian Kent

knew, instinctively, that there was in the wisdom and love of Auntie Sue's philosophy and faith a strength that

would, if he could make it his, insure his safe passage through every danger of life, and yet

The man's meditations were interrupted by a chance look toward the bluff which towered above him.

Curiously, Brian watched the deformed mountain girl as she made her way up the narrow, stairlike path, and

her cutting words came back to him: "GodA'mighty and my drunken pap made me like I am. But

you,damn you!you made yourself what you be." And Auntie Sue had said that the allimportant thing

The girl, who had gained a point halfway to the top of the bluff, paused to look searchingly about, and Brian,

who was halfhidden by the bushes, started to call to her, thinking she might be looking for him; but some

impulse checked him and he remained silently watching her. Climbing hurriedly a little higher up the path

Judy again stopped to look carefully around, as if searching the vicinity for some one. Then, once more, she

went on until she stood on top of the cliff; and now, as she looked about over the surrounding country, she

Brian's lips were parted to answer the call when something happened on top of the bluff which held him for

From beyond where Judy stood on the brink of the cliff, a man's head and shoulders appeared. Brian saw the

girl start and turn to face the newcomer as if in sudden fear. Then she whirled about to run. Before she could

gain the point where the path starts down from the top, the man caught her and dragged her roughly back, so

that the two disappeared from Brian's sight. Brian was halfway up the bluff when he heard the girl's shrill

There was no sign of weakness, now, in the man that Judy had dragged from the river. He covered the

remaining distance to the top in a breath. From among the bushes, a little way down the mountainside, came

An instant more, and Brian reached the spot where poor Judy was crouching on the ground, begging the

The man was a viciouslooking creature, dressed in the rough garb of the mountaineer; dirty and unkempt,

with evil, closeset eyes, and a scraggly beard that could not hide the wicked, snarling mouth.

He stood for a second looking at Brian, as if too surprised by the latter's sudden appearance to move; then he

went down, felled by as clean 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 afixin' ter lick me somethin' awful when youall put in," returned the poor girl, trembling with

Judy's rescuer whirled, to see the man on the ground drawing a gun. A vigorous, welldirected kick,

delivered in the nick of time, sent the gun whirling away into the bushes and rendered the native's right arm

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

"I reckon I am," came the sullen reply. "I'm Jap Taylor, an' you all are sure goin' to find that you can't come

between a man an' his lawful child in these here mountains, mister,if youall be from the city."

"And you will find that you can't strike a crippled girl in my presence, even if she is your daughtcr,in these

mountains or anywhere else," retorted Brian. "What are you trying to do with her, anyway?"

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

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

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

"Pap, he was alayin' for me in the bresh 'cause he dassn't come to the house ter git me," said the girl,

"Hit was a year last cornplantin'," explained the girl. "My maw, she died. 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 done

fixed hit so that I was ter go an' live with Auntie Sue; an' pap, he give me ter her. He sure did, Mr. Burns, an'

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

"I didn't sign ary paper," repeated Judy's father, with sullen stubbornness. "An' what's more, I sure ain't

agoin' ter. I 'lows as how she'll just go home an' work for me, like she ort, 'stead of livin' with that there

He started toward the girl, who drew closer to Brian, and begged piteously: "Don't let him tech me! 'Fore

Brian went one step toward him: "Do you hear? Get out! And if you ever show your dirty face in this vicinity

And Jap Taylor saw something in those Irish blue eyes that caused him to start off down the mountain toward

When he had placed a safe distance between himself and the man who appeared so willing and able to make

good his threat, Judy's father turned, and, shaking his uninjured fist at Brian, delivered a volley of curses,

with: "I'll sure git youall for this! Jap Taylor ain't alettin' no man come between him an' his'n. I'll fix you,

"Never mind, Judy," said Brian, when the native had disappeared in the brush and timber that covered the

steep mountainside. "I'll not let him touch you. Come, let us sit down and talk a little until you are yourself

again. Auntie Sue must not see you like this. We don't want to let her know anything about it. You won't tell

"I ain't aimin' ter tell nobody," said Judy, between sobs. "I sure ain't awantin' ter make no trouble,not for

When they were seated on convenient rocks at the brink of the cliff overlooking the river, Judy gradually

ceased crying, and presently said, in her normal, querulous monotone: "Did youall mind what pap 'lowed

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

"Youall are aimin' ter stay then, be you? I'm sure powerful glad," said Judy, simply.

"I was powerful scared youall was aimin' ter go away," continued Judy. "Hit was that I was ahuntin'

"I 'lowed ter tell youall 'bout Auntie Sue. She'd sure be powerful mad if she know'd I'd said anythin' ter you,

but she's aneedin' somebody like you ter help her, mighty bad. Sheshe's done lost a heap of money,

Brian interrupted: "Wait a minute, Judy. You must not tell me anything about Auntie Sue's private affairs;

you must not tell any one. Anything she wants me to know, she will tell me. Do you understand?" he finished

"Yes, sir; I reckon youall are 'bout right, an' I won't tell nobody nothin'. But 'tain't agoin' ter hurt none ter

"'Cause of what Auntie Sue's done for youall,anursin' you when you was plumb crazy an' plumb

dangerous from licker, an' a lyin' like she did ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man," returned Judy

stoutly; "an' 'cause she's so old an' is aneedin' youall ter help her; an' 'cause she is alovin' you like she

does, an' is awantin' youall ter stay so bad hit's mighty nigh amakin' her plumb sick."

Brian Kent did not answer. The mountain girl's words had revealed to him the selfishness of his own

consideration of his problem so clearly that he was stunned. Why had he not, in his thinking, remembered the

Judy went on: "Hit looks ter me like somebody just naturally's got ter take care of Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns. All

her whole life she's abeen takin' care of everybody just like she tuck me, an' just like she tuck youall,

besides a heap of other ways; an' now she's so old and mighty nigh plumb wore out, hit sure looks like hit

was time somebody was afixin' ter do somethin' for her. That was what I was ahuntin' youall ter tell you

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

"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 anything about

your father, Judy;that would only make her unhappy; and we must never make Auntie Sue

"'Course," said Judy, solemnly; "'course you just naturally got ter stay an' take care of her now, after what

Together they went down the steep cliff trail and to the little log house by the river to announce Brian's

decision to Auntie Sue. They found the dear old lady in her favorite spot on the porch overlooking the 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 is never wrong. Oh, yes, I know there are crosscurrents and crooked spots and

sandbars and rocks and lots of places where it SEEMS to us to be wrong. But, just the same, it all goes on,

all the time, toward the sea for which it starts when it first begins at some little spring away over there

somewhere in the mountains. Of course you will stay with me, Brian,until the river carries you on again."

From the very day of his decision, to which he had been so unexpectedly helped by Judy, Brian Kent was

another man. The gloomy, despondent, undecided spirit that was the successor of the wretched creature that

Judy had helped to Auntie Sue's that morning was now succeeded by a cheerful, hopeful, contented man, who

went to his daily task with a song, did his work with a smile and a merry jest, and returned, when the day was

As the days of the glorious Ozark autumn passed, Brian's healthful, outdoor work on the timbered

mountainside brought to the man of the cities a physical grace and beauty he had lacked,the grace of

physical strength and the beauty of clean and rugged health. The bright autumn sun and the winds that swept

over the many miles of treeclad hills browned his skin; while his work with the ax developed his muscles

and enforced deep breathing of the bracing mountain air, thus bringing a more generous supply of richer

The gift of humor and the faculty of quaint and witty conversational twists, with the genius of storytelling

that was his from his Irish mother, made quick friends for him of the mountain neighbors who welcomed this

new pupil of their old schoolteacher with whole hearted pleasure, and quoted his jests and sayings

throughout the country with neverfailing delight. And Judy,it is not too much to say that Judy became his

But the dear old mistress of the little log house by the river alone recognized that these outward changes in

the human wreck that the river had brought to her were but manifestations of a more potent transformation

that was taking place in the man's inner life; and it was this inner change that filled the teacher's loving heart

It was not, after all, a new life that was coming to this man, Auntie Sue told herself; it was his own old and

more real life that was reassuring itself. It was the real Brian Kent that had been sojourning in a far country

that was now coming home to his own. It was the wealth of his heart and mind and soul which had been

deepburied under an accumulation of circumstances and environment that was now being brought to the

Might it not be that Auntie Sue's genius for absorbing beauty and making truth her own had, in her many

years of searching for truth and beauty in whatever humanity she encountered, developed in her a peculiar

sensitiveness? And was it not this that had made her feel instinctively the real nature of the man in whom a

less discerning observer would have recognized nothing worthy of admiration or regard? Without question, it

was the true,the essential,the underlying,elements in the character of the absconding bank clerk that

had aroused in this remarkable old gentlewoman the peculiar sense of kinshipof possessionthat had

determined her attitude toward the stranger. The law that like calls to like is not less applicable to things

spiritual than to things material. The birds of a feather that always flock together are not of necessity material

Nor was Brian Kent himself unconscious of his ReCreation. The man knew what he was, as every man

knows deep within himself the real self that is. And that was the horror of the situation which had set him

adrift on the river that night when, in his last drunken despairing frenzy, he had left the world with a curse in

his heart and had faced the black unknown with reckless laughter and a profane toast. It is to be doubted if

there 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 the very strength of his genius into a situation that is intolerable of his real

In his new environment the man felt the awakening of this self which he had 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 as great as had been his despair.

The beauty of nature, that had lost its power of appeal to his sodden soul, now stirred him to the very depth of

his being. The crisp, sunsweet air of the autumn mornings, when he went forth with his ax to the day's clean

labor, was a draught of potent magic that set every nerve of him tingling with delight. The woodland hillside,

where he worked, was a wonderland of beautiful creations that inspired a thousand glowing fancies.

Sometimes, at his heavy task, he would pause for a moment's rest, and so would look out and away over the

vast expanse of country that from his feet stretched in all its charm of winding river and wooded slopes, and

tree fringed ridges to the far, blue skyline; and the very soul of him would answer to the call as he had

thought he never could answer again. The very clouds that drifted past on their courses to unseen ports

beyond the hills were freighted with meaning for him now. The winds that came laden with the subtly

blended perfume of ten thousand varieties of trees and grasses and shrubs and flowers whispered words of

life which he now could hear. The loveliness of the glowing 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 Sue from the porch when the

day's task was accomplished, filled him with an exquisite gladness which he had never hoped to know again.

Most of all, did the river speak to him; not, indeed, as it had spoken that dreadful night, when, from the

window of his darkened room, he had listened to its call: the river spoke, now, in the full day as his eye

followed its winding length through the hills in all its varied beauty of sunshine and shadow;of gleaming

silver and living green and russetbrown. It talked to him in the evening when the waters gave back the

glories of the sky and the deepening twilight wrapped the world in its dusky veil of mystery. It spoke to him

in the soft darkness of the night, as it swept on its way under the stars, or in the light of the golden moon.

And, in time, some of these things which the river said to him, he, in turn, told to Auntie Sue.

And Auntie Sue, delighted with the man's awakening self, and charmed with his power of thought and his gift

of expression, led him on. With artful suggestion and skilful question and subtle argument, she stimulated his

mind and fancy to lay hold of the truths and beauties that life and nature offered. But ever the rare old

gentlewoman was his teacher, revealing himself to himself; guiding him to a fuller discovery and knowledge

of his own life and its meaning, which, indeed, is the true aim and end of all right teaching.

So the days of the autumn passed. The hills changed their robes of varied green for costumes of brown and

gold, with touches here and there of flaming scarlet and brilliant yellow. And then winter was at hand, and

that momentous evening came when Auntie Sue said to her pupil, after an hour of most interesting talk,

"I am in earnest, Brian," said Auntie Sue, her lovely old eyes shining with enthusiasm and her gentle voice

trembling with excitement. "I have been thinking about it for a long time, now, and, tonight, I just can't keep

it to myself any longer. Why don't you give to the world some of the thoughts you have been wasting on Judy

"Hit's sure been awastin' of 'em on me," agreed Judy. "'Fore God, I don't sense what he's atalkin' 'bout,

Brian laughed. "Judy is prophetic, Auntie Sue. She voices perfectly the sentiment of the world toward any

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

Judy spoke again as she arose to retire to her room for the night: "I reckon as how there's a right smart of

things youuns talk that'd be mighty fine if a body only had the learnin' ter sense 'em. An' there must be heaps

of folks where youuns come from what would know Mr. Burns's meaning if he was to write hit all out plain.

"And there, Brian, dear, is your answer," said Auntie Sue, as Judy left the room. "Any book has meaning only

for those who have the peculiar sympathy and understanding needed to interpret it. A book that means

nothing to one may be rich in meaning for another. Every writer writes for his own peculiar readers, just as

Brian went to the window, and stood for some time, looking out into the night. Then turning, with a nervous

gesture, he paced uneasily up and down the room; while Auntie Sue watched him in silence with an

At last, she spoke: "Why, Brian, what is the matter? What have I said? I did not mean to upset you like this.

With a short laugh, Brian came and stood before her. "I suppose it had to come sooner or later, Auntie Sue. I

have been trying for days to muster up courage enough to tell you about it. You have touched the one biggest

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

"Thinking about it!" he echoed, and in his voice she felt the nervous intensity of his mood. "I have thought of

nothing else. All day long when I am at work, I am writing, writing, writing. It is the last thing on my mind

when I go to sleep. I dream about it all night. And, it is the first thing I think about in the morning."

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

Brian, with a quiet smile at her enthusiasm, went on: "I know exactly what I want to say, and why I want to

say it. There is a world of people, Auntie Sue, whose lives have been broken and spoiled by one thing or

another, and who have more or less cut themselves loose from everything, and are just drifting, they don't

care a hang where, because they think they have failed so completely that there is nothing more in life for

them. People like me,I don't mean thieves and criminals necessarily,who have had that which they

know to be the best and biggest and truest part of themselves tortured and warped and twisted and denied and

smashed and beaten and betrayed and killed; and who, because they feel that their real selves are dead within

He was walking the floor again now, and speaking with a depth of feeling which he had never before

"It is not so much the love of wrongdoing that makes people turn bad,"he continued,"it is having their

real selves misunderstood and doubted and smothered and their realest loves and dreams and aspirations

never recognized, or else distorted and twisted and made to appear as something they hate. I want to make the

people and there are many thousands of themwho are suffering in the living hell that tormented me, feel

that I know and understand. And then, Auntie Sue, then I want to tell them about you and your river.

"I would teach them the things you have taught me. I would say to every one that I could persuade to listen:

'It doesn't in the least matter what your experience is, the old river is still going on to the sea. No matter if

every woman you ever knew has proved untrue, virtuous womanhood still IS. No matter if every man you

ever knew has proved false, true manhood still IS. If every friend you ever had has betrayed your friendship,

loyal friendship still IS. If you have found nothing in your experience but dishonesty and falsehood and

infidelity and hypocrisy, it is only because you have been unfortunate in your experience; because honesty

and fidelity and sincerity are existing FACTS. They are the very foundation facts of life, and can no more fail

"'Your little individual experience, my little individual experience,what are they? They are nothing more

than the tiny bubbles, swirls, ripples, and breaks on the surface of the great volume of water that flows so

inevitably onward. The bit of foam, the tiny wave caused by twig or branch or blade of watergrass, or the

great rocks and cliffs that make the roaring whirlpools and rapids,do they stay the waters, or turn the river

back on its course, or in any way prevent its onward flow? No more can the twigs of circumstances, or the

boughs of environment, or the grasses of accident that make the tiny waves of our individual

experiences,or even the great rocks and cliffs of national or racial import,such as wars, and pestilence,

and famine,finally check or stay the river of life in its onward flow toward the sea of its final and infinite

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

"Why, Auntie Sue," he said, turning back to the old gentlewoman, and his face was radiant with the

earnestness of this thought, "Auntie Sue, there are as many currents in our river out there as there are

human lives. A comparatively few great main or dominant currents in the river flowa comparatively few

great dominant currents in the river flow of life. But if you look closer, you will see that in each one of those

established principal currents there are countless thousandsmillionsof tiny currents all turning and

twisting across, and back, and up, and down in every direction,weaving themselves together,pulling

themselves apart,crisscrossing, clashing,interlacing,tangled and confused,and these are the

individual lives. And no matter what the conflict or confusion; no matter what direction they take for the

moment, they all, ALL, go to make up the river;they, all together, ARE the river,and they all together

He paused to stand smiling down at her, as she sat there in her low chair beside the table with the lamplight

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

With trembling hands, the gentle old teacher reached for her handkerchief, which lay in the sewingbasket 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 his reddish hair tumbled and tossed, and his Irish blue eyes

As a breath of air puts out the light of a candle, so the light went from Brian Kent's face. Dropping into his

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

Auntie Sue's quick mind caught the significance of his words. "ANOTHER failure, Brian? Then you,then

"Yes," he returned. And not since his decision to remain with her had she seen him so despondent. "To write

was the dream and the passion of my life. I tried and tried. God, how I worked and slaved at it! The only

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

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

"I know," she answered. "But don't you think that perhaps you had better tell me? Perhaps, in the mere telling

of it to me, now that it is all over, you may find the real reason forfor what happened to you."

Wise Auntie Sue!wise in that rarest of all wisdom,the sympathetic understanding of human hearts and

"You know about my earlier life," he began; "how, in my boyhood, after mother'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 of

writing, even then. I took the business course in a nightschool, not because I liked it, but because I thought it

would help me to earn a living in a way that would give me more time for what I really wanted to do. And

after I finished school, and had finally worked up to a good position in that bank, I did have more time for my

"No, she did not understand," he continued, accepting Auntie Sue's interpretation without comment. "And

when my writing brought no money, because no publisher would accept my stuff, and the conditions under

which I wrote became intolerable because of misunderstanding and opposition and disbelief in my ability and

charges of neglect, IIstole money from my employers to gain temporary relief until my writing should

amount to something. You see, I could not help believing that I would succeed, in time. I suppose all

dreamers have more or less confidence in their dreams: they must, you know, or their dreams would never be

realized. I always expected to pay back the money I took with the money I would earn by my pen. But I

failed to earn anything, you see; and then then the inevitable happened, and the river brought me to you."

"But, my dear boy!" cried Auntie Sue, "all this that you have told me is no reason why you should fear to

He looked at her questioningly, and she continued: "You have given every reason in the world why you

failed. Your whole life was out of tune. How could you expect to produce anything worthy from such a

jangling discord? You should have been afraid, indeed, to write THEN. But, NOW,now, Brian, you are

ready. You are a long, long way down the river from the place of your failures. The disturbing, distracting

things are past,just as in the quiet reach of the river below Elbow Rock the turmoil of the rapids is past.

You say that you know exactly what you want to write, and why you want to write itand you do

knowand because you know, because you have suffered,because you have learned,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 'afraid to write' is, that you are AFRAID NOT TO," she finished with a little laugh of satisfaction.

And Brian Kent, as he watched her glowing face and felt the sincerity and confidence that vibrated in her

voice, was thrilled with a new courage. The fires of his inspiration shone again in his eyes, as he answered,

with deep conviction, "Auntie Sue, I believe you are right. What a woman you are!"

When the days were fair, he worked with his ax on the mountain side. But his notebook was ever at hand,

and many a thought that went down on the pages of his manuscript was born while he wrought with his hands

in the wholesome labor which gave strength to his body and clearness to his brain. In the evenings, he wrote

in the little log house by the river, with Auntie Sue sitting in her chair beside the table,the lamplight on

her silvery hair, and her sewingbasket within reach of her hand,engaged with some bit of needlework, a

book, or perhaps with one of her famous letters to some other pupil, far away. The stormy days gave him

And always as the man endeavored to shape his thoughts for the printed pages that would carry his message

to the doubting, disconsolate, and fearful world that he knew so well, he heard in his heart the voices of the

river. From the hillside where he worked in the timber he could see the stream winding through the snowy

hills like a dark line carelessly drawn with many a crook and curve and break on the sheet of white. From the

porch he saw the quiet Bend a belt of shining ice and snow, save for a narrow line in the centre, which

marked the course of the strongest currents; while the waters of the rapids crashed black and dreadful against

the Elbow Rock cliff, which stood gaunt and grim amid the surrounding whiteness; and in the deathlike hush

of the winter twilight, the roar of the turmoil sounded with persistent menace. And all that the river said to

And that which Brian Kent wrote was good. He knew itin his deepest, truest self he knew. And Auntie Sue

knew it; for, of course, he read to her from his manuscript as the book grew under his hand. Even Judy caught

much of his story's meaning, and marvelled at herself because she, too, could understand.

And now the question arose: What would they do about the final preparation of the manuscript for the

printers? Brian explained that he should have a typewritten copy of his script, which he would work over,

correct, and revise, and from which perfected copy the final manuscript would be typewritten. But neither

Auntie Sue nor Brian would consider his finishing the book anywhere but in the little log house by the river;

even if there had been no other reason why Brian should not go to the city, if it could be avoided.

"There is only one thing to do,"said Auntie Sue, at last, when the matter 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 in April. I'll just write her to come right here,

and bring her typewriter along. She will need a vacation, and she can have it and do your work at the same

time. Besides, I need to see Betty Jo. She hasn't been to visit me since before Judy came."

Brian thought that Auntie Sue seemed a little nervous and excited as she spoke, but he attributed it to her

combined interest in the book and in the proposed typist. The man could not know the real cause of his gentle

old companion's agitation, nor with what anxiety she had considered the matter for many days before she

announced her plan. The fact was that Auntie Sue was taking a big chance, and she realized it fully. But she

could find no other way to secure the services of a competent stenographer for Brian, and, as Brian must have

a competent stenographer in order to finish his book properly, she had decided to accept the risk.

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

"Betty Jo is,"Auntie Sue paused and laughed with a suggestion of embarrassed confusion,"Betty Jo

Brian laughed now. "Fine, Auntie Sue! That describes her exactly,tells me her life's history and gives me a

"It describes her with more accuracy than you think," retorted Auntie Sue, smiling in return at his teasing

"I reckon as how she's got more of er name than that, ain't she?" said Judy, who was a silent, but intensely

interested, listener. "I've allus took notice that folks with funny names'll stand a right smart of watchin'."

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 even saw Betty Jo! You shouldn't say such things, child."

"Might as well say 'em as ter think 'em, I reckon," Judy returned, her beadyblack eyes stealthily watching

Again Auntie Sue seemed to hesitate; then"Her name is Miss Betty Jo Williams," and as she spoke the old

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

"She is the orphanniece of one of my old pupils," Auntie Sue continued. "I have known her since she was a

baby. When she finished her education in the seminary, and had travelled abroad for a few months, she

decided all at once that she wanted a course in a business college, which was just what any one knowing her

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

While Auntie Sue was preparing to write her letter, Judy muttered, in a tone which only Brian heard: "Just the

same, 'tain't no name for a common gal ter have; hit sure ain't. There's somethin' dad burned queer 'bout hit

"I ain't aimin' ter worry her none," returned the mountain girl; "but I'll bet youall a pretty that this here gal'll

For some reason, Auntie Sue's letter to Betty Jo seemed to be rather long. In fact, she spent the entire evening

at it; which led Judy to remark that "hit sure looked like Auntie Sue was aimin' ter write a book herself."

A neighbor who went to Thompsonville the following day with a load of hogs for shipment, posted the letter.

It was the day following the evening when Brian wrote the last page of his book that another letter came to

Auntie Sue,a letter which, for the second time, very nearly wrecked Brian Kent's world.

Brian was working in the garden. It was early in the afternoon, and the man, as he worked in the freshly

Straightening up from his labor, he drew a deep breath of the fragrant air. About him on every side, and far

away into the blue distance, the world was dressed in the gala dress of the season. The river, which at the

breaking of the winter had been a yellow flood that washed the top of the bank in front of the house and

covered the bottomlands on the opposite side, was again its normal self, and its voice to him, now, was a

For Brian, too, the world was new, and fresh, and beautiful. The world of his winter was gone. He had found

himself in his work, and in the glorious consciousness of the fact he felt like shouting with sheer joy of living.

"And Auntie Sue, dear Auntie Sue," he thought, looking with love in his eyes toward the house, how

wonderful she had been in her helpful understanding and neverfailing faith in him. After all, it was Auntie

His happy musing was interrupted by a neighbor who, on his way home from Thompsonville, stopped at the

Brian took the letter with a jest which brought a roar of laughter from the mountaineer, and, when the latter

Glancing at the envelope in his hand, Brian noticed the postmark "Buenos Aires." He stopped suddenly,

staring dumbly at the words in the circular mark and at the name written on the envelope. Over and over, he

read "Buenos Aires,Miss Susan Wakefield; Buenos Aires,Miss Susan Wakefield." Something His

brain seemed to be numb. His hands trembled. He looked about at the familiar surroundings, and everything

seemed suddenly strange and unreal to him. He looked again at the letter in his hand, turning it curiously. A

strange feeling of oppression and ominous foreboding possessed him as though the bright spring sky were all

at once overcast with heavy and menacing stormclouds. What was it? "Buenos Aires,Susan Wakefield?"

Where had he seen that combination before? What was it that made the name of the Argentine city in

connection with Auntie Sue's name seem so familiar? Slowly, he went on to the house, and, finding Auntie

"Oh!" cried the old lady, as she saw the postmark on the envelope. "It must be from brother John. It is not

And at her words the feeling of impending disaster so oppressed Brian Kent that only by an effort could he

control himself. He was possessed of the strange sensation of having at some time in the past lived the

identical experience through which he was at that moment passing. "Susan Wakefield;a brother John in

Buenos Aires, Argentine;the letter!" It was all so familiar that the allusion was startling in its force. But

that ominous cloud,that sense of some great trouble near that filled him with such unaccountable

An exclamation from Auntie Sue drew his attention. She looked at him with tearfilled eyes, and her sweet

voice broke as she said: "Brian! Brian! John is dead! Thisthis letter is from the doctor who attended him."

Tenderly, as he would have helped his own mother, Brian assisted Auntie Sue to her room. For a little while

Briefly, she told him of the brother who had lived in Argentine for many years. He had married a

SouthAmerican woman whom Auntie Sue had never seen, and while not wealthy had been moderately

prosperous. But he had never forgotten his sister who was so alone in the world. "Several times, when he

could, he sent me money for my savingsbank account," she finished simply, her sweet old voice low and

tender with the memories of the years that were gone. "John and I were always very fond of each other. He

Brian Kent sat like a man stricken dumb. Auntie Sue's words, "he sent me money for my savingsbank

account," had made the connection between the names "Buenos Aires, Argentine; John Wakefield; Susan

Wakefield," and the thing for which his mind had been groping with such a sense of impending disaster.

In her grief over the death of her brother, and in her memories of their home years so long past, dear old

Auntie Sue had forgotten the peculiar meaning her words might have for the former clerk of the Empire

Consolidated Savings Bank who sat beside her, and to whom she turned in her sorrow as a mother to a dearly

"But it is all right, Brian, dear," she said with brave cheerfulness. "When one has watched the sunsets for

seventy years, one ceases to fear the coming of the night, for always there is the morning. Just let me rest here

She looked up at him with a smile, and Brian Kent, kneeling beside the bed, bowed his head and caught the

dear old hands to his lips. Without trusting himself to speak again, the man left the room, closing the door.

He moved about the apartment as one in a dream. With a vividness that was torture, he lived again that hour

in the bank when, opening the afternoon mail, he had found the letter from Susan Wakefield with the

Argentine notes, which her letter said she had received from her brother John in Buenos Aires, and which she

was sending to the bank for deposit to her little account. It had been a very unbusinesslike letter and a very

unbusinesslike way to transmit money. It was, indeed, this nature of the transaction that had tempted the

Mechanically, Brian stopped at his writingtable to finger the manuscript which he had finished the evening

before. Was it only the evening before? Taking up the volume of closely written sheets which were bound

together by a shoestring that Auntie Sue had laughingly found for him, when he had so joyously announced

the completion of the last page of his book, he turned the leaves idly,reading here and there a sentence

with curious interest. The terrific mental strain of his situation completely divorced him, as it were, from the

life which he had lived during those happy months just past, and which was so fully represented by his work.

Again the river, swinging around a sudden turn in its course, had come upon a passage where its peaceful

"And Auntie Sue,"something within the man's self was saying, "dear Auntie Sue, who had saved him,

not only from death, but from the hell of the life that he had formerly lived, as well; and whose loving

companionship and sympathetic understanding had so inspired and strengthened him in the work which had

been the passionate desire of his heart;the gentle old teacher whose life had been so completely given to

others, and who, in the helplessness of her last years, was so alone,Auntie Sue was depending upon that

money which her brother had sent her as the only support of the closing days of her life. Auntie Sue believed

that her money was safe in the bank. That belief was to her a daily comfort. Auntie Sue did not know that she

was almost penniless;that the man whom she had saved with such a wondrous salvation had robbed her,

and left her so shamefully without means for the necessities of life. Auntie Sue did not know. But she would

know,"that inner voice went on. "The time would come when she would learn the truth. It was certain to

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

Judy was sitting idly on the porch steps. At sight of the mountain girl the man knew all at once that there was

one thing he must do. He must make sure that there was no mistake. He was already sure, of course; but still,

as a condemned man at the scaffold hopes against hope for a stay of sentence, so he caught at the shadowy

"Come with me, Judy," he said, forcing himself to speak coolly; "I want to 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 there somethin' in that there letter Bud Jackson give youall for her what's

"Auntie Sue's brother is dead, Judy," Brian answered. "She wishes to be alone, and we must not disturb her.

She will be all right in a little while. Come, let us walk down toward the bluff."

When they had reached a spot on the riverbank a short distance above the Elbow Rock cliff, Brian said to

his companion: "Judy, I want you to tell me something. Did Auntie Sue ever send money in a letter to the

"The black, beady eyes shifted evasively, and the mountain girl turned her sallow, oldyoung face away from

"I done started ter tell youall onct,that time pap ketched me, an' youall 'lowed as how I oughten ter

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

Judy's beady eyes were watching him intently, now. "Hit looks like youall ain't aneedin' me ter tell youall

"I dunno,some funny kind hit was,what her brother done sent her from some funny place, I dunno just

"Andand did any letter ever come from the bank to tell her that the money was received by them all right?"

"Tell me," Brian insisted. "IImust know, Judy," and his voice was harsh and broken with emotion.

The answer came reluctantly: "I reckon youall knows where that there money went ter."

The girl's answer sent a new thought like a hot iron into Brian Kent's tortured brain. He caught Judy's arm in

quick and fearful excitement. "Judy!" he gasped, imploringly, "Judy, do you? does Auntie Sue know?

"How could she help knowin'? She ain't no fool. An' I done heard that there Sheriff an' the deteckertive man

tellin' her 'bout you an' the bank. An' the Sheriff, he done give her a paper what he said told all 'bout what

youall done, an' she must er burned the paper, or done somethin' 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 not ter ever say

nothin' ter youall 'bout that there money letter? An' why ain'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 reverent wonder: "An' to think that all the time

she could a turned youall over to that there Sheriff an' got the moneyreward to pay her back what youall

Brian Kent was as one who had received a mortal hurt. His features were distorted with suffering. With eyes

that could not see, he looked down at the manuscript to which he still unconsciously clung; and, again, he

fingered the pages of his work as though some blind instinct were sending his tormented soul to seek relief in

the message which, during the happy months just past, he had written for others.

And the deformed mountain girl, who stood before him with twisted body and oldyoung face, grew fearful

as she watched the suffering of this man whom she had come to look upon as a superior being from some

"Mr. Burns," she said at last, putting out her hand and plucking at his sleeve, "Mr. Burns, youall ain't got no

call ter be like this. Youall ain't plumb bad. I knows you ain't, 'count of the way you all have been ter me

an' 'cause you kept pap from hurtin' me, an' 'cause you are takin' care of Auntie Sue like you're doin'. Hit ain't

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

"An' just think 'bout your book," Judy continued pleadingly. "Think 'bout all them fine things youall have

done wrote down for everybody ter read,'bout the river allus agoin' on just the same, no matter what

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

"Don't, Mr. Burns! Don't!" she halfscreamed. "'Fore God, youall oughten ter look like that!"

The man threw up his head, and laughed,laughed as the wild, reckless and lost Brian Kent had laughed that

black night when, in the drifting boat, he had cursed the life he was leaving and had drunk his profane toast to

Raising the manuscript, which represented all that the past months of his recreated life had meant to him,

and grasping it in both hands, he shook it contemptuously, as he said, with indescribable bitterness and the

reckless surrendering of every hope: "'All them fine things that I have wrote down for everybody ter read.'"

He mimicked her voice with a sneer, and laughed again. Then: "It's all a lie, Judy, dear;a damned lie.

Auntie Sue is a saint, and believes it. She made me believe it for a little while,her beautiful, impossible

dreamphilosophy of the river. The river, hell!the river is as treacherous and cruel and false and tricky

and crooked as life itself! And I am as warped and twisted in mind and soul as you are in body, Judy, dear.

Neither of us can help it. We were made that way by the river. To hell with the whole impossible mess of

things!" With a gesture of violent rage, he turned toward the river, and, taking a step forward, lifted the

And then, as the man turned his face from her, and his arms went back above his head for the swing that

would send the manuscript far out into the tumbling waters of the rapids, she leaped toward him, and,

catching his arm, hampered his movement so that the book fell a few feet from the shore, where the water,

checked a little in its onward rush to the cliff by the irregular bank, boiled and eddied among the rocky ledges

and huge boulders that retarded its force. Another leap carried the mountain girl to the edge of the bank,

where she crouched like a runner ready for the report of the starter's pistol, her black, beady eyes searching

the stream for the volume of manuscript, which had disappeared from sight, drawn down by the troubled

The man, watching her, laughed in derision; but, while his mocking laughter was still on his lips, the boiling

currents brought the book, again, to the surface, and Brian saw the girl leave the bank as if thrown by a

powerful spring. Straight and true she dived for the book, and even as she disappeared beneath the surface her

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 with all his strength along the bank to gain a point a little ahead of the swimming girl

But Judy, trained from her birth on that mountain river, knew better than Brian what to do. A short distance

below the point where she had plunged into the stream, a huge boulder, some two or three feet from the

shore, caused a split in the current, one fork of which set in toward the bank. Swimming desperately, the girl

gained the advantage of this current, and, just as Brian reached the spot, she was swept against the bank,

where, with her free hand, she caught and held fast to a projecting root. Had she been carried past that point,

nothing could have saved her from being swept on into the wild turmoil of the waters at Elbow Rock.

It was the work of a moment for Brian to throw himself flat on the ground at the edge of the bank and,

reaching down, to grasp the girl's wrist. Another moment, and she was safe beside him, his manuscript still

Not realizing, in his excitement, what he was doing, Brian shook the girl, saying angrily: "What in the world

She broke away from him with: "Well, what'd youall go an' do such a dad burned fool thing for? Hit's

Judy clutched the book tighter, and drew back defiantly. "I won't. Youall done throwed hit away onct.

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

"I aims ter give hit ter Auntie Sue," came the startling reply. "I reckon 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 when youall was so

dad burned tickled at gittin' hit done. Youall ain't got no right ter sling hit inter the river, an', anyway, I ain't

Judy and Brian turned quickly, to face a young woman who stood regarding them thoughtfully, with a

The most careless eye would have seen instantly that the newcomer was not a native of that backwoods

district. She was not a large woman, but there was, nevertheless, a full, rounded strength, which saved her

trim and rather slender body from appearing small. Neither would a discriminating observer describe her by

that too common term "pretty." She was more than that. In her large, gray eyes, there was a look of frank,

straightforward interest that suggested an almost boyish goodfellowship, while at the same time there was

about her a general air of good breeding; with a calm, selfpossessed and businesslike alertness which,

combined with a wholesome dignity, commanded a feeling of respect and confidence. Her voice was clear

and musical, with an undertone of sympathetic humor. One felt when she spoke that while she lacked 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: "It seems 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't you cold! It is rather early in the

season for a dip in the river, I should think. Let me take whatever you have there, and you make for the house

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

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

"This here ain't none of your putin," and her shrill drawling monotone contrasted strangely with the other's

"I came over the bluff by the path," answered the other. "You see, I left the train from the south at White's

Crossing because I knew I could drive up from there by the river road quicker than I could go by rail away

around through the hills to Thompsonville, and then make the drive down the river from there. When I

reached Elbow Rock, I was in such a hurry, I took the short cut, while the man with my trunk and things went

by the road over Schoolhouse Hill, you know. I arrived here just as this gentleman was pulling you from the

Before Brian could speak, Judy returned with excitement: "I know who youall be now. I ought ter knowed

the minute I set eyes on you. Youall are the gal with that there no'count name, an' you've come ter work for

him, there,"she pointed to Brian,"a helpin' him ter write his book, what ain't his'n no more, nohow,

"I am Miss Williams," returned the other. "My 'no'count name,' I suppose, 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 to the house,

and change to some dry clothes? You will catch your death of cold if you stand here like this."

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

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

Brian made no reply,he really could not speak. "And this," Betty Jo included Judy, the manuscript, and

the river in a graceful gesture,"this, I suppose, is the result of what is called 'the artistic temperament'?"

Still the man could find no words. The young woman's presence and her reference to his work brought to

him, with overwhelming vividness, the memory 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 of rebellion that she should have come at

such a moment,that she could stand there with such calm selfpossession and with such an air of

competency. Her confidence and poise in such contrast to the chaotic turmoil of his own thoughts, and his

utter helplessness in the situation which had so suddenly burst upon him, filled him with unreasoning

Betty Jo must have read in Brian Kent's face something of the suffering that held him there dumb and

motionless before her, and so sensed a deeper tragedy than appeared on the surface of the incident; and her

own face and voice revealed her understanding as she said, with quiet, but decisive, force: "Mr. Burns, Judy

Brian started as one aroused from deep abstraction, and went to Judy; while Betty Jo drew a little way apart,

"Youall ain't agoin' ter sling hit inter the river again?" The words were halfquestion and halfassertion.

As Judy gave him the manuscript, she turned her beady eyes in a stealthy, oblique look toward Betty Jo, and

whispered: "Youall best tell her 'bout hit. I sure hate her poisonbad; but hit's easy ter see she'd sure know

"Be careful that Auntie Sue doesn't see you like this, Judy," was Brian's only answer; and Judy started off for

When the mountain girl was gone, Brian stood looking at the water 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 the months

just past, he had given so without reserve the best of himself. It was, he thought, strange how he could regard

with such indifference a thing 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 no longer his. Judy was rightthis book which

he had called his had always been, in reality, Auntie Sue's. So the matter of his work, at least so far as he had

But what of himself? What was to become of him? Of one thing only he was certain about himself;he

never could face Auntie Sue again. Knowing, now, what he had done, and knowing that she knew; that all

the time she was nursing him back to health, all the time she had been giving him the inspiration and strength

and peace of her gentle, loving companionship, in the safe and quiet harbor of her little house by the river,

A clear, matteroffact, but gentle, voice interrupted his bitter thoughts: "Is it so very badly damaged, Mr.

Very businesslike and practical, but with an underlying feeling of tenderness that was her most compelling

"Why, no," she announced cheerfully; "it isn't really hurt much. You see, the sheets being tied together so

tightly, the water didn't get all the 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 is lucky it didn't prolong its bath, though, isn't it? All we need to do, now, is to put it in

Selecting a sunny spot near by, she arranged the volume against a stone and deftly separated the pages so that

the air could circulate more freely between them; and one would have said, from her manner of ready

assurance, that she had learned from long experience exactly how to dry a manuscript that had been thrown in

the river and rescued just in the nick of time. That was Betty Jo's way. She always did everything without

hesitation,just as though she had spent the twentythree years of her life doing exactly that particular

Kneeling over the manuscript, and gently moving the wet sheets, she said, without looking up: "Do you

always bath your manuscripts like this before you turn them over to your stenographer to type, Mr. Burns?"

The clear, matteroffact voice went on, while the competent hands moved the drying pages. "You see, I

She looked up at him with a Betty Jo smile that went straight to his heart, as Betty Jo's smiles had a curious

"I hope you will be very patient with me, Mr. Burns. You will, won't you? 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 man talked. Brian yielded not ungracefully: "I

"Indeed, no," Betty Jo returned, giving her attention to the manuscript again. "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 that

That was another interestingly curious thing about Betty Jo,the way she could finish off a characteristic,

matteroffact statement with a question which had the effect of making one agree instantly whether one

Brian felt himself quite unexpectedly feeling that "upsetments" were quite common, ordinary, and to be

expected events in one's life. "But I am really in very serious trouble, Miss Williams," he said in a way that

sounded oddly to Brian himself, as though he were trying to convince himself that his trouble really was

Betty Jo rose to her feet, and looked straight at him, and there was no mistaking the genuineness of the

"Oh, are you? Is it really so serious? I am so sorry. But don't you think you better tell me about it, Mr. Burns?

There it was again,that trickquestion. Brian felt himself agreeing in spite of himself, though how he was

to explain his painful situation to this young woman whom, until a few minutes before, he had never even

seen, 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 a pretense of anything. "What did Judy

And the matteroffact Betty Jo returned: "Judy seems to be a very particular and commonsensing sort of

"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 comfortable rock,that is your big officechair, you know,and I'll sit right here on this

rock,which is my little stenography chair,and you will just explain the serious business proposition to

me with careful attention to details. I must tell you that 'detailing' is one of my strong points, so don't spare

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

"But this is not a business matter, Miss Williams," he managed to protest halfheartedly.

Betty Jo was looking at her watch in a most matteroffact manner, and she answered in a most

matteroffact voice: "Everything is more or less a business matter, isn't it, Mr. Burns?"

Betty Jo slipped her watch back into her pocket, and continued: "You will have plenty of time before that

man with my trunk and things can get away 'round over Schoolhouse Hill and down again to Auntie Sue's. He

will be obliged to stop at neighbor Tom's, and tell them all about me, of course. We mustn't let him beat us to

That "don'tyouthink?" so characteristic of Betty Jo, did its work, as usual; 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 best

possible thing he could do, and he was relating his whole wretched experience to this young woman, about

whom he knew nothing except that she was a niece of an old pupil of Auntie Sue's, and that she had just

At several points in his story Betty Jo asked straightforward questions, or made short, matteroffact

comments; but, always with her businesslike air of competent interest. Indeed, she managed to treat the

situation as being wholly impersonal; while at the same time the man was never for a moment made to feel

that she was lacking in sincere and genuine sympathy. Only when he told her that his name was Brian Kent,

and mentioned the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, did she for the moment betray excited surprise. When

she saw that he had noticed, she said quickly: "I read of the affair in the papers, of course."

Auntie Sue had indeed taken a big chance when she decided for Betty Jo to come to help Brian with his book.

But Auntie Sue had taken no chance on Betty Jo herself. Perhaps it was, in fact, the dear old teacher's

certainty about Betty Jo herself that had led her to accept the risk of sending for the niece of her friend and

When Brian had finished his story with the account of his discovery of the distressing fact that he had robbed

Auntie Sue and that she knew he had 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 such another woman in the world! Don't you love her?

And couldn't you do anythinganything that would make her happy? After all, when you think of Auntie

"Why, IIdon't think I see what you mean," Brian replied, puzzled by the unexpected turn she had given

to the situation, yet convinced by that 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 has done 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 and

Brian did not answer. While he felt himself agreeing with Betty Jo's view, he was wondering at himself that

he could discuss the matter so calmly. It was not that he no longer felt deeply the shame of this terrible thing

that he had done; it was not that he had ceased to suffer the torment that had caused his emotional madness,

which had found expression in his attempt to destroy his manuscript; it was only that this young woman

somehow made it possible for him to retain his selfcontrol, and instead of venting his emotions in violent

and wholly useless expressions of regret, and selfcondemnation, and in irrational, temperamental action, to

consider coolly and sanely what he must do. He was strangely possessed, too, of an instinctive certainty that

While he was thinking these things, or, rather, feeling them, Betty Jo went to see how the manuscript was

drying. She returned to her seat on the rock presently, saying: "It is doing very nicely, almost dry. I think it

will be done pretty soon. In the meantime, what are we going to do about everything? You have thought of

She nodded. "Yes, I know; but feeling alone never arrives anywhere. An excess of thoughtless feeling is

sheer emotional extravagance. I sound like a book, don't I?" she laughed. "It is so just the same, Mr. Burns.

And now that you haveahbeen properlynot to say gloriouslyextravagant at poor Judy's expense,

The man's cheeks reddened at her words; but the straightforward, downright sincerity of those gray eyes, that

looked so frankly into his, held him steady; while the interrogation at the end of her remark carried its usual

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

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

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

"Of course you would expect to feel that way, wouldn't you?" came the matteroffact answer.

"The only thing I can do," he continued, "is to give myself up, and go to the penitentiary; arranging,

somehow, to do it in such a way that the reward will go to Auntie Sue. God knows she deserves it! Sheriff

For a moment there was a suspicious moisture in Betty Jo's gray eyes. Then she said, "And you would really

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 that you would do that; and"she added"I know that you could not

Again she had given an unexpected turn to the subject with the usual convincing questionmark.

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 as you possibly can do at any cost. The

second thing is, that you must pay her back that money, every penny of it. Now, it wouldn't make her happy

for 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 you were wasting your time in prison, she would just die of miserableness, and

she wouldn't touch a penny of that rewardmoneynot if she was to die for want of it. So that settles that,

"Very well, let us consider some more: Dear Auntie Sue has been wonderfully, gloriously happy in doing

what she has for you this past winter,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 just simply can't spoil it all, now, by letting her

Brian started to speak, but she checked him with: "Please, Mr. Burns, I must not be interrupted when I am

considering. Next to the prison,which we have agreed won't do at all,you could do nothing that would

make Auntie Sue more unhappy than to spoil the happiness she has 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 of happy

anticipation, your book should never be published. No, no, no; you can't rob Auntie Sue of her happiness in

"So, you see," Betty Jo continued, "the only possible way to do is to go right along just as if nothing had

happened. And there is this final consideration,which must be a dark secret between you and me,when

the book is finished, you must see to it that every penny that comes from it goes to Auntie Sue until she is

paid back all that she lost through you. Now, isn't that pretty fine 'considering,' Mr. Burns?"

And Brian was convinced that it was. "But," he suggested, "the book may not earn anything. Nothing that I

"You never wrote one before just like this, did you?" came the very matteroffact answer. "And, besides, if

your book never earns a cent, it will do Auntie Sue a world more good than your going to prison for her. That

would be rather silly, now that you think of it, wouldn't it? And now that we have our conspiracy all nicely

She went for the manuscript as she spoke. "See," she cried, "it is quite dry, and not a bit the worse for its

"But, Miss Williams," exclaimed Brian, "IIcan't understand you! You don't seem to mind. What I have

told you about myself doesn't seem totomake any difference to youI mean in your attitude toward

"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 book now that you know what I

am?" he persisted, for he was sincerely puzzled by her apparent indifference to the revelation he had made of

"You won't get the chance at her, for awhile, with me around;she will be so busy with me that she won't

notice anything wrong with you. So you will get accustomed to the conspiracy feeling before you are even

suspected of conspiring. You know, when one has once arrived at the state of not feeling like a liar, one can

As they reached the porch, Betty Jo whispered a last word of instruction: "You better find Judy, and fix her

the first thing; fix her good and hard. Here is Auntie Sue now. Don't worry about her noticing anything

The weeks that followed the coming of Betty Jo to the little log house by the river passed quickly for Brian

Kent. Perhaps it was the peculiar circumstances of their first meeting that made the man feel so strongly that

he had known her for many years, instead of for only those few short weeks. That could easily have been the

reason, because the young woman had stepped so suddenly into his life at a very critical time;when his

mental faculties were so confused by the turmoil and suffering of his emotional self that the past was to him,

And Betty Jo had not merely come into his life casually, as a disinterested spectator; but, by the peculiar

appeal of herself, she had led Brian to take her so into his confidence that she had become immediately a very

real part of the experience through which he was then passing, and thus was identified with his past

Again Betty Jo, in the naturalness of her manner toward him, and by her matteroffact, impersonal

consideration of his perplexing situation, had brought to his unsettled and chaotic mind a sense of stability

and order; and by subtly insinuating her own practical decisions as to the course he should follow, had made

herself a very literal part of his inner life. In fact, Betty Jo knew Brian Kent more intimately at the close of

their first meeting than she could have known him after years of acquaintanceship under the ordinary course

Brian's consciousness of this would naturally cause him to feel toward the young woman as though she had

long been a part of his life. Still other causes might have contributed to the intimate companionship that so

quickly became to them both an established and takenforgranted fact; but, the circumstances of their first

meeting, given, of course, their peculiar individualities, were, really, quite enough. The fact that it was

The morning after her arrival, Betty Jo set to work typing the manuscript. Brian went to his work on the

timbered hillside. In the evenings, 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

So the hours flew past on busy wings, and the days of the springtime drew toward summer. The tender green

of the newborn leaves and grasses changed to a stronger, deeper tone. The air, which had been so filled with

the freshness and newness of bursting buds and rainblessed soil, and all the quickening life of tree and bush

and plant, now carried the perfume of strongly growing things,the feel of maturing life.

To Brian, the voices of the river brought a fuller, deeper message, with a subtle undertone of steady and

From the beginning, Betty Jo established for herself the habit of leaving her work at the typewriter in the

afternoons, and going for a walk over the hills. Quite incidentally, at first, her walks occasionally led her by

way of the clearing where Brian was at work with his ax, and it followed, naturally, that as the end of the day

drew near, the two would go together down the mountainside to the evening meal. But long before the book

was finished, the little afternoon visit and the walk together at the day's close had become so established as a

custom that they both accepted it as a part of their day's life; and to Brian, at least, it was an hour to which he

looked forward as the most delightful hour of the twentyfour. As for Betty Jo,well, it was really Betty Jo

who established the custom and developed it to that point where it was of such importance.

Auntie Sue was too experienced from her lifelong study of boys and girls not to observe the deepening of

the friendship between the man and the woman whom she had brought together. But if the dear old lady felt

any twinges of an apprehensive conscience, when she saw the pair day after day coming down the

mountainside through the long shadows of the late afternoon, she very promptly banished them, and, quite

consistently, with what Brian called her "River philosophy," made no attempt to separate these two life

And often, as the three sat together on the porch after supper to watch the sunsets, or later in the evening as

Auntie Sue sat with her sewing while they were busy with their work and unobserving, the dear old lady

would look at them with a little smile of tender meaning, and into the gentle eyes would come that faraway

look that was born of the memories that had so sweetened the long years of her life, and of the hope and

In her long letter to Betty Jo, asking the girl to come, Auntie Sue had told 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 even

mentioned her conviction that there had been a woman in his trouble. But Auntie Sue had not mentioned in

her letter the money she had lost; nor did she now know that Brian had himself told Betty Jo at the time of

On the day that Betty Jo typed the last page, and the book was ready for the printers, the young woman went

earlier than usual to the clearing where Brian was at work. The sound of his ax reached her while she was yet

some distance away, and guided her to the spot where he was chopping a 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 to herself at his ignorance of her presence and in anticipation of the moment

when he should discover her, and there was in her eyes a look of wholesome womanly admiration for the

man who swung his ax with such easy strength. In truth, Brian Kent at his woodman's labor made a picture

Swiftly, the cut in the treetrunk widened as the ax bit deeply at every skilful stroke, and the chips flew about

the chopper's feet. The acrid odor of the freshly cut oak mingled with the woodland perfume. The sun warmly

flooded the clearing with its golden light, and, splashing through the openings in the forest foliage, formed

pools of yellow beauty amid the dark, rich green of the shadowy undergrowth. The air was filled with the

And the young woman, as she stood smiling there, was keenly conscious of it all. Most of all, perhaps, Betty

Slowly, accurately, the bright ax sank deeper and deeper into the heart of the tree. The chips increased in

scattered profusion. And then, as Betty Jo watched, the swinging ax cut through the last fibre of the tree's

strength, and the leafy top swayed gently toward its fall. Almost imperceptibly, at first, it moved while Betty

Jo watched breathlessly. Brian swung his ax with increasing vigor, now, while the wood, still remaining,

cracked and snapped as the weight of the tree completed the work of the chopper. Faster and faster the

towering mass of foliage swung in a wide graceful arc toward the ground. The man with the ax stepped back,

his eyes fixed on the falling tree as, with swiftly increasing momentum, its great weight swept swiftly

Betty Jo clapped her hands in triumph; and Brian, turning, saw her standing there. His face was flushed and

glistening with perspiration; his broad chest heaved with the deep breathing gained by his exertion, and his

"You are early, today!" he cried. "Have you finished? Is it actually completed?"

"All finished," she returned; and, going to the fallen tree, she put her hands curiously on the trunk, which lay

Brian set his ax against the stump, and, laughingly, lifted her to the seat she desired. Then he stood watching

"Yes; and I confess I don't like to see it that way;" he returned. "I wish they didn't have to be cut. I feel like a

She looked down into his eyes, as she returned: "I know you must. YOU would, of course. But, after all, it

"No; I don't suppose it feels it much." He laughed, and, throwing aside his hat, he ran his fingers through his

tumbled hair for all the world like a schoolboy confused by being caught in some sentimental situation which

"I like you for feeling that way about it, though," Betty Jo confessed with characteristic frankness. "And I am

sure it must be a very good thing for the world that every one is not so intensely practical that they can chop

down trees without a pang. And that reminds me: Speaking of the practical, now that the book is finished,

"Send it to some publisher, I suppose," answered Brian, soberly; "and then, when they have returned it, send

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

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't you appoint me your agent, and let me

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

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

To which Brian answered enthusiastically: "You could do anything! If you undertake the job of landing a

"Thank you," she said, jumping down from the treetrunk. "Now that we have settled it, let us go to the house

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 her room, to hand an envelope to his assistant. "Your salary," he said, hurriedly,

"Oh!" Betty Jo's exclamation was one of surprise. Then she said, in her most matteroffact, businesslike

tone: "Thank you. I will render a statement of my account, but" For once, Betty Jo seemed at a loss for

Brian's face was a study. "Yes," he said, "it is really Auntie Sue's money; but it is all I have, and I can't return

Brian Kent did not know that Betty Jo, a few minutes later, buried the envelope he had given her deep in the

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

The two were rather quiet as "Old Prince" jogged soberly along the beautiful river road. Only now and then

They were within sight of the little Ozark settlement when Brian said, earnestly: "I wish I could tell you, Miss

"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 after finishing school always means more than any position following could possibly

mean, don't you think? Just like your book. No matter how many you may write in the future, this will always

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

For a moment their eyes met with unwavering frankness. Then Betty Jo turned her face away, and Brian

stiffened his shoulders, and sat a little straighter in the seat beside her. That was all.

Very brave they were at the depot purchasing Betty Jo's ticket and checking her trunk. With brave

commonplaces they said goodbye when the train pulled in. Bravely she waved at him from the open

window of the coach. And bravely Brian stood there watching until the train rounded the curve and

The world through which Brian Kent drove that afternoon on his way back to Auntie Sue and Judy in the

little log house by the river was a very dull and uninteresting world indeed. All its brightness and its beauty

seemed suddenly to have vanished. And as "Old Prince" jogged patiently on his way, sleepily content with

thoughts of his evening meal of hay and grain, the man's mind was disturbed with thoughts which he dared

"Circumstances to a man," Auntie Sue had said, "always meant a woman." And Brian Kent, while he never

under any pressure would have admitted it, knew within his deepest self that it was a woman who had set him

adrift on the dark river that dreadful night when he had cursed the world which he thought he was leaving

"Circumstances" in the person of Auntie Sue had saved him from destruction, and, in the little log house by

And then, when that revelation of his crime toward Auntie Sue had come, and the labor of months, with all

that it implied of the enduring salvation of himself and the happiness of Auntie Sue, hung wavering in the

balance, it was the "Circumstances" of Betty Jo's coming that had set him in the right current of action again.

What waited for him around the next bend in the river, Brian wondered,calm and peaceful waters, with

gently flowing currents, or the wild tumult of dangerous rapids wherein he would be forced to fight for his

very existence? Would Betty Jo succeed as his agent to the publishers? If she did succeed in finding a

publisher to accept his book, would the reading public receive his message? And if that followed, what then?

When Betty Jo's mission in the East was accomplished, she was to return to Auntie Sue for the summer.

"Old Prince," of his own accord, was turning in at the gate, and Brian awoke from his abstraction to see

All during the evening meal and while he sat with Auntie Sue on the porch overlooking the river, as their

custom was, Brian was preoccupied and silent; while his companion, with the wisdom of her seventy years,

It was the time of the full moon, and when Auntie Sue at last bade him goodnight, Brian, saying that the

evening was too lovely to waste in sleep, 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 before him in all its dreamy charm of shadowy hills

and moonlit river. He had no ear for the soft voices of the night. The gentle breeze carried to him the low,

deeptoned roar of the crashing waters at Elbow Rock; but he did not hear. Moved at last by a feeling of

restless longing, and the certainty that only a sleepless bed awaited him in the house, he left the porch to stroll

Brian Kent, strolling along the bank of the river in the moonlight, and preoccupied with thoughts that were, at

the last, more dreams than thoughts, was not far from the house when a sound from behind some nearby

bushes broke in upon his reveries. A moment, he listened. Then telling himself that it was some prowling

animal, or perhaps, a bird that his presence had disturbed, he went on. But he had gone only a few feet farther

when he was conscious of something stealthily following him. Stepping behind the trunk of a tree, he waited,

watching. Then he saw a form moving toward him through the shadows of the bushes. Another moment, and

the form left the concealing shadow, and, in the bright moonlight, he recognized Judy.

At first, the man's feeling was that of annoyance. He did not wish to be disturbed at such a time by the

presence of the mountain girl. But his habitual gentleness toward poor Judy, together with a very natural

curiosity 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 kindly as he came from behind the tree: "Well, Judy, are you, too, out enjoying

The girl stopped suddenly and halfturned as if to run; but, at his words, stood still.

"There's a heap the matter!" she answered, regarding him with that sly oblique look; while Brian noticed a

feeling of intense excitement in her voice. "I don't know what youall are agoin' ter think of me, but I'm

bound ter tell you just the same,seems like I got ter,even if youall was ter lick me for hit like pap used

"Why, Judy, dear," the puzzled man returned, soothingly, "you know I would never strike you, no matter

what you did. Come, sit down here on this log, and tell me about whatever it is that troubles you; then you

"I ain't awantin' ter set down. I ain't been asleep. Hit seems like I can't never sleep no more." She wrung her

hands and turned her poor twisted body about nervously; then demanded with startling abruptness: "When do

The wondering Brian did not at first catch her meaning, and she continued, with an impatient jerk of her

head: "Hit's that there gal with the no'count name, Betty Jo, I'm atalkin' 'bout."

"Oh, you mean Miss Williams," Brian returned. "Why, I suppose she will be back in two or three weeks, or a

"'Cause I'm atellin' youall not ter let her come back here ever," came the startling answer, in a voice that

was filled with menacing anger. Then, before Brian could find a word to reply, the mountain girl continued,

with increasing excitement: "Youall dassn't let her come back here, nohow, 'cause, if you do, I'll hurt her,

sure. Youall have been athinkin' as how I was plumb blind, I reckon; but I seen you,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'

then you'd quit, an' set with her up there on the hill. Youuns never knowed I was awatchin' 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 aseein' you, an' youuns never knowed, 'cause

youuns just naturally couldn't see nor hear nothin' but each other. Don't youall 'low as how I'd know by the

way you looked at her, while youuns was afixin' that there book, every night, what youall was athinkin'

'bout her? My GodA'mighty! hit was just as plain ter me as if you was asayin' hit right out loud all the

time,a heap plainer hit was than if you'd done writ' hit down in your book. I can't make out ter read print

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

"Youall knows dad burned well what I'm ameanin'!" she retorted, with increasing anger. "I'm ameanin'

that youall are plumb lovin' that there Betty Jo gal,that's what I'm ameanin'!an' youall sure ain't got

Brian tried to check her, but she silenced him with: "I won't neither hush! I can't! I tell you I'm agoin' ter say

my say if youall kills me! 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 all crooked an' twisted out er shape, an' uglyfaced an' no

A dry sob choked the torrent of words for an instant; but, with a savage effort she went on: "I know I ain't

nothin' alongside of her, but youall ain't agoin' ter have her just the same,not if I have ter kill her first!

You ain't got no right ter have her, nohow, 'cause hit's like's not youall done got a woman already

somewheres, wherever 'twas youall come from; an' even if you ain't got no woman already, I sure ain't

agoin' ter let you have her! What'd she ever do for you? Hit was me what dragged youall from the river

when you was mighty nigh dead from licker an' too plumb sick ter save yourself! Hit's me that's kept from

tellin' the Sheriff who you be an' atakin' that there rewardmoney! Hit was me what jumped inter the river

above Elbow Rock just ter git your dad burned old book, when you'd done throwed hit plumb away!

"I knowed first time I heard Auntie Sue name her what she'd do ter you! Any fool would aknowed what a

woman with a halfgal, half boy name like her'n would do, an' she's done hit,she sure has! But she ain't

agoin' ter do no more! Youall belongs ter me a heap more'n you do ter her,if hit comes ter

that,though, I ain't afoolin' myself none athinkin' that sich as you could ever take up with sich as

me,me bein' what I am. 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 'count I be outside; the inside of me is alovin' you like she

never could, ner nobody else, I reckon. An' I'll just go on alovin' you, no matter what happens; an' I ain't

acarin' whether you got a woman already er not, er whether youall have robbed er killed, er what you done.

An'an'so I'm atellin' you, you'd best not let her come back here no more, 'cause'cause I just naturally

can't stand hit ter see youuns tergether! 'Fore God, I'm atellin' 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! What do youall reckon your fine Betty Jo lady would do if I was ter git her ketched in them

there rapids? What do youall reckon the Elbow Rock water 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 I be,that's what hit would do; an' hit would scratch an' cut an' beat

up that pretty face an' mess up her pretty hair an' choke her an' smother her 'til she was all blueblack an'

muddy, an' her eyes was red an' starin', an' she was nothin' but just an ugly lump of dirt; an' hit wouldn't even

leave her her fine clothes neither,the Elbow Rock water wouldn't, hit'd just naturally tear 'em off her, an'

leave her 'thout ary thing what's makin' you love her like you're adoin'! An' where would 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

The poor creature finished in wild triumph; then suddenly, as though spent with the very fury of her passion,

she turned from the river, and said dully: "You'd sure best not let her come back, sir! 'Fore God, I ain't

awantin' ter do hit, but hit seems like I can't help myself; I can't sleep for wantin' ter fix hit so,so's you

just couldn't want ter have her no more'n you're awantin' me. IIsure ain't afoolin' myself none, not ary

bit, athinkin' youall could ever git ter likin' sich as me; but, I can't help sort of dreamin' 'bout hit an'

apretendin', an'an' all the while I'm aknowin', inside er me like, that there ain't nobody,not Auntie

Sue, nor this here Betty Jo, nor that there other woman, nor anybody,what kin care for you like I'm

acarin',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 even been decent ter me. I sure ain't got nobody else"

The distraught creature's sobs prevented further speech, and she dropped down on the ground, weak and

exhausted; her poor twisted body shaking and writhing with the emotion she could not voice.

For a little while, Brian Kent himself was as helpless as Judy. He could only 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 could to

comfort her. But he felt his words to be very shallow and inadequate, even though his own voice was

"Come, Judy, dear," he said, at last, when she seemed to have in a measure regained her selfcontrol. "Come.

Drawing away from his supporting arm, she answered, quietly: "I ain't no child, no more, Mr. Burns: I'm sure

a woman, now. I'm just as much a woman asasshe is, if I be like what I am. I'm plumb sorry I had ter do

this; but I just naturally couldn't help hit. You ain't got no call ter be scared I'll do hit again."

When they were nearing the house, Judy stopped again, and, for a long minute, looked silently out over the

"Hit is pretty, ain't hit, Mr. Burns?" she said at last. "With the hills all so soft an'an' dreamylike, an' them

clouds afloatin' 'way up there over the top of Table Mountain; with the moon makin' 'em all silvery an' shiny

'round the edges, an' them trees on yon side the river lookin' like they was made er smoke er fog er somethin'

like that; an' the old river hitself alayin' there in The Bend likelike a long strip of shinin' gold,hit sure

But Judy, apparently without hearing him, continued: "'Seems like I can sense a little ternight what Auntie

Sue an' youuns are allus atalkin' '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 hit in your book,'bout the currents an' the still places

an' the rough water an' all. I reckon as how I'm a part of your river, too, ain't I, Mr. Burns?"

"I reckon you're right," she continued. "Hit sure 'pears ter be that away. But I kin tell youall somethin' else

'bout the river what you didn't put down in your book, Mr. Burns: There's heaps an' heaps er snags an'

quicksands an' sunk rocks an' shaller places where hit looks deep 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 athinkin', an' drown you

sure. 'Tain't all of the river what Auntie Sue an' youuns kin see from the porch. You see, I knows 'bout

hit,'bout them other things I mean,'cause I was borned and growed up aknowin' 'bout 'em;

an'an'the next time youall writes er book, Mr. Burns, I 'low youall ought ter put in 'bout them there

snags an' things, 'cause folks sure got ter know 'bout 'em, if they ain't awantin' ter git drowned."

An hour, perhaps, had passed when a voice behind him said: "Why, Brian, are you still up? I supposed you

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

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

"I know," she said gently. "Sometimes, one's self does keep one awake. Is itis it anything you care to tell

For some time, he did not answer; while the old teacher waited silently. At last, he spoke, slowly: "Auntie

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

"I think," she answered,"indeed I am quite sure,that the greatest wrong is for a woman to kill a man's

And Brian Kent answered: "Yes, Auntie Sue, you are rightthat is the greatest wrong."

Again they were silent. It was as though few words were needed between the 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 silveryhaired old teacher spoke again: "Brian, have you ever wondered that I am so alone in the

"Many people have," she said, with simple frankness. Then"I am going to tell you something, dear boy,

that only two people in the world beside myself ever knew, and they are both dead, many years now. I am

going to tell you, because I feelbecause I think that, perhaps, it may help you a little. I, too, Brian, had

my dreams when I was a girl,my dreams of happiness,such as every true woman hopes for;of a home

with all that home means;of a loverhusband;of little ones who would call me 'mother';and my

dreams ended, Brian, on a battlefield of the Civil War. He went from me the very day we were promised. He

never returned. I have always felt that we were as truly one as though the church had solemnized and the law

"And youyou have kept that promise? You have been true to that memory?" Brian Kent asked,

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

Rising, the old gentlewoman went close to him, and put her hands on his shoulders. "Brian, dear, I have told

you my secret because I thought it might help you to know. Oh, my boymy boy,don't don't let

anythingdon't let anyonekill your faith in womanhood! No matter how bitter your experience, you can

believe, now, that there are women who can be faithful and true. Surely, you can believe it now, Brian,you

And as he caught her hands in his, and raised his face to whisper, "I do believe, Auntie Sue," she stooped and

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

Frequent letters from Betty Jo informed Brian and Auntie Sue of that practical and businesslike young

woman's negotiations with various Eastern publishers, until, at last, the matter was finally settled to Betty Jo's

She had contracted with a wellknown firm for the publication of the book. 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 it seemed to him that "Old Prince" had

never jogged so leisurely along the winding river road, yet he was at the little mountain station nearly an hour

Those weeks had been very anxious weeks to Brian, in spite of Auntie Sue's oftrepeated assurances that no

publisher could fail to recognize the value of his work. And, to be entirely truthful, Brian himself, deep down

in his heart, felt a certainty that his work would receive recognition. But, still, he would argue with himself,

his feeling of confidence might very well be due to the dear old gentlewoman's enthusiastic faith in him

rather than in any merit in the book itself; and it was a wellestablished factto all unpublished writers at

leastthat publishers are a heartless folk, and exceedingly loth to extend a helpful hand to unrecognized

genius, however great the worth of its offering. He could scarcely believe the letters which announced the

good news. It did not seem possible that this allimportant first step toward the success which Auntie Sue so

And now that Betty Jo's mission was completed, it seemed months ago that he had said goodbye to her and

had watched the train disappear between the hills. But when at last the long whistle echoing and reechoing

from the timbered mountainsides announced the coming of the train that was bringing her back, and the

train itself a moment later burst into view and, with a rushing roar of steam and wheels and brakes, came to a

stop at the depot platform, and there was Betty Jo herself, it seemed that it was only yesterday that she had

Very calm and selfpossessed and well poised was Betty Jo when she stepped from the train to meet him.

She was very capable and businesslike as she claimed her baggage and saw it safely in the spring wagon. But

still there was a something in her mannera light in the gray eyes, perhaps, or a quality in the clear voice

that meant worlds more to the man than her simple statement, that she was glad to see him again. Laughingly,

she refused to tell him about her trip as they rode home, saying that Auntie Sue must hear it all with him. And

so conscious was the man of her presence there beside him that, somehow, the prospective success or failure

In the excitement of the joyous meeting between Auntie Sue and Betty Jo, Judy's stoical selfrepression was

unnoticed. The mountain girl went about her part of the household work silently with apparent indifference to

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, was nearby, so that no word of the conversation escaped her.

Three times that night, when all was still in the little log house by the river, the door of Judy's room opened

cautiously, and the twisted form of the mountain girl appeared. Each time, for a few minutes, she stood there

in the moonlight that shone through the open window into the quiet room, listening, listening; then went

stealthily to the door of the room where Betty Jo was sleeping, and each time she paused before that 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 she silently put her hand on the latch of that door between her and Betty Jo; but, each time,

Betty Jo awoke early that morning. Outside her open window the birds were singing, and the sun, which was

just above the higher mountaintops, was flooding the world with its wealth of morning beauty. The music of

the feathery chorus and the golden beauty of the light that streamed through the window into her room, with

the fresh enticing perfume of the balmy air, were very alluring to the young woman just returned from the

Betty Jo decided instantly that she must go for a beforebreakfast walk. From the window, as she dressed,

she saw Brian going to the barn with the milkpail, and heard him greet the waiting "Bess" and exchange a

Quietly, so as not to disturb Auntie Sue, Betty Jo slipped from the house and went down the gentle slope to

the riverbank, and strolled along the margin of the stream toward Elbow Rock,pausing sometimes to look

out over the water as her attention was drawn to some movement of the river life, or turning aside to pluck a

wild flower that caught her eye. She had made her way thus leisurely twothirds of the distance perhaps from

the house to Elbow Rock bluff when Judy suddenly confronted her. The mountain girl came so unexpectedly

from among the bushes that Betty Jo, who was stooping over a flower, was startled.

"Judy!" she exclaimed. "Goodness! child, how you frightened me!" she finished with a goodnatured laugh.

But as she noticed the mountain girl's appearance, the laugh died on her lips, and her face was grave with

Poor Judy's black hair was uncombed and dishevelled. The sallow, oldyoung face was distorted with

"What'd youall come back for?" demanded Judy with sullen menace in every word. "I done told him not ter

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 like yourself. Tell me what troubles you. I came back because I love to be here with

"Youall are alyin'," returned Judy viciously. "But youall sure can't fool me. Youall come back 'cause

"Youall knows dad burned well that's what you come back for. But hit ain't agoin' ter do you no good; hit

sure ain't. I done told him. I sure warned him what'd happen if he let you come back. I heard youall atalkin'

yesterday evenin' all 'bout his book an' what a great man that there publisherfeller back East 'lows he's goin'

ter be. An' I kin see, now, that youall has knowed hit from the start, an' that's why youall been afixin' ter

git him away from me. I done studied hit all out last night; but I sure ain't agoin' ter let you do hit."

As she finished, the mountain girl, who had worked herself into a frenzy of rage, moved stealthily toward

Betty Jo, and her face, with those blazing black eyes, and its frame of black unkempt hair, and its expression

Betty Jo drew back, frightened at the poor creature's wild and threatening appearance.

With a snarling grin of malicious triumph, Judy cried: "Scared, ain't you! You sure got reason ter be, 'cause

there ain't nothin' kin stop me now. Know what I'm agoin' ter do? I'm agoin' ter put youall in the river,

just like I told him, an' old Elbow Rock is agoin' ter make youall broken an' twisted an' ugly like what my

pap made me. Oh, hit'll sure fix that there fine slim body of your'n, an' that there pretty face what he likes ter

look at so, an' them fine clothes'll be all wet an' mussed an' torn off you. Youall sure will be alookin'

worse'n what I ever looked the next time he sees you,you with your no'count, halfgal and halfboy

As the mountain girl, with the quickness of a wild thing, leaped upon her, Betty Jo screamedone piercing

Brian, who was still at the barn, busy with the morning chores, heard. With all his might, he ran toward the

Betty Jo fought desperately; but, strong as she was, she could never have endured against the vicious strength

of the frenzied mountainbred Judy, who was slowly and surely forcing her toward the brink of the

riverbank, against which the swift waters of the rapids swept with terrific 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 little back 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 to speak, though she managed to smile at him

When Brian was assured that the girl was really unharmed, he turned angrily to face Judy. But Judy had

Presently, as Betty Jo's breathing became normal, she arranged her disordered hair and dress, and told Brian

what the mountain girl had said; and this, of course, forced the man to relate his experience with Judy that

"I suppose I should have warned you, Miss Williams," he finished; "but the whole thing seemed to me so

impossible, I could not believe there was any danger of the crazy creature actually attempting to carry out her

wild threat; and, besides,well, you can see that it was rather difficult for me to speak of it to you. I am

For a long moment, the two looked at each other silently; then Betty Jo's practical common sense came to the

rescue: "It would have been awkward for you to try to tell me, wouldn't it, Mr. Burns? And now that it is all

over, and no harm done, we must just forget it as quickly as we can. We won't ever mention it again, will

"Certainly not," he agreed heartily. "But I shall keep an eye on Miss Judy, in the future, I can promise you."

"I doubt if we ever see her again," returned Betty Jo, thoughtfully. "I don't see how she would dare go back to

the house after this. I expect she will return to her father. Poor thing! But we must be careful not to let Auntie

Sue know." Then smiling up at him, she added: "It seems like Auntie 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 quickly finished his work. Then, carrying the full

milkpail between them, they proceeded, laughing and chatting, to the house, where Auntie Sue stood in the

The dear old lady smiled when she saw them coming so, and, returning their cheery greeting happily, added:

"Have you children seen Judy anywhere? The child is not in her room, and the fire is not even made in the

All that day Auntie Sue wondered about Judy, while Brian and Betty Jo exhausted their inventive faculties in

efforts to satisfy the dear old lady with plausible reasons for the mountain girl's disappearance.

During the forenoon, Brian canvassed the immediate neighborhood, and returned with the true information

that Judy had stopped at the first house below Elbow Rock for breakfast, where she had told the people that

she was going back to her father, because she was "doggone tired of working for them there city folks what

This was, in a way, satisfactory to Auntie Sue, because it assured her that the girl had met with no serious

accident and because she knew very well the mountainbred girl's ability to take care of herself in the hills.

But, still, the gentle mistress of the log house by the river was troubled to think that Judy would leave her so

Betty Jo was so occupied during the day by her efforts to relieve Auntie Sue that she had but little time left

for thought of herself or for reflecting on the situation revealed in her encounter with Judy. But many times

during the day the mountain girl's passionate accusation came back to her, "Youall are alyin'! Youall

come back 'cause HE is here." Nor could she banish from her memory the look that was on Brian Kent's face

that morning when he was carrying her in his arms back from the brink of the riverbank, over which the

frenzied Judy had so nearly sent her to her death. And so, when the day at last was over, and she was alone in

her room, it was not strange that Betty Jo should face herself squarely with several definite and pointed and

It was like Betty Jo to be honest with herself and to demand of herself that her problems be met squarely.

"First of all, Betty Jo," she demanded, in her downright, straightforward way of going most directly to the

"You have not permitted yourself to love him? That means that you would be in love with him if you dared,

And Betty Jo, in the safe seclusion of her room, felt her cheeks burn as she acknowledged the truth of the

And Betty Jo, recalling many, many things, was compelled to answer, from the triumphant gladness of her

heart: "He is trying not to be, but he can't help himself. And"the downright and straightforward young

woman continued"because I know that Brian Kent is trying so hard not to love me is the real reason why I

But the clearthinking, practical Betty Jo protested quickly: "You must remember that you are wholly

ignorant of Brian Kent's history, except for the things he has chosen to tell you. And those things in his life

which he has confessed to you are certainly not the things that could win the love of a girl like you, even

though they might arouse your interest in the man. Interest is not love, Betty Jo. Are you quite sure that you

Betty Jo was compelled to answer that she was not mistaking interest for love, because had such been the

case, she would not be able to so analyze the situation. Betty Jo's quite womanly prejudice is admitted,

because the prejudice was so womanly, and because Betty Jo herself was so womanly.

"Very well, Miss Betty Jo," the young woman continued inexorably, "you are not permitting yourself to love

Brian Kent because Brian Kent is trying not to love you. But, why is the man trying so hard not to love you?"

Betty Jo thought very hard over this question, and felt her way carefully to the answer. "It might be, of

course, that it is because he is a fugitive from the law. A man under such circumstances could easily convince

himself that no good woman would permit herself to love him, and he would therefore, in reasonable

But surely Brian Kent had every reason to know that Betty Jo did not at all regard him as a criminal. Betty Jo,

as Auntie Sue, recognized only the recreated Brian Kent. If that were all, they need only wait for the

restitution which was so sure to come through his book. And Brian Kent himself, through Auntie Sue's

teaching and through his work, had come to recognize only his real self, and not the creature of circumstances

which the river had brought to the little log house. Betty Jo felt sure that there was more than this that was

forcing the man to defend himself against his love for her. Thus she was driven to the conclusion that there

was something in Brian Kent's history that he had not made known to her,a something that denied him the

right to love her, and that, reasoned poor Betty Jo in the darkness of her room,could only be a

woman,a woman to whom he was bound, not by love indeed,Betty Jo could not believe that,but by

And very clearly Betty Jo reasoned, too, that Brian's attitude toward her evidenced unmistakably his high

sense of honor. The very fact that he had so persistentlyin all their companionship, in their most intimate

moments together evenheld this invisible and, to her, unknown barrier between them, convinced her

beyond a doubt of the essential integrity of his character, and compelled her admiration and confidence.

"That is exactly it, Betty Jo," she told herself sadly; "you love him because he tries so hard to keep himself

And thus Betty Jo proved the correctness of Auntie Sue's loving estimate of her character and justified the

Face to face with herself, fairly and squarely, the girl accepted the truth of the situation for Brian and for

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 toward Brian until Judy had so unexpectedly precipitated the crisis; but, she knew, now,

that Judy was right, and that the real reason for her return was her love for him. She knew, as well, that her

very love,which, once fully admitted and recognized by her, demanded with all the strength of her young

womanhood the nearness and companionship of the mate her heart had chosen, demanded, also, that she

help him to keep that fine sense of honor and true nobility of character which had won her.

She understood instinctively that,now that she had confessed her love to herself,she would, in spite of

herself, tempt him in a thousand ways to throw aside that barrier which he had so honorably maintained

between them. Her heart would plead with him to disregard his better self, and come to her. Her very craving

for the open assurance of his love would tempt him, perhaps beyond his strength. And, yet, she knew as truly

that, if he should yield; if he should cast aside the barrier of his honor; if he should deny his best self, and

To save the fineness of their love, Betty Jo must go. If it should be that they never met again, still she must

But there were other currents moving in the river that night. In the steady onward flow of the whole, Betty

Jo's lifecurrents seemed to be setting away from the man she loved. But other currents, unknown to the girl,

who faced herself so honestly, and who so bravely accepted the truth she found, were moving in ways beyond

her knowledge. Directed and influenced by innumerable and unseen forces and obstacles, the currents which,

combined, made the stream of life in its entirety, were weaving themselves together, interlacing and

Betty Jo saw only Brian Kent and herself, and their love which she now acknowledged, and she had, as it

Betty Jo could not know of those other currents that were moving so mysteriously about her as the river

In spite of all their care, Brian and Betty Jo did not wholly convince Auntie Sue that there was no more in

Judy's disappearance than the report from the neighbors indicated. The dear old lady felt that there was

something known to the young people that they were keeping from her; and, while she did not question their

motives, and certainly did not worry,for Auntie Sue never worried,she was not satisfied with the

situation. When she retired to her room for the night, she told herself, with some spirit, that she would surely

It happened that Auntie Sue went to the bottom of the affair much sooner than she expected.

It must have been about that same hour of the night when Betty Jo, after reaching her decision to go away,

retired to her bed, that Auntie Sue was aroused by a low knocking at the open window of her room.

The old teacher listened without moving, her first thought being that her fancy was tricking her. The sound

came again, and, this time, there could be no mistake. Sitting up in her bed, Auntie Sue looked toward the

As she recognized Judy's voice, she saw the mountain girl's head and twisted shoulders outlined above the

"Shhh!" cautioned Judy. "Don't wake 'em up. I just naturally got ter tell youall somethin', Auntie Sue;

but, I ain't awantin' Mr. Burns an' that there Betty Jo woman ter hear. I reckon I best come through the

The mountain girl interrupted Auntie Sue's tremulous whisper with: "I'll tell hit ter you, ma'm, in a little bit, if

you'll just wait. I got ter see if they are sure 'nough asleepin' first, though."

She stole silently from the room, to return a few minutes later. "They are plumb asleep, both of 'em," she said

in a low tone, when she had cautiously closed the door. "I done opened the doors ter their rooms, an' listened,

an' shet 'em again 'thout ary one of 'em amovin' 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 lit the lamp.

Auntie Sue, who was sitting on the bed, looked at the girl in bewildered amazement.

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 acomin' through the bresh in the dark. But, don'tdon'tlook so kinder lost like; youall ain't got

"Why, Judy, dear, I'm not afraid of you. Come, child; tell me what is the trouble."

At the kindly manner and voice of the old gentlewoman, those black eyes filled with tears, which, for the

moment, the mountain girl stoically permitted to roll down her thin sallow cheeks unheeded. Then, with a

quick resolute jerk of her twisted body, she drew her dress sleeve across her face, and said: "IIreckon I

couldn't hate myself no worse'n I'm adoin'. Hit seems like I been mighty nigh plumb crazy; but, I just

naturally had ter come back an' tell youall, 'cause youall been so good ter me."

She placed a chair for Auntie Sue, and added: "Youall best make yourself comfertable, though, ma'm. I'm

mighty nigh tuckered out myself. Hit's a right smart way from where pap's alivin' ter here, an' I done come

She dropped down on the floor, her back against the bed, and clasped her knees in her hands, as Auntie Sue

"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 ter come back."

And she did. Starting with her observation of Brian and Betty Jo, and her conviction of their love, she told of

her interview with Brian the night she warned him not to let Betty Jo return, and finished with the account of

Auntie Sue listened with amazement and pity. Here, indeed, was a wayward and troubled lifecurrent.

"But, Judy, Judy!" exclaimed the gentle old teacher, "you would not really 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 the nervous intensity of her emotions.

But she answered, stubbornly: "That there was just what I was aimin' ter do. I'd a killed her, sure, if Mr.

Burns hadn't acome just when he did. I can't rightly tell how hit was, but hit seemed like there was somethin'

inside of me what was amakin' me do hit, an' I couldn't, somehow, help myself. An'an'that ain't all,

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 of

Auntie Sue's wonderful native strength enabled her to speak calmly: "What is it you have done, Judy? You

The older woman's voice and manner steadied the girl, and she answered more in her usual colorless

monotone, but still guarded so as not to awaken the other members of the household: "Hit seemed like Mr.

Burns ketchin' me, like he did, an' me aseein' him with her in his arms, made me plumb crazymad, an' I

'lowed I'd fix hit so's he couldn't never have her nohow, so IIdone told pap 'bout him bein' Brian Kent

what had robbed that there bank, an' how there was er lot of rewardmoney awaitin' for anybody that'd tell

Auntie Sue was too shocked to speak. Was it possible that, now, when the real Brian Kent was so far

removed from the wretched bank clerk; when his fine natural character and genius had become so

established, and his book was No, no! It could not be! God could not let men be so cruel as to send Auntie

Sue's Brian Kent to prison because that other Brian Kent, tormented by wrong environment, and driven by an

evil combination of circumstances, had taken a few dollars of the bank's money! And Betty Jo No, no!

Auntie Sue's heart cried out in protest. There must be some way. She would find some way. The

bankerHomer Ward! Auntie Sue's mind, alert and vigorous as the mind of a woman of half her years,

caught at the thought of her old friend and pupil. She leaned forward in her chair over the girl who sat on the

floor at her feet, and her voice was strong and clear with the strength of the spirit which dominated her frail

"There wasn't nobody else ter tell," came the answer. "An' pap, he 'lowed he'd kill me if I said anythin' ter

"No, ma'm; pap, he 'lowed if he done that away, the Sheriff he'd take most of the money. Pap's agoin' right

"You see, ma'm, I done remembered the name of the bank an' where hit was an' Mr. Ward's name an' all, on

'count of that there money letter what you done sent 'em an' us bein' so worried 'bout hit never gittin' there an'

all that. An' pap, he knows er man over in Gardner what's on the railroad, you see, what'll let him have money

enough for the trip,a lickerman, he is,an' pap's aimin' ter make hit over ter Gardner ter git the money in

time ter ketch that there early mornin' train. Hit's a right smart way over the mountains, but I reckon's how

pap'll make hit. Soon's pap left, I got ter thinkin' what I'd done, an' the more I studied 'bout hit, 'bout Mr.

Burns ahavin' ter go ter prison, an' 'bout youall a carin' for him the way you does, an' 'bout how happy

you was over his book, an'an'how good you'd been ter me,the sorrier I got, 'til I just couldn't stand

athinkin' 'bout hit no longer; an' an'so I come fast as I could ter tell you. I 'lowed you'd make out ter fix

hit some way soMr. Burns won't have ter go ter prison. Couldn't youall sendsend a telegraph ter the

bank man, er somethin'? I'd git it inter Thompsonville for you, ma'm; an' Mr. Burns, he needn't never know

Auntie Sue was dressing when Judy finished speaking. With a physical strength that had its source in her

indomitable spirit, she moved about the room making the preparations necessary to her plan, and as she

"No, Judy, a telegram won't do. I must go to Homer Ward myself. That morning train leaves Thompsonville

at six o'clock. You must slip out of the house, and harness 'Old Prince' to the buggy as fast as you can. You

will drive with me to Thompsonville, and bring 'Prince' back. You can turn him loose when you get near

home, and he will come the rest of the way alone. You must not let Mr. Burns nor Betty Jo see you, because

"You can go to the neighbors and find some place to stay until I return," continued Auntie Sue.

"You don't need ter worry none 'bout me," said Judy. "I kin take care of myself, I reckon. But ain't you plumb

"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 tomorrow night, and in Chicago the next forenoon. I guess I am not so helpless that I can't

make a little journey like this. Homer Ward shall never send my boy 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 from the

When she had completed her preparations for the trip, Auntie Sue wrote a short note to Betty Jo, telling her

that she had been called away suddenly, and that she would return in a few days, and that she was obliged to

borrow Betty Jo's pocketbook. Grave as she felt the situation to be, Auntie Sue laughed to herself as she

Silently, the old lady stole into the girl's room to secure the money she needed and to leave her letter. Then,

as silently, she left the house, and found Judy, who was waiting with "Old Prince" and the buggy, ready to

The station agent at Thompsonville was not a little astonished when Auntie Sue and Judy appeared, and, with

the easy familiarity of an old acquaintance greeted her with, "Howdy, Auntie Sue! What in thunder are you

"Oh, no, Mr. Jackson," Auntie Sue answered easily. "I'm just going to Chicago for a little visit with an old

"Sort of a vacation, eh?" returned the man behind the window, as he made out her ticket. "Well, you sure

have earned one, Auntie Sue. It's gittin' to be vacation time now, too. Bunch of folks come in yesterday to

stay at the clubhouse for a spell. Pretty wild lot, I'd say,wimmen as well as the men. I reckon them

clubhouse parties don't disturb you much, though, if you be their nearest neighbor,do they?"

"They never have yet, Mr. Jackson," she returned. "Their place is on the other side of the river, and a mile

above my house, you know. I see them in 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 clubhouse people don't usually come that

She turned to Judy, and, with the girl, went out of the waiting room to the platform, where she whispered:

"You must start back right away, Judy. If your father is on the train, he might see you."

"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 he does. 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 see you, and be a good girl. I feel sure that everything

With a sudden awkward movement, poor Judy caught the old gentlewoman's hand and pressed it to her lips;

When the train arrived, the station agent came to help Auntie Sue with her handbag aboard, and she managed

to keep her friend between herself and the coaches, in case Jap Taylor should be looking from a window. As

the conductor and the agent assisted her up the steps, the agent said: "Mind you take good care of her, Bill.

Finest old lady GodAlmighty ever made! If you was to let anything happen to her, you best never show

The conductor found a good seat for his lovely old passenger, and made her as comfortable as possible. As he

punched her ticket, he said, with a genial smile, which was the voluntary tribute paid to Auntie Sue by all

men: "You are not much like the passengers I usually carry in this part of the country, ma'm. They are mostly

She smiled back at him, understanding perfectly his intended compliment. "They are good people, though,

sir,most of them. Of course, there are some who are a little wild, sometimes, I expect."

The railroad man laughed again, shaking his head. "I should say so. You ought to see the specimen I've got in

the smoker. I picked him up back there at Gardner. Perhaps you have heard of himJap Taylor. He is about

"Oh, he won't start anything on my train," laughed the man in blue reassuringly. "He would never come in

here, anyhow. Them kind always stay in the smoker. Seems like they know where they belong. He is

halfscared to death himself, anyway; he is going to Chicago, too, and I'll bet it's the first time in his life he

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 plausible explanation of the strange incident, after unharnessing the horse and giving him

his morning feed, an excited call from Betty Jo drew his attention. With an answering shout, he started for the

When Brian had read the brief and wholly inadequate message, they stood looking at each other, too

mystified for speech. Brian read the note, again, aloud, speaking every word with slow distinctness. "Well,

I'll be 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 before night," returned Betty Jo. "After this from

Auntie Sue, I am prepared for anything. What on earth DO you suppose has happened?"

Together they went to the house, and the place seemed strangely deserted. Every possible explanation that

"One thing we can depend upon," said Brian, at last, when they had exhausted the resources of their

combined imaginations: "Auntie Sue knows exactly what she is doing, and she is doing exactly the right

Betty Jo looked again at the note: "'I will be back in a few days,'" she read slowly. "'Be good children, and

Then Betty Jo broke the silence with an odd little laugh: "I feel like we were cast away on some desert island,

"Something like that," Brian returned. Then, to relieve the strain of the situation, he added: "I suppose 'Bess'

"And I'll get breakfast for us," agreed Betty Jo, as he started back to the 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 confused and unruly thoughts under some sort of control.

"Several days; several days." The words repeated themselves with annoying persistency. And theyBetty Jo

and he, Brian Kentwere to "take care of things";they were to keep house together;they were to live

together, alone,in the log house by the river, alone. She was even then preparing their breakfast. They

would sit down at the table alone. And there would be dinner and supper; and the evening,just for them.

He would work about the place. She would attend to her household duties. He would go to his meals, and she

would be there expecting him,waiting for him. And when the tasks of the day were finished, they would sit

on the porch to watch the coming of the night,Betty Jo and he, Brian Kent"What in God's name," the

man demanded of the indifferent "Bess," did Auntie Sue mean by placing him in such a situation? Did she

It had not been easy for Brian to maintain that barrier between himself and Betty Jo, even with the constant

help of Auntie Sue's presence. Many, many times he had barely saved himself from declaring his love; and,

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," he told himself, "if it was absolutely necessary for the dear old lady to

In the meantime, while Brian was confiding his grievances to his fourfooted companions in the barn, Betty

"Betty Jo," she began, as she raked the ashes from the stove preparatory to building the fire, "it appears to me

that you have some serious considering to do, and"with a glance toward the barn, as she went out to empty

the ashpan"you must do it quickly before that man comes for his breakfast. You were very right, last

night, in your decision, to go away. It is exactly what you should have done. I am more than ever convinced

of that, this morning. But you can't go now. Even if Auntie Sue had not taken your pocketbook and every

penny in it, you couldn't run away with Auntie Sue herself gone. If she hadn't wanted you to stay right here

for some very serious reason, Betty Jo, she would have taken you with her last night. Auntie Sue very

pointedly and definitely expects you to be here when she returns. And she will be away several

days,several days, Betty Jo." She repeated the words in a whisper. "And during those several days, you are

to keep house for the man you love;the man who loves you;the man whom you must keep from telling

you his love,no matter how your heart pleads for him to tell you, you must not permit him to speak. He

will be coming in to breakfast in a few minutes, and you will sit down at the table with him,across the

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 by the heat of the stove. "And you will be forced to look at him across the

table, and he will look at you,andand you must not," she stamped her foot,"you dare not look like

"And then there will be the dinner that you will cook for him, and the supper; and the evenings on the porch.

O Lord! Betty Jo, what ever will you do? How will you ever save the fineness of your love? If you were

afraid to trust yourself with the help of Auntie Sue's presence, what in the world can you do without

herand you actually keeping house with him? Oh, Auntie Sue! Auntie Sue!" she groaned, "you are the

dearest woman in the world and the best and wisest, but you have blundered terribly 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, wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron,

and going into the other room to set the table for breakfast,"all of which, Betty Jo, does not in the least

"One thing is certain sure," she continued, while her hands were busy with 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 certainly arranged it most beautifully

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 has brought about this situation for that very reason?"

"Breakfast ready?" cried Brian at the kitchendoor, and his voice was so hearty and natural that the girl

answered as naturally: "It will be as soon as you are ready for it. I forget, do you like your eggs three minutes

They really managed that breakfast very well, even if they did sit opposite each other so that each was forced

to look straight across the table into the face of the other. Or, perhaps, it was because they looked at each

other so straight and square and frankly honest that the breakfast went so well.

And because the breakfast went so well, they managed the dinner and the supper 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 be better for you to stay at neighbor Tom's until Auntie Sue returns. I'll hitch up

'Old Prince' and drive you over, if you say. Or, we might find some neighbor woman to come here to live

"Like it!" exclaimed Brian; and the tone of his voice approached the dangerpoint.

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 things until she returned. She did not say for me to shirk my part by going to

neighbor Tom's or by having any one come here. Don't you think we can do exactly what Auntie Sue said?"

"Yes," returned Brian, heartily; "I am sure we can. And do you know,come to think about it,I believe

the dear old lady would be disappointed in us both if we dodged ourwell," he finished with

And after that, somehow, the evening on the porch went as well as the breakfast and dinner and supper had

It was the second day of their housekeeping that Betty Jo noticed smoke coming from the stone chimney of

the clubhouse up the river. She reported her observation to Brian when he came in from his work for dinner.

During the afternoon, they both saw boats on the quiet waters of The Bend, and at supper told each other

what they had seen. And in the evening they together watched the twinkling lights of the clubhouse windows,

and once they heard voices and laughter from somewhere on the river as though a boating party were making

Two days later, Brian and Betty Jo were just finishing dinner when a step sounded on the porch, and a man

The stranger was dressed in the weird and flashy costume considered by his class to be the proper thing for an

outing in the country, and his face betrayed the sad fact that, while he was mentally, spiritually, and

physically greatly in need of a change from the unclean atmosphere that had made him what he was, he was

incapable of benefiting by more wholesome conditions of living. He was, in fact, a perfect specimen of that

type of clubman who, in order to enjoy fully the beautiful life of God's unspoiled world, must needs take with

him all of the sordid and vicious life of that world wherein he is most at home.

With no word of greeting, he said, with that superior air which so many city folk assume when addressing

those who live in the country: "Have you people any fresh vegetables or eggs to sell?"

Brian and Betty Jo arose, and Brian, stepping forward, said, with a smile: "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 come in?"

The man stared at Brian, turned an appraising eye on Betty Jo; then looked curiously about the room.

"I beg your pardon," he said, removing his cap, "I thought, when I spoke, that you were natives. My name is

Green,Harry Green. There is a party of us stopping at the clubhouse, up the river, there;just out for a bit

of a good time, you know. We are from St. Louis,first time any of us were ever in the Ozarks,friends of

"My name is Burns," returned Brian. "We noticed your boats on the river. You are enjoying your outing, are

Again the man looked curiously from Brian to Betty Jo. "Oh, yes; we can stand it for awhile," he answered.

"We're a pretty jolly bunch, you see;know how to keep things going. It would kill me if I had to live here

in this lonesome hole very long, though. Don't you find it rather slow, Mrs. Burns?"

Poor Betty Jo's face turned fairly crimson. She could neither answer the stranger nor meet his gaze, but stood

But Brian was as embarrassed as Betty Jo; while the stranger, as he regarded them, smiled with an expression

"You have," returned Brian, sharply, stepping forward as he spoke; for the man's manner was unmistakable.

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. I

Brian followed him out to the porch; and the caller, as he went down the steps, turned back with another

understanding laugh: "I say, Burns, you are 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 the little girl along, and help us to

Mr. Harry Green probably never knew how narrowly he escaped being manhandled by the enraged but

Brian remained on the porch until he saw the man, in his boat, leave the eddy at the foot of the garden and

Betty Jo was first to recover: "I am sure that it is quite time for Auntie Sue to come home and take charge of

The members of the clubhouse party were amusing themselves that afternoon in the various ways peculiar to

At one end of the wide veranda overlooking the river a group sat at a card table. At the other end of the

roomy lounging place, men and women, lying at careless ease in steamerchairs and hammocks, were

smoking and chatting about such things as are of interest only to that strange class who are educated to make

idleness the chief aim and end of their existence. On the broad steps leading down to the treeshaded lawn,

which sloped gently to the boat landing at the river's edge, still other members of the company were scattered

in characteristic attitudes. Across the river, in the shade of the cottonwoods that overhang the bank, a man

and a woman in a boat were ostensibly fishing. In a hammock strung between two trees, a little way from the

Now and then a burst of shrill laughter broke the quiet of the surrounding forest. A man on the steps called a

loud suggestive jest to the pair in the boat, and the woman waved her handkerchief in answer. The

cardplayers argued and laughed over a point in their game. Some one shouted into the house for Jim, and a

negro man in white jacket appeared. When the people on the veranda had expressed their individual tastes,

the one who had summoned the servant called to the woman in the hammock under the tree, "What is yours,

Without looking up from her book, the woman waved her hand, and answered, "I am not drinking this time.

A chorus of derisive shouts and laughter came from the veranda. But the woman went on reading. "Oh, let

her alone!" protested some one, goodnaturedly. "She was going a little strong, last night. She'll be all right

The negro, Jim, had returned with his loaded tray, and was passing among the members of the company with

his assortment of glasses, when some one called attention to Harry Green, who was just pulling his boat up to

A boisterous chorus greeted the boatman: "Hello, Harry! Did you find anything? You're just in time. What'll

With a wave of greeting, the man fastened his boat to the landing, and started up the slope.

"He'll have a Scotch, of course!" said some one. "Did anybody ever know him to take anything else? Go and

The woman in the hammock lowered her book, and lay watching the man as he came up the path toward the

Harry Green, who, apparently, was a person of importance among them, seated himself in an easy chair on

"Did you find any eggs, Harry?" demanded one. The man first refreshed himself with a long drink; then

looked around with a grin of amused appreciation: "I didn't get any eggs," he said; "but I found the nest all

"What sort of nest, Harry? Duck? Turkey? Hen? Dove? Or rooster?" came from different members of the

Raising his glass as though offering a toast, he answered: "Love! my children; love!"

A yell of delight came from the company, accompanied by a volley of: "A lovenest! Well, what do you

know about that! Good boy, Harry! Takes Harry to find a lovenest! He's the boy to send for eggs! I should

This last remark turned their attention toward the woman in the hammock, and they called to her: "Martha!

Oh, Martha! Come here! You better look after Harry! Harry has found a lovenest! Told you something

She was rather a handsome woman, but with a suggestion of coarseness in form and features, though her face,

Seating herself on the top step, with her back against the post in an attitude of careless abandonment, she

looked up at the negro who stood grinning in the doorway. "Bring me a highball, Jim: you know my kind."

Harry tossed a silver case in her lap. Another man, who sat near, leaned over her with a lighted match.

Expelling a generous cloud of smoke from her shapely lips, she demanded: "What is this you are all shouting

During the answering chorus of boisterous laughter and jesting remarks, she drank the liquor which the negro

Then Harry, pointing out Auntie Sue's house, which was easily visible from where they sat, related his

experience. And among the many conjectures, and questions, and comments offered, no one suggested even

that the man and the woman living in that little log house by the river might be entirely innocent of the

implied charge. For those who are themselves guilty, to assume the guilt of others is very natural and

In the moment's quiet which followed the arrival of a fresh supply of drinks, the woman called Martha said:

"But what is the man like, Harry? You have enthused quite enough about the girl. Suppose you tell us about

"Oh, damn!" suddenly cried Martha, shaking her skirt vigorously. She had spilled some of the liquor from her

A woman on the outer edge of the circle whispered to her nearest neighbor, and a hush fell over the group.

"Well," said Martha, drinking the liquor remaining in her glass, "why the devil don't we find out who they

"Find out! How? We'll find out a lot! What would you do,ask them their names and where they are from?"

"It is easy enough," retorted Martha. "There is that native girl that Molly picked up the day we landed here to

help her in the kitchen. She must belong in this neighborhood somewhere. I'll bet she can tell us something.

"Judy,Judy Taylor. Great idea! Good! Send her out here, Jim," responded the others.

When the deformed mountain girl appeared before them, she looked from face to face with such a frightened

and excited expression on her sallow, oldyoung features, and such a wild light in her black beady eyes, that

Judy spoke first, and her shrill monotone emphasized her excited state of mind: "That there nigger said as

how Missus Kent was a wantin' ter see me. Be ary one of youuns sure 'nough Missus Kent?"

The group drew apart a little, and every face was turned from Judy to the woman sitting on the top step of the

Judy went slowly toward the woman, her beady eyes fixed and staring as though at some ghostly vision. The

The excited exclamation from the company and the manner of the woman suddenly aroused the mountain girl

to a realization of what she had done in speaking Brian Kent's name. With an expression of frightened

dismay, she turned to escape; but the group of intensely interested spectators drew closer. Every one waited

"Yes," she said, slowly, watching the mountain girl; "I am Mrs. Brian Kent. Do you know my husband?"

Judy's black beady eyes shifted slyly from one face to another, and her twisted body moved uneasily.

"No, ma'm; I ain't asayin' I knows him exactly. I done heard tell 'bout him nigh 'bout a year ago, when there

was some men from the city come through here ahuntin' him. Everybody 'lows as how he was drowned at

"Who lives in that little log house over there, Judy?" Harry Green asked suddenly, pointing.

"There? Oh, that there's Auntie Sue's place. I 'lowed everybody knowed that," returned the girl.

One of the women answered, before Judy could speak: "Auntie Sue is that oldmaid schoolteacher they told

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

"Is there any one living with Auntie Sue?" asked some one; and in the same breath from another came the

Judy jerked her twisted shoulders and threw up her head with an impatient defiance, as she returned shrilly:

"I'm atellin' youuns I don't know nothin' 'bout nobody. Hit ain't no sort er use for youuns ter pester me. I

While her friends on the veranda were looking at each other in questioning silence, Mrs. Kent, without a

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 Brian Kent. She never did believe that story about his death, you know. There is no

"It is a darned shame," exclaimed one of the women, "to have our party spoiled like this!"

"Spoiled nothing," answered another. "Martha is too good a sport to spoil anything. Go on, Harry. Cheer her

up. Bring her back here. We'll all help get her good and drunk tonight, and she'll be all right."

There was a laugh at this, and some one said: "A little something wouldn't hurt any of us just now, I'm

Harry Green found Mrs. Kent sitting on the riverbank some distance above the boat landing.

She looked up at the sound of his approach, but did not speak. Dropping down 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 mouth

"It is Brian, all right, Harry," she answered, slowly. "It is funny, but he has been on my mind all day. I never

dreamed that it was this part of the country where he was supposed to have been drowned, or I wouldn't have

"Well, what does it matter, anyway?" returned the man. "I don't see that it 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: "This is just the sort of place he would

love, Harrythe river and hills and woods. He never cared for the cityalways wanted to get away into the

country somewhere. Tell me, what is she really like? Does she look likelikewell,like any of our

One by one, the man picked a number of pebbles from among the dead leaves 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 by one,

he flipped the bits of stone into the water. "She really doesn't amount to much. Honestly, I hardly noticed

The woman continued speaking as though thinking her thoughts aloud: "Brian was a good man, Harry. That

bank affair was really my fault. He never would have done such a thing if I hadn't devilled him all the time

for more money, and made such a fuss about his wasting so much time in his everlasting writing. I'd hate to

"You're a good sport, Martha," he returned heartily. "I know just how you feel about it. And I can promise

you that there is not one of our crowd that will ever whisper a thing. They are not that kind, and you know

how they all like you. Come, dear. Don't bother your head about it any more. I don't like to see you like this.

He put his arm about her, but the woman gently pushed him away. "Don't do 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

She looked at him some time before she answered; then, with a quick movement, she sprang to her feet:

"All right! You're on!" she cried, with a reckless laugh. "But you'll go some if you keep up with me

And so, that evening, while Brian Kent and Betty Jo from the porch of the little log house by the river

watched the twinkling lights of the clubhouse windows, the party with mad merriment tried to help a woman

But save for the unnatural brightness of her eyes and the heightened color in her face, drink seemed to have

little effect on Martha Kent that night. When at a late hour the other members of the wild company, in various

flushed and dishevelled stages of intoxication, finally retired to their rooms, Martha, in her apartment, seated

herself at the window to look away over the calm waters of The Bend to a single light that showed against the

dark mountainside. The woman did not know that the light she saw was in Brian Kent's room.

Long after Betty Jo had said goodnight, Brian walked the floor in uneasy wakefulness. The meeting with the

man Green and his too evident thoughts as to the relations of the man and woman who were living together

in the log house by the river filled Brian with alarm; while the very presence of the man from the city awoke

old apprehensions that in his months of undisturbed quiet in Auntie Sue's backwoods home had almost ceased

to be. Through Auntie Sue's teaching and influence; his work on his book; the growing companionship of

Betty Jo and their love, Brian had almost ceased to think of that absconding bank clerk who had so recklessly

launched himself on a voyage to the unknown in the darkness of that dreadful night. But, now, it all came

The man, Green, would talk to his companions of his visit to the log house that afternoon. He would tell what

he had discovered. Curiosity would lead others of the clubhouse party to call. Some one might remember the

story of the bank clerk, who was supposed to have lost his life in that neighborhood, but whose body was

never found. There might even be one in the party who knew the former clerk. Through them the story would

go back to the outside world. There would be investigations by those whose business it was never to forget a

Brian felt his ReCreation to be fully established; but what if his identity should be discovered before the

restitution he would make should be also accomplished? And always, as he paced to and fro in his little room

in the log house, there was, like a deep undercurrent in the flow of his troubled thought, his love for Betty Jo.

It is little wonder that, to Brian Kent, that night, the voices of the river were filled with fearful doubt and

And what of the woman who watched the tiny spot of light that marked the window of the room where the

recreated Brian Kent kept his lonely vigil? Did she, too, hear the voices of the river? Did she feel the

presence of that stream which poured its dark flood so mysteriously through the night between herself and the

Away back, somewhere in the past, the currents of their lives in the onward flow of the river had drawn

together. For a period of time, their lifecurrents had mingled, and, with the stream, had swept onward as

one. Other influencesswirls and eddies and countercurrents of other liveshad touched and intermingled

until the current that was the man and the current that was the woman had drawn apart. For months, they had

not touched; and, now, they were drawing nearer to each other again. Would they touch? Would they again

mingle and become one? What was this mysterious, unseen, unknown, but alwaysfelt, power of the river

that sets the ways of its countless currents as it sweeps ever onward in its unceasing flow?

The door of her room opened. Harry Green entered as one assured of a welcome. 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 she

"Why, Martha, dear! What is wrong?" he protested, again attempting to draw her to him.

Resisting more vigorously, she answered: "Everything is wrong! You are wrong! I am wrong! All life is

The man drew back, and spoke roughly in a tone of disgust: "Hell! I believe you love that bank clerk as much

"Well, and suppose that were true, Harry?" she answered, wearily. "Suppose it were true,that I did still

love my husband? Could that make any difference now? Can anything ever make any difference now? You

will tire of me before long, just as you have grown tired of the others who were before me. Don't you suppose

I know? You and our friends have taught me many things, Harry. I know, now, that Brian's dreams were

right. That his dreams could never be realized, does not make them foolish nor wrong. His dreams that

seemed so foolishsuch impossible idealswere 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 to come as that river out there is sure of

The man laughed harshly: "You are quite poetical, tonight. I believe I like you better, though, when you talk

"I am sorry, Harry," she returned. "Please don't be cross with me! Go now,please go!"

And something forced the man to silence. Slowly, he left the room. The woman locked the door. Returning to

the window, she fell on her knees, and stretched her hands imploringly toward the tiny spot of light that still

Between the mighty walls of treeclad hills that lifted their solemn crests into the midnight sky, the dark river

poured the sombre strength of its innumerable currents,terrible in its awful power; dreadful, in its

mysterious and unseen forces; irresistible in its ceaseless, onward rush to the sea of its final and infinite

And here and there on the restless, evermoving surface of the shadowy, neverending flood twinkled the

The President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank looked up from the papers on his desk as his

The secretary smiled as he spoke: "Mr. Ward, there is an old lady out here 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. She has no

The dignified President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank electrified his secretary by springing from

his chair like a schoolboy from 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 the secretary could collect his startled thoughts to answer,

When the smiling secretary, the stenographers, and other attending employees had witnessed a meeting

between their dignified chief and the lovely old lady, which strengthened their conviction that the great

financier was genuinely human, President Ward and Auntie Sue disappeared into the private office.

"George," said Mr. Ward, as he closed the door of that sacred inner sanctuary of the Empire Consolidated

Savings Bank, "remember I am not in to any one;from the Secretary of the Treasury to the Sheriff, I am

"I understand, sir," returned the still smiling George. And from that moment until Homer T. Ward should

open the door, nothing short of a regiment could have interrupted the interview between Auntie Sue and her

Placing the dear old lady tenderly in a deep, leatherupholstered chair, Mr. Ward stood before her as though

trying to convince himself that she was real; while his teacher of those longago, boyhood days gazed

"What in the name of all that is unexpected are you doing here, Auntie Sue?" he demanded; "and why is not

Betty Jo with you? Isn't the girl ever coming home? There is nothing the matter with her, is there? Of course

Auntie Sue looked around the private office curiously, then smilingly back to the face of the financier.

"Do you know, Homer," she said with her chuckling little laugh, "IIam almost afraid of you in here.

Everything is so grand and richlooking; and there were so many men out there who tried to tell me you

would not see me. II am glad I didn't know it would be like this, or I fear I never could have found the

Homer T. Ward laughed, and thenrather fullwaisted as he was went down on one knee at the arm of

"Look at me, Auntie Sue," he said; "look straight through me, just as you used to do years and years ago, and

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 ought to spank for throwing spitballs at the old schoolroom ceiling," she retorted.

"And I am not a bit afraid to do it either. So sit right over there, sir, and listen to me."

They laughed together then; and if Auntie Sue wiped her eyes as the schoolboy obediently took his seat in the

big chair at the banker's desk, 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

"I suppose it is because she is all I have to love," he said, "but, you know, ever since Sister Grace died and

left the fatherless little kid to me, it seems like all my plans have centered around her; and now that she has

finished her school; has travelled abroad, and gone through with that businesscollege course, I am beginning

to feel like we should sort of 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, you are coming with her."

Auntie Sue shook her head, smiling: "Now, Homer, you know that is settled: I will never leave my little log

house by the river until I have watched the last sunset. You know, my dear boy, that I would be miserable in

It was an old point often argued by them, and the man dismissed it, now, with a brief: "We'll see about that

"Because," Auntie Sue answered, "I came away hurriedly, on a very important trip, for only a day, and it is

necessary for her to stay and keep house while I am gone. The child must learn to cook, Homer, even if she is

"I know," answered the banker;"the same as you make me work when I visit you. But your coming to me

The dear old lady laughed, nervously; for, to tell the truth, she did not quite know how she was going to

manage to present Brian Kent's case to Homer T. Ward without presenting more than she was at this time

"Why, you see, Homer," she began, "it is not really my trouble as much as it is yours, and it is not yours as

"No! no!" she cried. "The child doesn't even know why I am here. Just try to forget her for a few minutes,

Auntie Sue might have answered that she was somewhat worried herself; but, instead, she plunged with

It is not enough to say that the President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank was astonished. "Brian

Kent?" he said at last. "Why, Auntie Sue, I wrote you nearly a year ago that Brian Kent was dead."

"Yes, I know; but he was notthat is, he is not. But the Brian Kent your detectives were hunting wasI

Homer T. Ward looked at his old teacher as though he feared she had suddenly lost her mind.

"It is like this, Homer," Auntie Sue explained: "A few days after your detective, Mr. Ross, called on me, this

stranger appeared in the neighborhood. No one dreamed that he was Brian Kent, because, you see, he was not

"Yes: and every other way," continued Auntie Sue. "And he has been working so hard all winter; and

everybody in the country respects and loves 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 I cannotI will notlet you send him to

Homer T. Ward was puzzled. Strange human problems are often presented to men in his position; but,

certainly, this was the strangest;his old teacher pleading for his absconding clerk who was supposed to be

At last he said, with gentle kindness: "But, why did you come to tell me about him, Auntie Sue? He is safe

"That is it!" she cried. "Some one found out about him, and is coming here to tell you, for the reward."

The banker whistled softly. "And youyougrabbed a train, and beat 'em to it!" he exclaimed. "Well, if

Auntie Sue clasped her thin hands to her breast, and her sweet voice trembled with anxious fear: "You won't

send that poor boy to prison, now, will you, Homer? Ititwould kill me if such a terrible thing were to

happen now. Won't you let him go free, so that he can do his work,won't you, Homer? II" The strain

of her anxiety was almost too much for the dear old gentlewoman's physical strength, and as her voice failed,

"Don't, Auntie Sue: don't, dear! Why, you know I would do anything in the world you asked, even if I wanted

to send the fellow up; but I don't. I wouldn't touch him for the world. It is a thousand times better to 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, Auntie Sue. IIam as glad as you are that we didn't get him. Please don't feel so about it. There,

So he comforted and reassured her until she was able to smile through her tears. "I knew I could depend on

A few minutes later, she said: "And what about that man who is coming to claim the reward, Homer?"

"Never you mind him!" cried the banker; "I'll fix that. But, tell me, Auntie Sue, where is young Kent now?"

"I have seen him occasionally," she answered. Homer T. Ward nodded his head, as if well pleased with

himself. "You don't need to tell me any more. I understand, now, exactly. It is very clear what has reformed

Brian Kent; you have been up to your old tricks. It is a wonder you haven't taken him into your house to live

He laughed, and when Auntie Sue only smiled, as though humoring him in his little joke, he added: "By the

way, has Betty Jo seen this latest patient of yours? What does she think of his chances for complete

"Yes," Auntie Sue returned, calmly; "Betty Jo has seen him. But, really, Homer, I have never asked her what

"Do you know, Auntie Sue," said the banker, reflectively, "I never did believe that Brian Kent was a criminal

"I know he is not," she returned stoutly. "But, tell me, Homer, how did it ever happen?"

"Well, you see," he answered, "young Kent had a wife who couldn't somehow seem to fit into his life. Ross

never went into the details with me, fully, because that, of course, had no real bearing on the fact that he stole

the money from the bank. But it seems that the youngster was rather ambitious,studied a lot outside of

business hours and that sort of thing. I know he made his own way through business college before he came

to us. The wife didn't receive the attention she thought she should have, I suppose. Perhaps she was right at

that. Anyway, she wanted a good time;wanted him to take her out more, instead of spending his spare time

digging away at his books. And so it went the usual way,she found other company. Rather a gay set, I

fancy; at least it led to her needing 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 crash came,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 with a pretty wild bunch,glad to get rid of

"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 the

"You have made me very happy, Homer," Auntie Sue returned. "But are you sure you can fix it about that

reward? The man who is coming to claim it will make trouble, won't he, if he is not paid, somehow?"

"Yes, I expect he would," returned the president, thoughtfully. "And my directors might have something to

say. And there are the Burns people and the Bankers' Association and all. Hummm!"

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 pay the reward himself. That would be fair, wouldn't it?"

Auntie Sue was sure that Brian would agree that it was a fair enough arrangement; but she did not see how it

Then her old pupil explained that he would pay the rewardmoney to the man who was coming to claim it,

and thus satisfy him, and that the bank would hold the amount as a part of the debt which Brian was expected

Auntie Sue never knew that President Ward himself paid to the bank the full amount of the money stolen by

Brian Kent in addition to the rewardmoney which he personally paid to Jap Taylor, in order to quiet him,

and thus saved Brian from the publicity that surely would have followed any other course.

It should also be said here that Judy's father never again appeared in the Ozarks; at least, not in the Elbow

Rock neighborhood. It might be that Jap Taylor was shrewd enough to know that his reputation would not

permit him to show any considerable sum of money, where he was known, without starting an investigation;

Or it is not unlikely that the combination of money and the city proved the undoing of the moonshiner, and

that he came to his legitimate and logical end among the dives and haunts of his kind, to which he would

The day following that night of Brian Kent's uneasy wakefulness was a hard day for the man and the woman

For Brian, the morning dawned with a sense of impending disaster. He left 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 in its

ghostly depths legions of shadowy spirits that from his past had assembled to haunt him. The sombre aisles

and caverns of the dimly lighted forest were peopled with shadowy memories of that life which he had hoped

would never again for him awake. And the river swept through its gray world to the crashing turmoil at

Elbow Rock like a thing doomed to seek forever in its own irresistible might the destruction of its everliving

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 leaped

above the mountaintops, and the world was filled with the beauty of its golden glory. From tree and bush

and swaying weed, from forest and pasture, and garden and willow fringed riverbank, the birds voiced

When he went to the house with his full milkpail, and Betty Jo met him at the kitchendoor with her cheery

"Goodmorning!" he tried resolutely to free himself from the mood which possessed him, but only partially

succeeded. Several times, as the two faced each other across the breakfast table, Brian saw the gray eyes

filled with questioning anxiety, as though Betty Jo, also, felt the presence of some forbidding spectre at the

After several vain attempts to find something they could talk about, Betty Jo boldly acknowledged the

situation by saying: "What in the world is the matter with us, this morning, Mr. Burns? I am possessed with

the feeling that there is some one or something behind me. I want to look over my shoulder every minute."

"There!" cried Betty Jo, with a nervous laugh, not at all like her normal, wellpoised self. "You feel it, too!"

Brian forced a laugh in return: "It is the weather, I guess." He tried to speak with casual ease. "The

atmosphere is full of electricity this morning. We'll have a thunderstorm before night, probably."

"And was it the electricity in the air that kept you tramping up and down your room last night until almost

morning?" she demanded abruptly, with her characteristic opposition to any evasion of the question at issue.

Brian retorted with a smile: "And how do you know that I tramped up and down my room last night?"

The color in Betty Jo's cheeks deepened as she answered, "I did not sleep 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 answered honestly: "I was not in my room when I

heard you." She paused, and when he only looked at her expectantly, but did not speak, continued, in a

hesitating manner quite unlike her matteroffact self: "When I could not sleep, and felt so as though there

were somebody or something in the house that had no business here, I became afraid, and opened my door so

I would not feel so much alone; and then I saw the light under the door of your room, and," she hesitated,

but finished with a little air of defiance,"and I went and listened outside your door to see if you were up."

"And when I heard you walking up and down, I wanted to call to you; but I thought I better not. It made me

feel better, though, just to know that you were there; and so, pretty soon, I went back to my room again."

"And then," confessed Betty Jo, "whatever it was that was keeping me awake came back, and went on

Poor Betty Jo! She knew very well that she ought not to be saying those things to the man who, while he

And Brian Kent, as he thought of this woman, whom he loved with all the strength of his best self, creeping

to the door of his room for comfort in the lonely night, scarcely dared trust himself to speak. At last, when

their silence was becoming unbearable, he said, gently: "You poor child! Why didn't you call to me?"

And Betty Jo, hearing in his voice that which told her how near he was to the surrender that would bring

disaster to them both, was aroused to the defense. The gray eyes never wavered as she answered, bravely: "I

And so Betty Jo confessed her love that answered so to his need; but, in her very confession, saved their love

Brian Kent, in reverent acknowledgment, bowed his head before her. Then, rising, he walked to the window,

"It was that horrid man coming yesterday that has so upset us," said Betty Jo, at last. "We were getting on so

beautifully, too. I wish he had 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 they both knew that,for that time, at

"I wish so, too," he agreed; "but never mind; Auntie Sue will be home in a day or two, and then everything

But when he had taken his hat and was starting out for the day's work, Betty Jo asked, "What are you doing

"IIwish you could find something to do nearer the house," came the slow answer. "Couldn't you work in

All that forenoon, as Betty Jo went about her household duties she felt the presence of the thing that filled her

so with fear and dread. With vigorous determination she scolded herself for being so foolish, and argued with

herself that it was all a nervous fancy born of her restless night. But, the next moment, she would start with a

sudden fear and turn quickly as if to face some one whose presence she felt behind her. And Brian, too, as he

worked in the garden, caught himself often in the act of pausing to look about with nervous apprehension.

During the noonday meal they made a determined effort to laugh at themselves, and by the time dinner was

over had almost succeeded. But when Brian, as he pushed back his chair, said, jestingly, "Well, am I to work

in the garden again this afternoon?" Betty Jo answered, emphatically, "Indeed you are! I will not stay another

There was no jest in the man's voice as he answered: "I'll tell you what you will do tonight,you will go to

bed and you will go to sleep. You will leave the door to your room wideopen, and I shall lie right there on

that couch, so near that a whisper from you will reach me. We will have no more of this midnight prowling, I

The reassuring words died on Brian Kent's lips. His eyes, looking over Betty Jo's shoulders, were fixed and

staring, and the look on his face sent a chill of horror to the girl's heart. She dared not move nor look around

Martha Kent's heavy drinking the night before, when her clubhouse friends in a wild debauch had tried to

help her to forget, was the climax of many months of like excesses. The mood in which she had sent the man

Green from her room was the last despairing flicker of her better instincts. Moved by her memories of better

things,of a better love and dreams and ideals,she had spent a little hour or two in sentimental regret for

that which she had so recklessly cast aside. And then, because there was within her no foundation of abiding

principle for her sentiment, she had again put on the character which had so separated 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

what she might have been and of what she was ever tormenting her, she sank, as the hours passed, deeper and

deeper into the quicksands of physical indulgence until, in her mad determination to destroy utterly her

ability to feel remorse, she lost all mental control of herself, and responded to every insane whim of her

As she stood there, now, in the doorway of that little log house by the river,face to face with the man and

the woman who, though they were united in their love, were yet separated by the very fact of her

existence,she was, in all her hideous, but pitiful, repulsiveness, the legitimate creation of those lifeforces

"Hello, Brian, dear!" said the woman, with a drunken leer. "Thought I'd call to see you in your charming

lovenest that Harry Green raved so about. Can't you introduce me to your little sweetheart?"

"No?" she continued, and laughed again. Then coming an unsteady step toward them, she added, thickly:

"Very well, Brian, old sport; you won't introduce me,I'll have to introduce myself." She grinned with

malicious triumph at Betty Jo: "Don't be frightened, my dear. It's all right. I'm nobody of importance, just

Betty Jo, with a little cry, turned to the man who stood as if stricken dumb with horror. "Brian?" she said.

It was the first time she had ever addressed him by his given name, and Brian Kent, as he looked, saw in

those gray eyes no hint of doubt or censure, but only the truest love and sympathy. Betty Jo had not failed in

"It's true, all right, isn't it, Brian?" said Martha Kent. "I'm his wife fast enough, my dear. But you don't need

to worry,you two. I'm a good sport,I am. I've had my fun. No kick coming from me. Just called to pay

With an uncertain wave of her hand, she staggered through the doorway and passed from their sight.

In the little log house by the river the two who had kept the fineness of their love stood face to face.

For Betty Jo, the barrier which Brian Kent had maintained between them to protect her from his love was no

longer a thing unknown. But the revelation, coming as it did, had brought no shadow of distrust or doubt of

the man to whom she had so fully entrusted herself. It had, indeed, only strengthened her faith in him and

For one glorious triumphal moment the very soul of the man exulted in the 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 table which held Auntie Sue's

sewingbasket, and fingered the trifles there. Then, slowly, he passed through the open door to the porch,

where Betty Jo, through the window, near which she stood, saw him look away over the river and the

Suddenly, she saw him start, and stare intently at some nearer object that had caught his attention. As Betty

Jo watched, he moved to the edge of the porch, and, stooping, grasped the railing with his hands;his head

and shoulders were thrust forward; his lips were parted; his whole attitude was that of the most intense and

excited interest. Then, straightening up, he threw back his head, and laughed aloud. But his laughter alarmed

Martha Kent, alone in one of the clubhouse boats, was rowing with drunken clumsiness toward the head of

The woman's friends had missed her, and, guessing, from some remark she had 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 boat on

the river, particularly on that part of the stream near Auntie Sue's place. After leaving Brian and Betty Jo, she

had gone back to her boat in the eddy at the foot of the garden, and was pulling out into the stream when she

saw her friends approaching. With a drunken laugh, she waved her hand, and began rowing from them

directly toward the swift water. The men shouted for her to stop, and pulled with all their strength. But the

woman, taking their calls as a challenge, rowed the harder, while every awkward pull of the oars carried her

Betty Jo, as she reached Brian's side, and saw what was happening on the river, grasped the man's arm

appealingly, with a cry: "Brian! Brian! She is going into the rapids! She will be carried down to Elbow

But Brian Kent, for the moment, was beside himself. All that he had suffered,all that the woman out there

on the river had cost him in anguish of soul,all that she had taken from him of happiness,came before

him with blinding vividness; and now, now,in her drunkenness, she was making her own way to her

"Of course she is!" he shouted, in answer to Betty Jo. "Her friends yonder are driving her to it! Could

As though grasped by powerful unseen hands beneath the surface, the boat shot forward. The woman, feeling

the sudden pull of the current, stopped rowing, and looked about as if wondering what had happened. Her

friends, not daring to follow closer to the dangerous water, were pulling madly for the landing at the foot of

"Look, Betty Jo, look!" shouted the man on the porch, madly. "It's got her nowthe river has got

With a scream of fear, the woman in the boat dropped her oars, and grasped the gunwale of the little craft.

Betty Jo shrank back from him, her eyes, big with horror, fixed upon his face. Then, with a quick movement,

she sprang toward him again, and, catching his arm, shook him with all her strength and struck him again and

The man looked down at her for an instant with an expression of bewildered astonishment on his face, as one

awakened from a dream. He raised his hand and drew it across his forehead and eyes.

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 was running with all his might toward the river, at an angle which would

As Brian Kent raced toward the river's edge, the powerful current drew the 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 it with

everincreasing speed toward the wild turmoil at Elbow Rock, the woman screamed again and again for help.

The warring forces of the stream whirled the little craft about, and she saw the man who was nearing the

bank. She rose to her feet in the rocking boat, and stretched out her arms,calling his name, "Brian! Brian!

Brian!" Then the impact of the boat against a larger wave of the rapids brought her to her knees, and she

Betty Jo and the clubhouse men, who had overtaken her, saw Brian as he reached the river opposite the boat.

For a little way he raced the tumbling 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 bank far out into the boiling stream.

Running along the bank, the helpless watchers saw the man fighting his way toward the boat. One moment,

he disappeared from sight, dragged beneath the surface by the powerful currents with which he wrestled. The

next instant, the boiling waters would toss him high on the crest of a rolling wave, only to drag him down

again a second later. But, always, he drew nearer and nearer the object of his struggle, while the rapids swept

both the helpless woman and the tossing boat and the swimming man onward toward the towering cliff, and

The splendid strength of arms and shoulders which Brian Kent had acquired by his months of work with his

ax on the timbered mountainside sustained him now in his need. With tremendous energy, he breasted the

might of the furious river. To the watchers it seemed at times that it was beyond the power of human muscles

to endure the terrific strain. Then he gained the boat, and they saw him striving with desperate energy to drag

it toward the opposite shore and so into the currents that would carry it past the menacing point of the cliff

All that human strength could do in that terrible situation, Brian Kent did. But the task was beyond the power

For an instant the breathless watchers on the bank thought there was a chance; but the waters with mad fury

dragged their victims back, and, with terrific power, hurled them forward toward the frowning rocks.

In that wild turmoil of the boiling, leaping, seething, lashing, hammering waves, the boat, with the woman

who crouched on her knees on the bottom, and the man who clung to the side of the craft, appeared for a

second lifted high in the air. The next instant, the crash of breaking wood sounded above the thundering

roaring of the waters. The man and the woman disappeared. The wreck of the boat was flung again and again

against the cliff, until, battered and broken, it was swept away around the point.

Against the dark wall of rock Brian Kent's head and shoulders appeared for an instant, and they saw that he

held the woman in his arms. The furious waters closed over them. For the fraction of a second, the man's

Another moment, and she was aroused by a loud shout from one of the men who had caught a glimpse of the

Springing to her feet, Betty Jo started madly up the trail that leads over the bluff. The men followed.

Immediately below Elbow Rock there is a deep hole formed by the waters that pour around the point of the

cliff, and below this hole a wide gravelly bar pushing out from the Elbow Rock side of the stream forces the

main volume of the river to the opposite bank. In the shallow water against the upper side of the bar they

With the last flicker of his consciousness, Brian Kent had felt his feet touch the bottom where the water

shoals against the bar, and, with his last remaining strength, had dragged himself and the body of the woman

Betty Jo was no hysterical weakling to spend the priceless seconds of such a time in senseless ravings. The

firstaid training which she had received at school gave her the necessary knowledge which her native

strength of character and practical common sense enabled her to apply. Under her direction, the men from the

clubhouse worked as they probably never had worked before in all their useless lives.

But the man and the woman whose lifecurrents had touched and mingled,drawn apart to flow apparently

far from each other, but drawn together again to once more touch, and, as one, to endure the testing of the

rapids,the man and the woman had not brought to the terrible ordeal the same strength.

One was drawn into the Elbow Rock rapids by the careless indifference and the reckless spirit that was born

of the life she had chosen; by her immediate associates and environment; and by the circumstances that were,

The other braved the same dangers, strong in the splendid spirit that had set him against such terrible odds to

attempt the woman's rescue. From his work on the timbered mountainside, from his life in the clean

atmosphere of the hills, and from the spiritual and mental companionship of that little log house by the river,

he had brought to his testing the splendid 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 was fighting to save her, the soul of Martha Kent went from the bruised and

In the early evening twilight of the day following the tragedy at Elbow Rock, Betty Jo was sitting on the

porch, to rest for a few minutes in the 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 side of the man she loved as he fought

his way slowly out of the dark shadow of the death that had so nearly conquered him. Nor, indeed, would

Brian let her go, for even in those moments when he appeared most unconscious of the life about him, he

seemed to feel her presence. All through the long, long hours of that anxious night and day she had watched

and waited the final issue;feeling the dark messenger very close at times, but gaining hope as the hours

passed and her lover won his way nearer and nearer to the light;courageous always;giving him the best

of her strength, so far as it was possible to give him anything;making him feel the steady, enduring fullness

At last, they felt that the victory was won. The doctor, satisfied that the crisis was safely past, went his way to

visit other patients. By evening, Brian was resting so easily that the girl had stolen away for a few minutes,

Betty Jo had been on the porch but a short time when a step sounded on the gravel walk that led from the

The mountain girl stopped when she saw Betty Jo, and the latter went to the top of the steps.

Slowly, with her black beady eyes fixed on Betty Jo's face, Judy went up the steps.

As the mountain girl reached the level of the porchfloor, Betty Jo drew a little back toward the door.

Judy stopped instantly, and stood still. Then, in a low tone, she said: "Youall ain't got no call ter be afeared,

Miss Betty Jo. You hain't never 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. "I don't want to be afraid of you, and I am

"No, no; Judy, dear, I don't hate you at all, and you must know that Auntie Sue loves you."

"Yes," Judy nodded her head, thoughtfully. "Auntie Sue just naturally loves everybody. Hit wouldn't be no

"But that is all past now, Judy," said Betty Jo, heartily. "Come and sit down?" She started toward the chairs.

But the mountain girl did not move, except to shake her head in refusal of the hospitable invitation.

"I ain't agoin' ter put my foot inside this house, nor set with youall, nor nothin' 'til I've said what I done

"Auntie Sue done told me not ter let youall er Mr. Burns see me 'til she come back. But I can't help hit, an' if

I don't talk 'bout that none, I reckon she ain't agoin' ter mind so much. You all don't know that I seed

Auntie Sue that night 'fore she went away, an' that hit was me took her ter the station with 'Old Prince,' an'

"No," said Betty Jo, "I did not know; and if Auntie Sue told you not to tell us about it, I would rather you did

"I ain't aimin' ter," Judy returned; "but Auntie Sue don't know nothin' 'bout what's happened since she went

Betty Jo, seeing that the poor girl was laboring under some intense emotional 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 sallow cheeks, while her twisted shoulders

shook with the grief she could not suppress, as she faltered: "My GodA'mighty! Miss Betty Jo, IIdidn't

aim 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

hitwas me what told that there woman how Mr. Burns was Brian Kent. Hit'shit'sme what's ter blame

for gittin' her killed in the river an' him so nigh drowned. O God! O God! If he'll only git well!

"An' I ain't afeelin' toward youall like I did, Miss Betty Jo. I can't no more. I done left them clubhouse

folks, after I knowed what has happened, an' all day I been hangin' 'round here in the bresh. An' Lucy Warden

she done told me, this afternoon, 'bout how youall 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' youall so

different from that there clubhouse gang an' pap an' me. An' I ain't awantin' ter be like I been, no more, ever.

I'd a heap rather jump inter the river an' drown myself. 'Fore God, I would! An' I want ter come back an' help

youall take care of him; an' live with Auntie Sue; 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 was around the poor twisted shoulders, and

And so, when Auntie Sue came home, it was Judy who met her at the station, with "Old Prince" and the

buggy; and as they drove down the winding road to the little log house by the river, the mountain girl told the

Brian Kent recovered quickly from the effects of his experience in the Elbow Rock rapids, and was soon able

again to take up his work on the little farm. Every day he labored in the garden, or in the clearing, or at some

task which did not rightly fall to those who rented the major part of Auntie Sue's tillable acreage.

Auntie Sue had told him about her visit to the President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, and of the

arrangement made by the bankeras she understood itfor Brian's protection. But while the dear old lady

explained that Homer T. Ward was one of her pupils, she did not reveal the relation between Brian's former

chief and Betty Jo. Neither Auntie Sue nor Betty Jo, for several very good reasons, was ready for Brian to

know the whole truth about his stenographer. It was quite enough, they reasoned, for him to love his

stenographer, and for his stenographer to love him, without raising any more obstacles in the pathway of their

As the busy weeks passed, several letters came from the publishers of Brian's book,letters which made the

three in the little log house by the river very happy. Already, in the first reception of this new writer's work,

those who had undertaken to present it to the public saw many promises of the fulfillment of their prophecies

as to its success. When the third letter came, a statement of the sales to date was enclosed, and, that afternoon,

When they were comfortably, not to say cozily, seated on a log in the shade at the edge of the forest, she

"Yes?" he returned; but he really looked altogether too happy to be exceedingly serious.

"Yes," she continued, "I have. As your accredited business agent and" she favored him with a Betty Jo

"I am glad you confirm my promotion so readily," she returned, with a charming touch of color in her cheeks,

"because that, you see, helps me to present what I have to say for the good of the firm."

"Very well; tell me, first, Brian, just exactly how much do you owe that bank, rewardmoney and all, and

Brian went to his coat, which lay on a nearby stump, and returned with a small pocket accountbook.

"I have it all here," he said, as he seated himself close beside her again. And, opening the book, he showed

her how he had kept a careful record 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 so glad,so glad you have this! It is exactly

what I want for my wedding present. It was so thoughtful of you to fix it for me."

Thus by a characteristic, Betty Jo turn she made the little book of painful memories a book of joyous

When they again returned to the consideration of business matters, Brian gave her the figures which answered

Again Betty Jo exclaimed with delight: "Brian, do you see? Take your pencil and figure quick your royalties

"And your book has already earned more than enough to pay everything," said Betty Jo. "Isn't that simply

"It is pretty 'grand,' all right," he agreed. "The only trouble is, I must wait so long before the money is due me

"That is exactly what I came to talk about," she returned quickly. "I tried to have it different when I made the

arrangements with them, but the terms of payment in the contract are the very best I could get; and so I have

planned a little plan whereby youthat is, wewon't need to wait for your freedom until the date of

She nodded vigorously, with another Betty Jo smile. "This is the plan, and you are not to interrupt until I have

finished everything: I happen to have some money of my very, very own, which is doing nothing but earning

At the look on Brian's face, she stopped suddenly; but, when he started to speak, she put her hand quickly

over his mouth, saying: "You were not to say a single word until I have finished. Play fair, Brian, dear;

When he signified that he would not speak, she continued in her most matteroffact and businesslike tone:

"There is every reason in the world, Brian, why you should pay off your debt to the bank and to Auntie Sue at

the earliest possible moment. You can think of several reasons yourself. There is me, for instance.

"Very well. You have the money to your credit with the publishers; but you can't use it yet. I have money that

you can just as well use. You will make an assignment of your royalties to me, all in proper form, to cover the

amount you need. You will pay me the same interest my money is now earning where it is.

"I will arrange for the money to be sent to you in the form of a cashier's cheque, payable to the banker,

Homer T. Ward, so the name Brian Kent does not appear before we are ready, you see. You will make

believe to Auntie Sue that the money is from the publishers. You will send the cheque to Mr. Bank President

personally, with a statement of your indebtedness to him properly itemized, interest figured on everything.

You will instruct him to open an account for you with the balance. And thenthen, Brian, you will give dear

Auntie Sue a cheque for what you owe her, with interest of course. And we will all be so happy!

When he hesitated, she added: "And the final and biggest reason of all is, that I want you to do as I have

planned more than I ever wanted anything in the world, except you, and I want this so because I want you.

So they worked it out together as Betty Jo had planned; and when the time came for the last and best part of

the plan, and Brian confessed to Auntie Sue how he had robbed her, and had known for so long that she was

aware of his crime against her, and finished his confession by giving her the cheque, it is safe to say that there

was nowhere in all the world more happiness than in the little log house by the river.

"GodA'mighty sure helped me to do one good turn, anyway, when I jumped inter the river after that there

And while they laughed together, Betty Jo hugged the deformed mountain girl, and answered: "God

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. The banker was coming for his longdeferred vacation to the log house by the

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 and for the dearest girl in the world, his Betty Jo.

But that part of Homer T. Ward's letter which most excited Auntie Sue and caused Betty Jo to laugh until she

cried was this: The great financier, who, even in his busy life of large responsibilities, found time for some

good reading, had discovered a great book, by a new and heretofore unknown writer. The book was great

because every page of it, Homer T. Ward declared, reminded him of Auntie Sue. If the writer had known her

for years, he could not have drawn a truer picture of her character, nor presented her philosophy of life more

clearly. It was a remarkable piece of work. It was most emphatically the sort of writing that the world needed.

This new author was a genius of the rarest and best sort. Mr. Ward predicted boldly that this new star in the

literary firmament was destined to rank among those of the first magnitude. Already, among the banker's

closest book friends, the new book was being discussed, and praised. He would bring a copy for Auntie Sue

and Betty Jo to read. It was not only the book of the year;it was, in Homer T. Ward's opinion, one of the

"Well," commented Betty Jo, when they had read and reread that part of the letter, "dear old Uncle Homer

may be a very conservative banker, but he certainly is more than liberal when he touches on the question of

Brian was told only that Mr. Ward was coming to visit Auntie Sue, and that he must be busy somewhere

away from the house when the banker arrived, and not come until he was sent for, because Auntie Sue must

make a full confession to her old pupil of the part she had played in the ReCreation of Brian Kent before

Brian, never dreaming that there were other confessions to be made, smilingly agreed to do exactly as he was

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 asked so many questions about his conduct and life and their many

Chicago friends, that the helpless bank president had no chance whatever of asking her a single embarrassing

question. But, when dinner was over (Brian had taken his lunch with him to the clearing), Homer T. Ward

"Betty Jo had seen the bank clerk?" Betty Jo's uncle supposed. "What did she think of the fellow?"

"And how had Betty Jo been amusing herself while her old uncle was slaving in the city?"

Betty Jo had been doing a number of things: Helping Auntie Sue with her housework; learning to cook;

"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 he introduced them to the new genius, and

read certain favorite passages from the great book, and grew enthusiastic on the new author, saying all that he

had written in his letter and many things more, until Betty Jo could restrain herself no longer, but ran to him,

and took the book from his hands, and, with her arms around his neck, told him that he was the dearest uncle

in the world, because she was going to marry the man who wrote the book he so admired.

There were long explanations after that: How the book so highly valued by Banker Ward had actually been

written in that very log house by the river; how Auntie Sue had sent for Betty Jo to assist the author with her

typewriting; how the author, not knowing who Betty Jo was, had fallen in love with his stenographer, and,

finally, how Betty Jo's authorlover was even then waiting to meet her guardian, still not knowing that her

"You see, uncle, dear," explained Betty Jo, "Auntie Sue and I were obliged to conspire this little conspiracy

against my man, because, you know, authors are funny folk, and you never can tell exactly what they are

going to do. After giving your heart to a genius as wonderful as you yourself know this one to be, it would be

terrible to have him refuse you just because you were the only living relative of a rich old banker;it would,

And, really, Homer T. Ward could find reason in Betty Jo's argument, which ended with that fatal trick

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 the

advantage of associating with such an author man in the actual writing of his book, you would never, never

have permitted me to fall in love with him before you had discovered for yourself what a great man he really

is, and I simply had to fall in love with him because God made me 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 occasion will you, uncle, dear?" she added

anxiously. "I am not, truly, I am not,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 at the same time to love a geniusman, as I

love my man, andandnot know what 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's head went down on his shoulder; and he

felt her cheek hot with blushes against his and a very suspicious drop of moisture slipped down inside his

When he had held Betty Jo very close for a while, and had whispered comforting things in her ear, and had

smiled over her shoulder at his old teacher, the banker sent the girl to find her lover while he should have a

The long shadows of the late afternoon were on the mountainside when Brian Kent and Betty Jo came down

The girl had said to him simply, "You are to come, now, Brian; Auntie Sue and Mr. Ward sent me to tell

She was very serious, and as they walked together clung closely to his arm. And the man, too, seeming to feel

the uselessness of words for such an occasion, was silent. When he helped her over the railfence at the

lower edge of the clearing, he held her in his arms for a little; then they went on.

They saw the beautiful, treeclad hills lying softly outlined in the shadows like folds of green and timeworn

velvet, extending ridge on ridge into the blue. They saw the river, their river, making its gleaming way with

many a curve and bend to the mighty sea, that was hidden somewhere far beyond the distant skyline of their

vision; and between them and the river, at the foot of the hill, they saw the little log house with Auntie Sue

When the banker saw the man at Betty Jo's side, his mind was far from the clerk whom he had known more

than a year before in the city. His thoughts were on the author, the scholar, the genius, whose book had so

compelled his respect and admiration. This tall fellow, with the athletic shoulders and deeply tanned face,

who was dressed in the rude garb of the backwoodsman, with his coat over his arm, his ax on his shoulder,

and his dinnerpail in his hand, who was he? And why was Betty Jo so familiar with this stranger, Betty

Jo, who was usually so reserved, with her air of competent selfpossession? Homer T. Ward turned to look

Brian, hearing her speak those two revealing words, and seeing her go to the bank president, who put his arm

around her with the loving intimacy of a father, stood speechless with amazement, looking from Homer T.

Mr. Ward, still not remembering the bank clerk in this recreated Brian Kent, was holding out his hand with

As the bewildered Brian mechanically took the hand so cordially extended, the older man said: "It is an

honor, sir, to meet a man who can do the work you have done in writing that book. It is impossible to

estimate the value of such a service as you have rendered the race. You have a rare and wonderful gift, Mr.

Brian, still confused, but realizing that Mr. Ward had not recognized him, looked appealingly at Betty Jo and

Auntie Sue continued: "Homer, dear, Betty Jo has presented HER author, Mr. Burns;permit me to

And Judy remarked that evening, when, after supper, they were all on the porch watching the sunset: "Hit

sure is dad burned funny how all tangled an' snarled up everythin' kin git 'fore a body kin think most, an',

then, if a body'll just keep agoin' right along, all ter onct hit's all straightened out as purty as anythin'."

They laughed happily at the mountain girl's words, and the dear old teacher's sweet voice answered: "Yes,

"Meanin' as how the water gits all tangled an' mixed up when hit's aboilin' an' aroarin' like mad down there

at Elbow Rock, an' then all ter onct gits all smooth an' calm like again," returned Judy.

"Meaning just that, Judy," returned Auntie Sue. "No matter how tangled and confused life seems to be, it will

And when the dreamy Indiansummer days were come and the blue haze of autumn lay softly over the brown

and gold of the beautiful Ozark hills, the mountain folk of the Elbow Rock neighborhood gathered one day at

It was a simple ceremony that made the man and the woman, who were so dear to Auntie Sue, husband and

wife. But the backwoods minister was not wanting in dignity, though his dress was rude and his words plain;

and the service lacked nothing of beauty and meaning, though the guests were but humble mountaineers; for

And when the simple wedding feast was over, they all went down to the riverbank, at the lower corner of

the garden, where, at the eddy landing, a staunch Johnboat waited, equipped and ready.

When the last goodbyes were spoken, and Brian and Betty Jo put out from the 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 the

With Brian at the oars, the boat crossed the stream to the safer waters close to the other shore, and then, with

Betty Jo waving her handkerchief, and the neighbor men and boys running shouting along the bank, swept

down the river, past the roaring turmoil of the Elbow Rock rapids into the quiet reaches below, and away on

"I am so glad," said Auntie Sue, her dear old face glowing with love, and her sweet voice tremulous with

Note.This biographical sketch of Harold Bell Wright will give the reader a knowledge and understanding

of the lifework, aims and purposes of the author as expressed through his books. It is reprinted on these

The biography of a man is of importance and interest to other men just to the degree that his life and work

Only in a feeble way, at best, can the life story of any man be told on the printed page. The story is better as it

He lives longest who lives best. He who carves deepest against corroding time is he who touches with surest

He may or may not be a prodigy of physical strength. He may or may not be a tower of mental energy. But so

long as this old world stands the man with an overpowering desire for all that is best for the race to be in the

race, whose life is in tune with the divine and with the good that is within us all, whether he be orator, writer,

That which we read makes a deeper and more lasting impression on our lives than that which we see or hear.

An author with millions of readers must be a great central power of thought and influence, at least, in his own

day and generation. We can understand the truth of this through a study of the aims and life purposes of

Harold Bell Wright as expressed through his books and the circumstances under which they were written.

The wonderful popularity of this author is well estimated by the millions of copies of his books that have

been sold. This is also the greatest testimonial that can be given to the merit of his work. The great heart of

the reading public is an unprejudiced critic. "Is not the greatest voice the one to which the greatest number of

When a man has attained to great eminence under adverse circumstances we sometimes wonder to what

heights he might have climbed under conditions more favorable. Who can tell? It is just as easy to say what

the young man of twenty will be when a matured man of forty. The boy of poverty makes a man of power

while the boy nursed in the lap of luxury makes a man of uneventful life, and, again, a life started with a

handicap remains so through its possible three score years and ten and the life begun with advantages

So, after all, is not the heart of man the real man and is it not the guiding star of his ambition, his will, his

Harold Bell Wright, the second of four sons, was born May 4, 1872, in Rome, Oneida County, New York.

"Some essential facts must be dug from out the past where they lie embedded in the detrital chronicles of the

race. Say, then, that away back in 1640 a ship load of AngloSaxon freedom landed in New England. After a

brief period some of the more venturesome spirits emigrated to the far west and settled amid the undulations

of the Mohawk valley in central New York. Protestant France also sent westward some Gallic chivalry

hungering for freedom. The fringe of this garment of civilization spread out and reached also into the same

valley. English determination and Huguenot aspiration touched elbows in the war for political and religious

freedom, and touched hearts and hands in the struggle for economic freedom. Their generations were a

genuine aristocracy. Mutual struggles after mutual aims cemented casual acquaintance into enduring

friendship. William Wright met, loved and married Alma T. Watson. To them four sons were born. A

carpenter contractor, a man who builds, contrives and constructs, is joined to a woman into whose soul of

wholesome refinement come images of dainty beauty, where they glow and grow radiant. With lavish

unrestraint the life of this French woman pours itself into her sons. The third child died in infancy. The eldest

survived his mother by some thirteen years. The youngest is a constructive mechanical engineer. The second

"During ten years this mother and this son live in rare intimacy. The boy's first enduring impression of this

life is the vision of the mother bending affectionately over him while criticising the water color sketch his

unpracticed fingers had just made. Crude blendings and faulty lines were pointed out, then touched into

harmony and more accurate perspective by her quick skill. Together their eyes watched shades dance on

sunny slopes, cloud shadows race among the hills or lie lazily in the valley below.

"Exuberant Nature and ebullient boy loved each other from the first. Alone, enravished, he often wandered

far in sheer joy of living. He brings, one day, from his rambles a bunch of immortelles which mother

graciously receives. Twenty years later the boy, mangrown, bows reverently over a box of withered

flowers the same bouquet the mother took that day and laid away as a precious memento of his boyish

"A tenyearold boy, motherless, steals from harsh labor and yet harsher surroundings, runs to the home of

sacred memories, clambers to the attic, and spends the night in anguished solitude. This was his first

Gethsemane. 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, too

stubbornly proud to ask apologies or make useless explanations, fighting poverty in the depths of privation,

wrestling existence from toil he loathed, befriending many and also befriended much, but always face to face

"Such was the second decade. The first was spent on hill sides where shadows only made the light more

buoyant as they fled away. The second was passed in the valley where the shadow hung lazily till the cloud

"Lured to college, he undertook to acquire academic culture. As is well known, college life with its

professorial anecdotes and jokes, its student pranks and grind, is routine drudgery and cobwebbery prose.

Bookish professors and conventional students rarely have just such an animate problem of French artistry and

Bohemian experience to solve. They did nobly, to be sure, but here was a mind which threw over them all the

Mr. Wright entered the Preparatory Department of Hiram College at the age of twenty, having previously

accepted the faith and identified himself with the Christian Church in the little quarry town of Grafton, Ohio.

He continued active in the different departments of work in his church all during his school years with the

Having no financial means, while in school he made his way by doing odd jobs about town, house painting

and decorating, sketching, etc. After two years of school life, while laboring to gain funds in order that he

might continue his schooling, he contracted from overwork and outdoor exposure a severe case of

pneumonia that left his eyesight badly impaired and his constitution in such condition that, to the present day,

Air castles were tumbled and hopes blasted when his physician advised him that it would be fatal to reenter

school for, at least, another year. Whereupon, seeking health and a means of existence, starting from a point

on the Mahoning river, he canoed with sketch and note book, but alone, down stream a distance of more than

five hundred miles. From this point, by train, he embarked for the Ozark mountains in southwest Missouri.

Here, for some months, while gradually regaining his strength, he secured employment at farm work,

Once more, he found himself on bedrock, taking his last cent to pay express 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 first sermon. Being a regular attendant at the

services, held in the little mountain log school house, he was asked to talk to the people, one Sunday, when

From this Sunday morning talk, that could hardly be called a sermon, and others that followed, he came to

feel that he could do more good in the ministry than he could in any other field of labor, and soon thereafter

accepted a regular pastorate at Pierce City, Missouri, at a yearly salary of four hundred dollars. True to a

resolve, that his work should be that through which he could help the most people, he had now chosen the

ministry. A further resolve that he would give up this ministry, chosen with such earnest conviction, should

another field of labor offer more extensive measures for reaching mankind, took him, in later years, into the

field of literature. He left the ministry with many regrets but with the same earnest conviction with which he

Following the publication of "The Shepherd of the Hills" his publishers assured him that he could secure

greater results from his pen rather than his pulpit and prevailed upon him to henceforth make literature his

life work. This was in every way consistent with his teaching that every man's ministry is that work through

In the battle of life there is always the higher ground that the many covet but few attain. In reaching this

height Mr. Wright has given to a multitude, his time, strength and substance, that they, too, might further

advance. He is companionable, loving and loyal to his friends. He hates sham and hypocrisy and any attempt

This boy, who, from the death of his mother, was driven into a hand to hand struggle with life for a bare

existence, was necessarily forced into contact with much that was vicious and corrupt. But he in no way

became a part of it. That same inherent love for mental cleanliness and spiritual truths that has so

distinguished the works of the man kept the boy unstained in his unfortunate environment.

Mr. Wright resigned his charge at Pierce City for the larger work at Pittsburg, Kansas. In the second year of

his pastorate1899 he married Frances E. Long in Buffalo, New York. This union of love had its

beginning back in the school days at Hiram. Unto them have been born three sons, Gilbert Munger, 1901,

In Pittsburg, Mr. Wright received enthusiastic support from his church people. Finances were soon in a

satisfactory condition, and church attendance reached the capacity of the building, but still the young pastor

was not satisfied. Pittsburg was a mining town, a young men's town. A little city with saloons and brothels

doing business on every hand. His soul was on fire for his church to do a larger work and, with the hope of

arousing his people, he conceived the idea of writing "That Printer of Udell's," planning to read the story, by

Pittsburg was made the principal scene and the church of the story was the kind of church he wanted his

Pittsburg charge to be. The teachings set forth, through the preacher of the story, in the latter half of the book,

are the identical things the author was preaching. The first chapters of the story are very largely colored by

"That Printer of Udell's" was written without thought or intention of offering it for publication. During the

author's ministry he made some of the warmest and most abiding friendships of his life, and it was through

certain of these friends that he was persuaded from reading the story, as intended, but to offer it for

Having a leave of absence of several weeks from his church during the winter of 19012 he accepted an

invitation from the pastor of a Chicago church to hold a special meeting, and it was during this meeting that

the author and his publisher met for the first time. Mr. Wright delivered a sermon entitled "Sculptors of Life"

that was so impressive that I sought him out with entreaties to repeat his sermon as a lecture to a certain

The acquaintance thus begun very quickly became one of friendship, without any knowledge or thought that

it would in time lead to a cooperative life work, and when the author later offered his book for publication it

was without request or thought of financial remuneration. Mr. Wright, however, was given a contract paying

"That Printer of Udell's" was written almost entirely in the late hours of the night and the very early hours of

the morning. Great demands were being made on the author's time in the way of requests for officiating and

speaking at public and civic functions in addition to the now heavy requirements of his church. His

aggressive activities, backed by his splendid spirit, fearlessness and courage in combating the evils of his

little city made for him a host of admirers, alike, among his enemies and friends. When he left to accept a

After one year in Kansas City he found that he was not physically able to 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 him

seriously consider whether there was not some other way that would more equally measure with his strength.

He went again to the Ozarks, this time for rest and meditation, and while there began writing "The Shepherd

of the Hills." This Story has a peculiar significance for the author. He feels toward it as he can not feel for

any of his other books. "The Shepherd of the Hills" was written as a test. The strength of the message he was

able to put into the story and the response it should find in the hearts of men and women was to decide for

him his ministry henceforth, whether he would teach the precepts of the Man of Galilee by voice or pen. It

was a testing time that bore fruit not only in this simple, sweet story, that to quote an eminent divine, "is one

of the greatest sermons of our day," but resulted as well in the splendid volumes that have followed.

"The Shepherd of the Hills" was finished during the year of his pastorate at Lebanon, Missouri, and but for

the sympathy, encouragement and helpful understanding of his church officers and membership, it is doubtful

if the story could ever have been completed. When Mr. Wright delivered the manuscript to his publishers the

first of the year, 1907, for publication the next fall, he had accepted the pastorate of the Christian Church in

Redlands, California, hoping this land of sunshine would give him a larger measure of health.

Some months later, resigning his Redlands pastorate, he went to the Imperial Valley and there, the following

year, wrote "The Calling of Dan Matthews." The church and its problems were weighing on the author and

affecting his life no less than when he was in the ministry and it was only natural that he should give to the

world "a picture that is true to the four corners of the earth." Every incident in the story has its counterpart in

real life and, with but few exceptions, came under the author's personal observation. He did not get the real

pleasure out of writing "The Calling of Dan Matthews" that he did the story which preceded it. But he could

The publication of "The Calling of Dan Matthews" in the fall of 1909 was just two years after the publication

"The Winning of Barbara Worth" required more time and effort in the collecting of material than any book

the author had written, but probably gave him, at least, as much pleasure. He is very careful with regard to

descriptive detail, and even while writing "The Calling of Dan Matthews" he was making a study of the

desert and this great reclamation project. Before sending his manuscript for publication he had it checked

over by the best engineers on the Pacific coast for inaccuracies in any of his descriptions that involved

"The Winning of Barbara Worth" bears the distinction, without doubt, of being the only book ever published

that called its publisher and illustrator from a distance of two and three thousand miles, into the heart of a

great desert, for a consultation with its author. This story of the Imperial Valley and its reclamation was

written in the same study as was "The Calling of Dan Matthews." A study of rude construction, about

eighteen by thirtyfive feet, with thatched roof and outside covering of native arrowweed and built entirely

When Mr. Wright finished "The Winning of Barbara Worth"so named in honor of Ruth Barbara

Reynoldshe was a sick man. He often worked the night through, overtaxing his nerve and strength. For

several months he virtually dwelt within the four walls of his study and for a time it was feared he would not

live to finish the book. He wrote the last chapters while confined to his bed, after which he was taken by easy

stages, through the kindness of friends, to that part of Northern Arizona that is so delightful to all lovers of

the outofdoors. In this bracing milehigh atmosphere he soon grew well and strong, almost to ruggedness,

and on the day his book was published he was riding in a wildhorse chase over a country wild and rough

where the writer of this sketch would only care to go, carefully picking his way, on foot. So it was weeks

after publication before the author saw the first bound copy of his book. During these summer and fall

months, while regaining his strength, he was busy with sketch and note book collecting material, for this part

"Their Yesterdays" was written in Tucson, Arizona, and was published in the fall of 1912, just one year after

the publication of "The Winning of Barbara Worth." In order to write this story, with the least possible strain

on his nerves and vitality, Mr. Wright secluded himself in a little cottage purchased especially for this work.

His material was collected from the observations of his thoughtful years and his intimate knowledge of

human hearts. This book is, perhaps, more representative of the real Harold Bell Wright than anything he has

done. It is the true presentation of his views on life, love and religion. I once asked Mr. Wright, in behalf of

the faculty, to deliver an address to a graduating class of some twentyodd young men of the Morgan Park

Academy (Chicago). He was very busy and I suggested that without special effort he make the commonplace

remarks that one so often hears on like occasions. For the first time that I remember he somewhat impatiently

resented a suggestion from me, saying "These young men are on the threshold of life and the very best that is

within me is due to them. I can give to them only such a message as I would, were I to stand before judgment

on the morrow." It was 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 written in the same arrowweed study on Tecolote Rancho in the Imperial Valley

where he wrote "The Calling of Dan Matthews" and "The Winning of Barbara Worth." Being fully in

sympathy with the author's purpose in writing this story, the campaign of advertising was of such educational

character and so eventful in many ways, that it will long be remembered by authors, publishers and reading

As it was in the writing of "The Calling of Dan Matthews" so it was in the 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

incensed the author that "The Eyes of the World" was the result of his all impelling desire for cleaner living

and thinking. As is true of all writers, there are sometimes those who fail to catch the message in Mr.

Wright's books. He is occasionally misunderstood, and that was especially true with "The Eyes of the World."

To the great majority of people, clean living and thinking, the message was not to be misinterpreted and to

them the book is blessed. To that small minority it was convicting and, from a few such, it brought forth

condemnation which, in a fellow author here and there, was pronounced and emphasized by envy and

jealousy. To critics of this class Mr. Wright makes no reply and is not in the least disturbed.

"The Uncrowned King," a small volumean allegorypublished 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

was written in Redlands, California, during the winter of 190910, although the notion for the little volume

occurred to the author while living in Kansas City. It was one of those times when the longing and will to do

a work greater than the physical would permit seemed almost overpowering when, unconsciously coming to

his aid, a young woman talking to a company of Christian Endeavorers chanced to remark, "After all, the real

kings of earth are seldom crowned." All through the evening service thoughts that this inspired kept running

through the author's mind and late that same night he wrote the outline which was only completed some years

His first four novels in order of publication have been dramatized and enjoyed by thousands from before the

footlights and it has been a delight to renew acquaintances with old friends in this way. It remained for "The

Eyes of the World" to be the first of his books to be presented in a feature production of motion pictures.

The likes and dislikes of Harold Bell Wright are quite pronounced. He is unpretending, cares not for the

limelight and avoids interviews for the public press. Loud, boisterous conversation is but little less offensive

to him than vulgarity in speech or action. His friends are strong, cleanminded men who are doing things in

the world and are as necessary to his being as the air to his existence, and his generosity to them is no less

marked than his caring and providing for his family, which is almost a passion. He is extremely fond of most

forms of outdoor life. The desert with its vast expanse, fierce solitude and varied colors is no less attractive

to him than the peaceful quiet of wooded dells, the beauty of flowering meadows or the rugged mountains

with their roaring trout streams that furnish him hours of sport with rod and line. He enjoys hunting,

horseback riding or long tramps afoot. But when there is work to be done it is the one thing that bulks

After finishing "The Eyes of the World," Mr. Wright embarked on the building of a home in the Santa

Monica mountains near Hollywood, California. So in the summer of 1915 the little family of five began

making their residence in the new canyon home, one of nature's delightful spots.

Then again, the author went into camp in the Arizona desert while writing "When a Man's a Man." For he

finds it very helpful to live in the atmosphere of his story while doing the actual writing and he also avoids

frequent interruption. I think he got more real enjoyment out of this story than any he has previously done. It

is a story of the outofdoors in this great unfenced land where a man must be a man. I suppose, too, he

enjoyed writing this work so much, partly, because it comes so easy for him to just tell a story without the

intervention of some nerve racking problem. The only book he has heretofore written that is purely a story is

"The Shepherd of the Hills," and I sometimes wonder to what proportion of his readers does this Ozark story

hold first place. For all such, I am sure, "When a Man's a Man" will find a reception 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 him as intimately, if possible, as if you

had met him in person. But should you have the opportunity of making his acquaintance do not deny yourself

the pleasure. If you are a lover of his books I am sure you are just the kind of person that the author himself