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 a-thinkin',
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 a-knowin' 'bout
'em; an'--an'--the next time you-all writes er book, Mr. Burns, I 'low
you-all ought ter put in 'bout them there snags an' things, 'cause folks
sure got ter know 'bout 'em, if they ain't a-wantin' ter git drowned."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brian Kent buried his face in his hands.

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

And Brian Kent answered: "Yes, Auntie Sue, you are right--that is 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 silvery-haired old teacher spoke again: "Brian, have you ever
wondered that I am so alone in the world? Have you ever asked yourself
why I never married?"

"Yes, Aun