ned 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 window, and, at the sound of her movement, a low whisper came from
without.

"Don't be scared, Auntie Sue. Hit ain't nobody but just me."

As she recognized Judy's voice, she saw the mountain girl's head and
twisted shoulders outlined above the window-sill. A moment more, and
Auntie Sue was at the window.

"Sh-h-h!" cautioned Judy. "Don't wake 'em up. I just naturally got ter
tell you-all somethin', Auntie Sue; but, I ain't a-wantin' Mr. Burns
an' that there Betty Jo woman ter hear. I reckon I best come through the
winder."

Acting upon the word, she climbed carefully into the room.

"Judy, child! What--?"

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 a-sleepin' 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 a-movin' even.
I'll fix the winder, now, an' then we kin make a light."

Carefully, she closed the window and drew down the shade. Then she 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 a-comin' through the bresh
in the dark. But, don't--don't--look so kinder lost like; you-all ain't
got no call ter be scared of me."

"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
a