tood speechless with amazement, looking from Homer T. Ward
and Betty Jo to Auntie Sue and back to the banker and the girl.

Mr. Ward, still not remembering the bank clerk in this re-created Brian
Kent, was holding out his hand with a genial smile.

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. Burns, and I predict for you a life
of remarkable usefulness."

Brian, still confused, but realizing that Mr. Ward had not recognized
him, looked appealingly at Betty Jo and then to Auntie Sue.

Auntie Sue spoke: "Mr. Ward is the uncle and guardian of Betty Jo,
Brian."

"'Brian'!" ejaculated the banker.

Auntie Sue continued: "Homer, dear, Betty Jo has presented HER author,
Mr. Burns;--permit me to introduce MY Brian Kent!"

And Judy remarked that evening, when, after supper, they were all on 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 a-goin' 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, Judy; it is all just like the
river, don't you see?"

"Meanin' as how the water gits all tangled an' mixed up when hit's
a-boilin' an' a-roarin' 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 all come straight at the last,
if, like the river, we only keep going on."

And when the dreamy Indian-summer days were come and the blue haze 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 the
little log house by the river.

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 love was there, an