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 let us help you."

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 thank you, but I must go."

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! I--I--am not myself!
You might not be safe with me! Ask her--she knows!" He turned to Judy.

"He's done said hit, ma'm," said Judy, in answer to Auntie Sue'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 crooked an' ugly like what I be now."

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 toward
the river.

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

The man halted.

"Look at me," she commanded.

Slowly, he raised his eyes. The gentle old teacher spoke with 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 shaking hands, he sobbed like a child.

CHAPTER VI.

IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER.

Those two women managed, somehow, to get the almost helpless stranger
into the