wing 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 must not be made known to any one.

When the mountain girl protested, saying, "You-all ain't got no call ter
be a-wearin' yourself ter the bone a-takin' care of such as him," Auntie
Sue answered, "Hush, Judy! How do you know what the poor boy really is?"

To which Judy retorted: "He's just triflin' an' ornery an' no 'count,
that's what he is, or he sure wouldn't been a-floatin' 'round in that
there old John-boat 'thout ary gun, or fishin' lines, or hat even, ter
say nothin' of that there whisky bottle bein' plumb empty."

Auntie Sue made no reply to the mountain girl's harsh summing-up of the
damning evidence against the stranger, but left her and went softly to
the bedside of their guest.

It was perhaps an hour later that Judy, quietly entering the room,
happened upon a scene that caused her to stand as if rooted to the spot
in open-mouthed amazement.

The man was sleeping, and the silvery-haired old maiden-lady, seated
on the side of the bed, was bending over the unconscious stranger and
gently stroking his tumbled, red-brown 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 lips--soft as a rose-petal--to
the stranger's brow.

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 deliciously defiant air that could
not wholly hide her lovely confusion.

"I--I--was thinking, Judy, how he--how he--might have been--my son."

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

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 could have had a son, couldn't I?"

The vanquished Judy retreated