the sea, there are not two feet of it exactly alike.
In all the centuries of its being, there are never two hours alike. An
infinite variety of days and nights--an infinite variety of skies and
light and clouds and daybreaks and sunsets--an infinite number and
variety of currents and shoals and deep places and quiet spots and
dangerous rapids and eddies--and, along its banks, an endless change
of hills and mountains and flats and forests and meadows and farms and
cities--and--" She paused, breathless. And then, when he did not speak,
but only watched her, she continued: "Don't you see? Of course, the
river never could be what you expect, any more than life could be
exactly what you want and dream it will be."

"Who in the world are you?" he asked, wonderingly. "And what in the
world are you doing here in the backwoods?"

Smiling at his puzzled expression, she answered: "I am Auntie Sue. I am
LIVING here in the backwoods."

"But, your real name? Won't you tell me your name? I must know how to
address you."

"Oh, my name is Susan E. Wakefield--MISS Wakefield, if you please. I
shall be seventy-one years old the eighteenth day of next November. And
you must call me 'Auntie Sue,'--just as every one else does."

"Wakefield--Wakefield--where have I seen that name?" He wrinkled his
brow in an effort to remember. "Wakefield--I feel sure that I have heard
it, somewhere."

"It is not unlikely," she returned, lightly. "It is not at all an
uncommon name. And now that I am properly introduced, don't you
think--?"

He hesitated a moment, then said, deliberately, "My name is Brian Kent."

"That is an Irish name," she said quickly; "and that is why your hair is
so nearly red and your eyes so blue."

"Yes," he returned, "from my mother. And please don't ask me more now,
for I can't lie to you, and I won't tell you the truth." And she saw,
again, the dark shadows of painful memories come into the blue eyes.

Bending over the bed, she laid her soft hand on his brow, and pushed
back his heavy hair; and her sweet old voice was very low and gentle as
she said: "My dear boy, I shall never ask you more. The river brought
you to me, and you are mine. You must not even think of anything else,
just now. When you are stronger, and are ready, we will talk of your
future; but of your past, you--"

A loud knock sounded at the door of the living room.

"There is someone at the door," she said hastily. "I must go. Lie still,
and go to sle