untie Sue herself who won so large a place
in the hearts of the simple mountain folk of the district that she
held her position year after year, until she finally gave up teaching
altogether.

Not one of her Ozark friends ever came to know in detail the history of
this remarkable woman's life. It was known in a general way that she
was born in Connecticut; that she had a brother somewhere in some
South-American country; that two other brothers had been killed in the
Civil War; that she had taught in the lower and intermediate grades of
public schools in various places all the years of her womanhood. Also,
it was known that she had never married.

"And that," said Uncle Lige Potter, voicing the unanimous opinion,
of the countryside, "is a doggone funny thing and plumb unnatural,
considerin' the kind of woman she is."

To which Lem Jordan,--who was then living with his fourth wife, and
might therefore be held to speak with a degree of authority,--added:
"Hit sure is a dad burned shame, an' a plumb disgrace to the men of this
here country, when you come to look at the sort of wimmen most of 'em
are a marryin' most of the time."

Another matter of universal and never-failing interest to the mountain
folk was the unprecedented number of letters that Auntie Sue received
and wrote. That some of these letters written by their backwoods teacher
were addressed to men and women of such prominence in the world that
their names were known even to that remote Ozark district was a source
of no little pride to Auntie Sue's immediate neighbors, and served to
mark her in their eyes with no small distinction.

It was during the fourth year of her life amid the scenes of this
story,--as I recall time,--that Auntie Sue invested the small savings
of her working years in the little log house by the river and the eighty
acres of land known as the "Old Bill Wilson place."

The house was a substantial building of three rooms, a lean-to kitchen,
and a porch overlooking the river. The log barn, with "Prince," a gentle
old horse, and "Bess," a mild-mannered, brindle cow, completed the
modest establishment. About thirty acres of the land were cleared and
under cultivation of a sort. The remaining acreage was in timber.
The price, under the kindly and expert supervision of Tom Warden, was
fifteen dollars an acre. But Auntie Sue always laughingly insisted that
she really paid fifty cents an acre for the land and fourteen dollars
and a half an a