ed clerk.

Mechanically, Brian stopped at his writing-table to finger the
manuscript which he had finished the evening before. Was it only the
evening before? Taking up the volume of closely written sheets which
were bound together by a shoestring that Auntie Sue had laughingly found
for him, when he had so joyously announced the completion of the last
page of his book, he turned the leaves idly,--reading here and there
a sentence with curious interest. The terrific mental strain of his
situation completely divorced him, as it were, from the life which he
had lived during those happy months just past, and which was so fully
represented by his work.

Again the river, swinging around a sudden turn in its course, had come
upon a passage where its peaceful flow was broken by the wild turmoil of
the troubled waters.

"And Auntie Sue,"--something within the man's self was saying,--"dear
Auntie Sue, who had saved him, not only from death, but from the hell
of the life that he had formerly lived, as well; and whose loving
companionship and sympathetic understanding had so inspired and
strengthened him in the work which had been the passionate desire of his
heart;--the gentle old teacher whose life had been so completely given
to others, and who, in the helplessness of her last years, was so
alone,--Auntie Sue was depending upon that money which her brother had
sent her as the only support of the closing days of her life. Auntie Sue
believed that her money was safe in the bank. That belief was to her
a daily comfort. Auntie Sue did not know that she was almost
penniless;--that the man whom she had saved with such a wondrous
salvation had robbed her, and left her so shamefully without means
for the necessities of life. Auntie Sue did not know. But she would
know,"--that inner voice went on. "The time would come when she
would learn the truth. It was certain to come. It might come any day.
Then--then--"

As one moving without conscious purpose, Brian Kent went from the
house,--the manuscript in his hand.

Judy was sitting idly on the porch steps. At sight of the mountain girl
the man knew all at once that there was one thing he must do. He must
make sure that there was no mistake. He was already sure, of course; but
still, as a condemned man at the scaffold hopes against hope for a stay
of sentence, so he caught at the shadowy suggestion of a possibility.

"Come with me, Judy," he said, forcing himself to speak coolly; "I w