nowin'? She ain't no fool. An' I done heard that
there Sheriff an' the deteckertive man tellin' her 'bout you an' the
bank. An' the Sheriff, he done give her a paper what he said told all
'bout what you-all done, an' she must er burned the paper, or done
somethin' with hit, 'cause I couldn't never find hit after that night.
An' what would she do that for? And what for did she make me promise not
ter ever say nothin' ter you-all 'bout that there money letter? An' why
ain't she said nothin' to you 'bout the letter from the bank not comin',
if she didn't know hit was you 'stead of them what done got the money?"

The girl paused for a moment, and then went on in a tone of reverent
wonder: "An' to think that all the time she could a-turned you-all over
to that there Sheriff an' got the money-reward to pay her back what
you-all done tuck."

Brian Kent was as one who had received a mortal hurt. His features were
distorted with suffering. With eyes that could not see, he looked down
at the manuscript to which he still unconsciously clung; and, again,
he fingered the pages of his work as though some blind instinct were
sending his tormented soul to seek relief in the message which, during
the happy months just past, he had written for others.

And the deformed mountain girl, who stood before him with twisted body
and old-young face, grew fearful as she watched the suffering of this
man whom she had come to look upon as a superior being from some world
which she, in her ignorance, could never know.

"Mr. Burns," she said at last, putting out her hand and plucking at his
sleeve, "Mr. Burns, you-all ain't got no call ter be like this. You-all
ain't plumb bad. I knows you ain't, 'count of the way you-all have
been ter me an' 'cause you kept pap from hurtin' me, an' 'cause you are
takin' care of Auntie Sue like you're doin'. Hit ain't no matter 'bout
the money, now, 'cause you-all kin take care of her allus."

Brian looked up from the manuscript in his hand, and stared dumbly at
the girl, as if he failed to hear her clearly.

"An' just think 'bout your book," Judy continued pleadingly. "Think
'bout all them fine things you-all have done wrote down for everybody
ter read,--'bout the river allus a-goin' on just the same, no matter
what happens, an' 'bout Auntie Sue an'--"

She stopped, and drew away from him, frightened at the look that came
into the man's face.

"Don't, Mr. Burns! Don't!" she half-screamed. "'Fore God, you-all