"Give me the manuscript, Judy," said Brian gently, "and go on to the
house."

"You-all ain't a-goin' ter sling hit inter the river again?" The words
were half-question and half-assertion.

"No," said Brian. "I promise not to throw it into the river again."

As Judy gave him the manuscript, she turned her beady eyes in a
stealthy, oblique look toward Betty Jo, and whispered: "You-all best
tell her 'bout hit. I sure hate her poison-bad; but hit's easy ter see
she'd sure know what ter do."

"Be careful that Auntie Sue doesn't see you like this, Judy," was
Brian's only answer; and Judy started off for her much-needed change to
dry clothing.

When the mountain girl was gone, Brian stood looking at the
water-stained volume of manuscript in his hand. He had no feeling, now,
of more than a curious idle interest in this work to which, during the
months just past, he had given so without reserve the best of himself.
It was, he thought, strange how he could regard with such indifference a
thing for which a few hours before he would have given his life. Dumbly,
he was conscious of the truth of Judy's words,--that the book was no
longer his. Judy was right--this book which he had called his had always
been, in reality, Auntie Sue's. So the matter of his work, at least
so far as he had to do with it, was settled--definitely and finally
settled.