But what of himself? What was to become of him? Of one thing only he was
certain about himself;--he never could face Auntie Sue again. Knowing,
now, what he had done, and knowing that she knew;--that all the time she
was nursing him back to health, all the time she had been giving him the
inspiration and strength and peace of her gentle, loving companionship,
in the safe and quiet harbor of her little house by the river, she had
known that it was he who had--A clear, matter-of-fact, but gentle,
voice interrupted his bitter thoughts: "Is it so very badly damaged, Mr.
Burns?"

He had forgotten Betty Jo, who now stood close beside him.

"Let me see?" She held out her hand as he turned slowly to face her.

Without a word, he gave her the manuscript.

Very businesslike and practical, but with an underlying feeling of
tenderness that was her most compelling charm, Betty Jo examined the
water-stained volume.

"Why, no," she announced cheerfully; "it isn't really hurt much. You
see, the sheets being tied together so tightly, the water didn't get all
the way through. The covers and the first and last pages are pretty wet,
and the edges of the rest are rather damp. It'll be smudged somewhat,
but I don't believe there is a single word that can't be made out. It is
lucky it didn't prolong its bath, though, isn't it? All we need to do,
now, is to put it in the sun to dry for a few minutes."

Selecting a sunny spot near by, she arranged the volume against a stone
and deftly separated the pages so that the air could circulate more