At last, he spoke, slowly: "Auntie Sue, what is the greatest wrong that
a woman can do?"

"The greatest wrong a woman can do, Brian, is the greatest wrong that a
man can do."

"But, what is it, Auntie Sue?" he persisted.

"I think," she answered,--"indeed I am quite sure,--that the greatest
wrong is for a woman to kill a man's faith in woman; and for a man to
kill a woman's faith in man."

Brian Kent buried his face in his hands.

"Am I right, dear?" asked the old gentlewoman, after a little.

And Brian Kent answered: "Yes, Auntie Sue, you are right--that is the
greatest wrong."

Again they were silent. It was as though few words were needed between
the woman of seventy years and this man who, out of some great trouble,
had been so strangely brought to her by the river.

Then the silvery-haired old teacher spoke again: "Brian, have you ever
wondered that I am so alone in the world? Have you ever asked yourself
why I never married?"

"Yes, Auntie Sue," he answered. "I have wondered."

"Many people have," she said, with simple frankness. Then--"I am going