prospective success or failure of his book did not so much matter, after
all.

In the excitement of the joyous meeting between Auntie Sue and Betty
Jo, Judy's stoical self-repression was unnoticed. The mountain girl went
about her part of the household work silently with apparent indifference
to the young woman's presence. But when, after the late dinner was over,
Auntie Sue and Brian listened to Betty Jo's story, Judy, unobserved, was
nearby, so that no word of the conversation escaped her.

Three times that night, when all was still in the little log house by
the river, the door of Judy's room opened cautiously, and the twisted
form of the mountain girl appeared. Each time, for a few minutes, she
stood there in the moonlight that shone through the open window into the
quiet room, listening, listening; then went stealthily to the door of
the room where Betty Jo was sleeping, and each time she paused before
that closed door to look fearfully about the dimly lighted living room.
Once she crept to Brian's door, and then to Auntie Sue's, and once she
silently put her hand on the latch of that door between her and Betty
Jo; but, each time, she went stealthily back to her own room.

Betty Jo awoke early that morning. Outside her open window the
birds were singing, and the sun, which was just above the higher
mountain-tops, was flooding the world with its wealth of morning beauty.
The music of the feathery chorus and the golden beauty of the light
that streamed through the window into her room, with the fresh enticing
perfume of the balmy air, were very alluring to the young woman just
returned from the cities' stale and dingy atmosphere.

Betty Jo decided instantly that she must go for a before-breakfast walk.