of its far-away beginnings to the ocean of its final endeavor,--in all
its varied moods and changes,--in all its beauty and its irresistible
power,--the river could never mean to Judy what it meant to Auntie Sue.

"Hit sure is er fine night for to go 'possum huntin'," said the girl, at
last, getting to her feet and standing in her twisted attitude, with her
wry neck holding her head to one side. "Them there Jackson boys'll sure
be out."

Auntie Sue laughed her low chuckling laugh.

From the edge of the timber that borders the fields of the bottom-lands
across the river, came the baying of hounds. "There they be now," said
Judy. "Hear 'em? The Billingses, 'cross from the clubhouse, 'll be out,
too, I reckon. When hit's moonlight, they're allus a-huntin' 'possum
an' 'coon. When hit's dark, they're out on the river a-giggin' for fish.
Well, I reckon I'll be a-goin' in, now, ma'm," she concluded, with a
yawn. "Ain't no use in a body stayin' up when there ain't nothin' ter do
but ter sleep, as I kin see."

With an awkward return to Auntie Sue's "Goodnight and sweet dreams,
dear," the mountain girl went into the house.

For an hour longer, the old gentlewoman sat on the porch of her little
log house by the river, looking out over the moonlit scene. Nor did she
now, as when she had watched the sunset, crave human companionship. In
spirit, she was far from all earthly needs or cares,--where no troubled
thoughts could disturb her serene peace and her dearest dreams were
real.