winds and curves and twists along, until it finally reaches the great
sea, where its waters are united with all the waters from all the rivers
in all the world. And in all of its many, many miles, from that first
tiny spring to the sea, there are not two feet of it exactly alike.
In all the centuries of its being, there are never two hours alike. An
infinite variety of days and nights--an infinite variety of skies and
light and clouds and daybreaks and sunsets--an infinite number and
variety of currents and shoals and deep places and quiet spots and
dangerous rapids and eddies--and, along its banks, an endless change
of hills and mountains and flats and forests and meadows and farms and
cities--and--" She paused, breathless. And then, when he did not speak,
but only watched her, she continued: "Don't you see? Of course, the
river never could be what you expect, any more than life could be
exactly what you want and dream it will be."

"Who in the world are you?" he asked, wonderingly. "And what in the
world are you doing here in the backwoods?"

Smiling at his puzzled expression, she answered: "I am Auntie Sue. I am
LIVING here in the backwoods."

"But, your real name? Won't you tell me your name? I must know how to
address you."

"Oh, my name is Susan E. Wakefield--MISS Wakefield, if you please. I
shall be seventy-one years old the eighteenth day of next November. And
you must call me 'Auntie Sue,'--just as every one else does."

"Wakefield--Wakefield--where have I seen that name?" He wrinkled his
brow in an effort to remember. "Wakefield--I feel sure that I have heard