nigh plumb wore out, hit sure looks like hit was time somebody was
a-fixin' ter do somethin' for her. That was what I was a-huntin' you-all
ter tell you when pap ketched me, Mr. Burns."

"I am glad you told me, Judy;--very glad. You see, I was not thinking of
things in just that way."

"I 'lowed maybe you mightn't. Seems like folks mostly don't."

"But it's all right, now!" Brian cried heartily. "You have settled it.
I'll stay. We'll take care of Auntie Sue,--you and I, Judy. Come on,
now; let's go to the house, and tell her. But we won't say anything
about your father, Judy;--that would only make her unhappy; and we must
never make Auntie Sue unhappy--never." He was as eager and enthusiastic,
now, as a schoolboy.

"'Course," said Judy, solemnly; "'course you just naturally got ter stay
an' take care of her now, after what pap's done said he'd do."

"Yes, Judy; I've just naturally got to stay," returned Brian.

Together they went down the steep cliff trail and to the little log
house by the river to announce Brian's decision to Auntie Sue. They
found the dear old lady in her favorite spot on the porch overlooking
the river.

"Why, of course you will stay," she returned, when Brian had told her.
"The river brought you to me, and you know, my dear boy, the river is
never wrong. Oh, yes, I know there are cross-currents and crooked spots
and sand-bars and rocks and lots of places where it SEEMS to us to be