Auntie Sue detected a note of bitterness underlying the laughing
comment, and wondered.

Judy spoke again as she arose to retire to her room for the night: "I
reckon as how there's a right smart of things youuns talk that'd be
mighty fine if a body only had the learnin' ter sense 'em. An' there
must be heaps of folks where youuns come from what would know Mr.
Burns's meaning if he was to write hit all out plain. Everybody ain't
like me. Hit's sure a God's-blessin' they ain't, too."

"And there, Brian, dear, is your answer," said Auntie Sue, as Judy left
the room. "Any book has meaning only for those who have the peculiar
sympathy and understanding needed to interpret it. A book that means
nothing to one may be rich in meaning for another. Every writer writes
for his own peculiar readers, just as every individual has his own
peculiar friends."

"Or enemies," said Brian.

"Or enemies," agreed Auntie Sue.

Brian went to the window, and stood for some time, looking out into the
night. Then turning, with a nervous gesture, he paced uneasily up
and down the room; while Auntie Sue watched him in silence with an
expression of loving concern on her dear old face.

At last, she spoke: "Why, Brian, what is the matter? What have I said?
I did not mean to upset you like this. Come, sit down here, and tell me
about it. What is it troubles you so?"