“Look at me, Auntie Sue,” he said; “look straight through me, just as you used to do years and years ago, and tell me what you see.” And the dear old lady, with one thin soft hand on his heavy shoulder, answered, as she looked: “Why, I see a rather naughty boy, whom I ought to spank for throwing spitballs at the old schoolroom ceiling,” she retorted. “And I am not a bit afraid to do it either. So sit right over there, sir, and listen to me.” They laughed together then; and if Auntie Sue wiped her eyes as the schoolboy obediently took his seat in the big chair at the banker's desk, Homer T. Ward's eyes were not without a suspicious moisture. “Tell me about Betty Jo first,” the man insisted. “You know, Auntie Sue, the girl grows dearer to me every year.” “Betty Jo is that kind of a girl, Homer,” Auntie Sue answered. “I suppose it is because she is all I have to love,” he said, “but, you know, ever since Sister Grace died and left the fatherless little kid to me, it seems like all my plans have centered around her; and now that she has finished her school; has travelled abroad, and gone through with that business-college course, I am beginning to feel like we should sort of settle down together. I am glad for her to be with you this summer, though, for the finishing touches; and when she comes home to stay, you are coming with her.” Auntie Sue shook her head, smiling: “Now, Homer, you know that is settled: I will never leave my little log house by the river until I have watched the last sunset. You know, my dear boy, that I would be miserable in the city.” It was an old point often argued by them, and the man dismissed it, now, with a brief: “We'll see about that when the time comes. But, why didn't you bring Betty Jo with you?” “Because,” Auntie Sue answered, “I came away hurriedly, on a very important trip, for only a day, and it is necessary for her to stay and keep house while I am gone. The child must learn to cook, Homer, even if she is to inherit all your money.” “I know,” answered the banker;--“the same as you make me work when I visit you. But your coming to me sounds rather serious, Auntie Sue. What is your trouble?” The dear old lady laughed, nervously; for, to tell the truth, she did not quite know how she was going to manage to present Brian Kent's case to Homer T. Ward without presenting more than she was at this time ready to reveal. “Why, you see, Homer,” she began, “it is not really my trouble as much as it is yours, and it is not yours as much as it is--” “Betty Jo's?” he asked quickly, when she hesitated. “No! no!” she cried. “The child doesn't even know why I am here. Just try to forget her for a few minutes, Homer.” “All right,” he said; “but you had me worried for a minute.” Auntie Sue might have answered that she was somewhat worried herself; but, instead, she plunged with desperate courage: “I came to see you about Brian Kent, Homer.”