Betty Jo, with a little cry, turned to the man who stood as if stricken dumb with horror. “Brian?” she said. “Oh, Brian?” It was the first time she had ever addressed him by his given name, and Brian Kent, as he looked, saw in those gray eyes no hint of doubt or censure, but only the truest love and sympathy. Betty Jo had not failed in the moment of her supreme testing. “It's true, all right, isn't it, Brian?” said Martha Kent. “I'm his wife fast enough, my dear. But you don't need to worry,--you two. I'm a good sport,--I am. I've had my fun. No kick coming from me. Just called to pay my respects,--that's all. So-long, Brian, old sport! Good-bye, my dear!” With an uncertain wave of her hand, she staggered through the doorway and passed from their sight. In the little log house by the river the two who had kept the fineness of their love stood face to face. For Betty Jo, the barrier which Brian Kent had maintained between them to protect her from his love was no longer a thing unknown. But the revelation, coming as it did, had brought no shadow of distrust or doubt of the man to whom she had so fully entrusted herself. It had, indeed, only strengthened her faith in him and deepened her love. For one glorious triumphal moment the very soul of the man exulted in the truth which Betty Jo made known to him. Then he turned slowly away, for he dared not trust himself to look at her a moment longer. With bowed head he paced up and down the room. He went to the table which held Auntie Sue's sewing-basket, and fingered the trifles there. Then, slowly, he passed through the open door to the porch, where Betty Jo, through the window, near which she stood, saw him look away over the river and the mountains. Suddenly, she saw him start, and stare intently at some nearer object that had caught his attention. As Betty Jo watched, he moved to the edge of the porch, and, stooping, grasped the railing with his hands;--his head and shoulders were thrust forward; his lips were parted; his whole attitude was that of the most intense and excited interest. Then, straightening up, he threw back his head, and laughed aloud. But his laughter alarmed the girl, who ran to the door, crying, “What is it, Brian?” “Look!” he shouted, madly, and pointed toward the river. “Look, Betty Jo!” Martha Kent, alone in one of the clubhouse boats, was rowing with drunken clumsiness toward the head of the Elbow Rock rapids.