With the enthusiasm that never failed her, the silvery-haired teacher tried to give the backwoods girl a little of her wealth of vision. But though they looked at the same landscape, the eyes of twenty could not see that which was so clear to the eyes of seventy. Poor Judy! The river, sweeping on its winding way through the hills, from the springs of its far-away beginnings to the ocean of its final endeavor,--in all its varied moods and changes,--in all its beauty and its irresistible power,--the river could never mean to Judy what it meant to Auntie Sue. “Hit sure is er fine night for to go 'possum huntin',” said the girl, at last, getting to her feet and standing in her twisted attitude, with her wry neck holding her head to one side. “Them there Jackson boys'll sure be out.” Auntie Sue laughed her low chuckling laugh. From the edge of the timber that borders the fields of the bottom-lands across the river, came the baying of hounds. “There they be now,” said Judy. “Hear 'em? The Billingses, 'cross from the clubhouse, 'll be out, too, I reckon. When hit's moonlight, they're allus a-huntin' 'possum an' 'coon. When hit's dark, they're out on the river a-giggin' for fish. Well, I reckon I'll be a-goin' in, now, ma'm,” she concluded, with a yawn. “Ain't no use in a body stayin' up when there ain't nothin' ter do but ter sleep, as I kin see.” With an awkward return to Auntie Sue's “Goodnight and sweet dreams, dear,” the mountain girl went into the house. For an hour longer, the old gentlewoman sat on the porch of her little log house by the river, looking out over the moonlit scene. Nor did she now, as when she had watched the sunset, crave human companionship. In spirit, she was far from all earthly needs or cares,--where no troubled thoughts could disturb her serene peace and her dearest dreams were real. The missing letter was forgotten. CHAPTER IV. THE WILL OF THE RIVER. Had Auntie Sue remained a few minutes longer on the porch, that evening, she might have seen an object drifting down the river, in the gentle current of The Bend. Swinging easily around the curve above the clubhouse, it would not have been visible at first, because of the deep shadows of the reflected trees and mountains. But, presently, as it drifted on into the broader waters of The Bend, it emerged from the shadows into the open moonlit space, and then, to any one watching from the porch, the dark object, drawing nearer and nearer in the bright moonlight, would have soon shaped itself into a boat--an empty boat, the watcher would have said, that had broken from its moorings somewhere up the river;--and the watcher would have heard, through the still, night air, the dull, heavy roar of the mad waters at Elbow Rock.