As the poor creature, who was shaking as if with the ague, regarded the twisted form, the wry neck, and the sallow, old-young face of the girl, who was laughing at him, a gleam of sardonic humor flashed in his bloodshot eyes. “Thanks,” he said, huskily; “you are something of a vision yourself, aren't you?” The laughter went from Judy's face as she caught the meaning of the cruel words. “I ain't never laid no claim ter bein' a beauty,” she retorted in her shrill, drawling monotone. “But, I kin tell you-all one thing, mister: Hit was God-A'mighty Hisself an' my drunken pap what made me ter look like I do. While you,--damn you!--you-all just naturally made yourself what you be.” At the mountain girl's illiterate words, so pregnant with meaning, a remarkable change came over the face and manner of the man. His voice, even, for the moment, lost its huskiness, and vibrated with sincere feeling as he steadied himself; and, bowing with courteous deference, said: “I beg your pardon, miss. That was unkind. You really should have left me to the river.” “You-all would a-drownded, sure, if I had,” she retorted, somewhat mollified by the effect of her observation. “Which,” he returned, “would have been so beautifully right and fitting that it evidently could not be.” And with this cynical remark, his momentary bearing of self-respect was gone. “Are you-all a-meanin' ter say that you-all was a-wantin' ter drown?” “Something like that,” he returned. And then, with a hint of ugliness in his voice and eyes, he rasped: “But, look here, girl! do you think I'm going to stand like this all day indulging in idle conversation with you? Where is this aunt of yours? Can't you see that I've got to have a drink?” He started uncertainly toward the steps that led to the top of the bank, and Judy, holding him by his arm, helped him to climb the steep way. A part of the ascent he made on hands and knees. Several times he would have fallen except for the girl's support. But, at last, they gained the top, and stood in the garden. “That there is the house,” said Judy, pointing. “But I don't reckon as how you-all kin git ary licker there.” The wretched man made no reply; but, with Judy still supporting him, stumbled forward across the rows of vegetables. The two had nearly reached the steps at the end of the porch when Auntie Sue came from the house to see why Judy did not return with the potatoes. The dear old lady paused a moment, startled at the presence of the unprepossessing stranger in her garden. Then, with an exclamation of pity, she hurried to meet them. The man, whose gaze as he shambled along was fixed on the ground, did not notice Auntie Sue until, feeling Judy stop, he also paused, and raising his head looked full at the beautiful old lady. “Why, Judy!” cried Auntie Sue, her low, sweet voice filled with gentle concern. “What in the world has happened?”