“Of course,” she returned, eagerly, “the river is always like that. It always does the thing you don't expect it to do. Just like life itself. Don't you see? It begins somewhere away off at some little spring, and just keeps going and going and going; and thousands and thousands of other springs, scattered all over the country, start streams and creeks and branches that run into it, and make it bigger and bigger, as it winds and curves and twists along, until it finally reaches the great sea, where its waters are united with all the waters from all the rivers in all the world. And in all of its many, many miles, from that first tiny spring to the sea, there are not two feet of it exactly alike. In all the centuries of its being, there are never two hours alike. An infinite variety of days and nights--an infinite variety of skies and light and clouds and daybreaks and sunsets--an infinite number and variety of currents and shoals and deep places and quiet spots and dangerous rapids and eddies--and, along its banks, an endless change of hills and mountains and flats and forests and meadows and farms and cities--and--” She paused, breathless. And then, when he did not speak, but only watched her, she continued: “Don't you see? Of course, the river never could be what you expect, any more than life could be exactly what you want and dream it will be.” “Who in the world are you?” he asked, wonderingly. “And what in the world are you doing here in the backwoods?” Smiling at his puzzled expression, she answered: “I am Auntie Sue. I am LIVING here in the backwoods.” “But, your real name? Won't you tell me your name? I must know how to address you.” “Oh, my name is Susan E. Wakefield--MISS Wakefield, if you please. I shall be seventy-one years old the eighteenth day of next November. And you must call me 'Auntie Sue,'--just as every one else does.” “Wakefield--Wakefield--where have I seen that name?” He wrinkled his brow in an effort to remember. “Wakefield--I feel sure that I have heard it, somewhere.” “It is not unlikely,” she returned, lightly. “It is not at all an uncommon name. And now that I am properly introduced, don't you think--?” He hesitated a moment, then said, deliberately, “My name is Brian Kent.” “That is an Irish name,” she said quickly; “and that is why your hair is so nearly red and your eyes so blue.” “Yes,” he returned, “from my mother. And please don't ask me more now, for I can't lie to you, and I won't tell you the truth.” And she saw, again, the dark shadows of painful memories come into the blue eyes. Bending over the bed, she laid her soft hand on his brow, and pushed back his heavy hair; and her sweet old voice was very low and gentle as she said: “My dear boy, I shall never ask you more. The river brought you to me, and you are mine. You must not even think of anything else, just now. When you are stronger, and are ready, we will talk of your future; but of your past, you--”