“What hitherto unsuspected currents in her life-river,” she asked herself, “had carried her so easily into falsehood? What strange forces were these,” she wondered, “that had set her so suddenly against honesty and truthfulness and law and justice? And this stranger,--this wretched, haggard-faced, drunken creature, who had been brought by the mysterious currents of life to her door,--what was there in him that so compelled her protecting interest? What was it within him, deeply hidden under the repellent exterior of his being, that had so awakened in her that strange feeling of possession,--of motherhood?” It was not strange that, in her mental and spiritual extremity, the dear old gentlewoman's life-long habit should lead her to kneel beside the stranger's bed and pray for understanding and guidance. It was significant that she did not ask her God to forgive the lie. And, presently, as she prayed, she felt the man on the bed move. Then a hand lightly touched her hair. She remained very still for a little,--her head still bowed. The hand that touched so reverently the silvery gray hair trembled a little. Slowly, the old teacher raised her face to look at him; and the Irish blue eyes of Brian Kent were wide with wondering awe and glowing with a light that warmed her heart and strengthened her. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “You wonderful, wonderful woman! Why did you do it?” Slowly, she rose from her knees to sit beside him on the bed. “You heard?” He nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak. “I was afraid the Sheriff talked too loud,” she said. “But, why did you do it?” he persisted. “I think it was because I couldn't do anything else,” she answered, with her little chuckling laugh. Then she added, seriously: “How could I let them take you away? Are you not mine? Did not the river bring you to me?” “I must tell you,” he answered, sadly, “that what the detective told you about me is true.” “Yes?” she answered, smiling. “I was a clerk in the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank,” he continued, “and I stole money,--for nearly a year I stole,--not large sums, but a little at a time. Then, when I knew that it was going to be discovered, I took quite a lot, and ran away.” “Yes?” said Auntie Sue. “Do you not care that I am a thief?” he questioned, wonderingly. “Oh, yes; I care very much,” she returned. “But, you see, after all, your stealing is a little thing that can be made all right. Your being a thief is so small in comparison with other things which you might have been, but which you are not, and of so little importance in comparison with what you really ARE, that I can't feel so very bad about it.” “But--but--my drinking,--my condition when--” He could not go on. “Why, you see,” she answered, “I can't think of THAT man as being YOU at all. THAT was something that the accident of your being a thief did to you,--like catching cold, and being sick, after accidentally falling in the river.”