Judy's beady eyes were watching him intently, now. “Hit looks like you-all ain't a-needin' me ter tell you-all anythin',” she observed dryly. “Then Auntie Sue did send money?” “She sure did. I seed her fix hit in the letter, myself,” came the answer. “What kind of money?” “I dunno,--some funny kind hit was,--what her brother done sent her from some funny place, I dunno just where.” “When did she send it?” “'Bout a month 'fore you come.” “And--and did any letter ever come from the bank to tell her that the money was received by them all right?” The mountain girl did not answer, but again turned her face away. “Tell me,” Brian insisted. “I--I--must know, Judy,” and his voice was harsh and broken with emotion. The answer came reluctantly: “I reckon you-all knows where that there money went ter.” The girl's answer sent a new thought like a hot iron into Brian Kent's tortured brain. He caught Judy's arm in quick and fearful excitement. “Judy!” he gasped, imploringly, “Judy, do you--? does Auntie Sue know--? does she know that I--?” “How could she help knowin'? She ain't no fool. An' I done heard that there Sheriff an' the deteckertive man tellin' her 'bout you an' the bank. An' the Sheriff, he done give her a paper what he said told all 'bout what you-all done, an' she must er burned the paper, or done somethin' with hit, 'cause I couldn't never find hit after that night. An' what would she do that for? And what for did she make me promise not ter ever say nothin' ter you-all 'bout that there money letter? An' why ain't she said nothin' to you 'bout the letter from the bank not comin', if she didn't know hit was you 'stead of them what done got the money?” The girl paused for a moment, and then went on in a tone of reverent wonder: “An' to think that all the time she could a-turned you-all over to that there Sheriff an' got the money-reward to pay her back what you-all done tuck.” Brian Kent was as one who had received a mortal hurt. His features were distorted with suffering. With eyes that could not see, he looked down at the manuscript to which he still unconsciously clung; and, again, he fingered the pages of his work as though some blind instinct were sending his tormented soul to seek relief in the message which, during the happy months just past, he had written for others. And the deformed mountain girl, who stood before him with twisted body and old-young face, grew fearful as she watched the suffering of this man whom she had come to look upon as a superior being from some world which she, in her ignorance, could never know.