Drawing away from his supporting arm, she answered, quietly: “I ain't no child, no more, Mr. Burns: I'm sure a woman, now. I'm just as much a woman as--as--she is, if I be like what I am. I'm plumb sorry I had ter do this; but I just naturally couldn't help hit. You ain't got no call ter be scared I'll do hit again.” When they were nearing the house, Judy stopped again, and, for a long minute, looked silently out over the moonlit river, while Brian stood watching her. “Hit is pretty, ain't hit, Mr. Burns?” she said at last. “With the hills all so soft an'--an' dreamy-like, an' them clouds a-floatin' 'way up there over the top of Table Mountain; with the moon makin' 'em all silvery an' shiny 'round the edges, an' them trees on yon side the river lookin' like they was made er smoke er fog er somethin' like that; an' the old river hitself a-layin' there in The Bend like--like a long strip of shinin' gold,--hit sure is pretty! Funny, I couldn't never see hit that a-way before,--ain't hit?” “Yes, Judy; it is beautiful to-night,” he said. But Judy, apparently without hearing him, continued: “'Seems like I can sense a little ter-night what Auntie Sue an' youuns are allus a-talkin' 'bout the river,--'bout hit's bein' like life an' sich as that. An' hit 'pears like I kin kind of git a little er what you done wrote 'bout hit in your book,--'bout the currents an' the still places an' the rough water an' all. I reckon as how I'm a part of your river, too, ain't I, Mr. Burns?” “Yes, Judy,” he answered, wonderingly; “we are all parts of the river.” “I reckon you're right,” she continued. “Hit sure 'pears ter be that a-way. But I kin tell you-all somethin' else 'bout the river what you didn't put down in your book, Mr. Burns: There's heaps an' heaps er snags an' quicksands an' sunk rocks an' shaller places where hit looks deep an' deep holes where hit looks shaller, an' currents what's hid 'way down under that'll ketch an' drag you in when you ain't a-thinkin', an' drown you sure. 'Tain't all of the river what Auntie Sue an' youuns kin see from the porch. You see, I knows 'bout hit,--'bout them other things I mean,--'cause I was borned and growed up a-knowin' 'bout 'em; an'--an'--the next time you-all writes er book, Mr. Burns, I 'low you-all ought ter put in 'bout them there snags an' things, 'cause folks sure got ter know 'bout 'em, if they ain't a-wantin' ter git drowned.” When Judy had gone into the house, Brian again sat alone on the porch. An hour, perhaps, had passed when a voice behind him said: “Why, Brian, are you still up? I supposed you were in bed long ago.” He turned to see Auntie Sue, standing in the doorway. “And what in the world are you prowling about for, this time of the night?” Brian retorted, bringing a chair for her. “I am prowling because I couldn't sleep,--thinking about you, Brian,” she answered. “I fear that is the thing that is keeping me up, too,” he returned grimly.