“I know,” she said gently. “Sometimes, one's self does keep one awake. Is it--is it anything you care to tell me? Would it help for me to know?” For some time, he did not answer; while the old teacher waited silently. At last, he spoke, slowly: “Auntie Sue, what is the greatest wrong that a woman can do?” “The greatest wrong a woman can do, Brian, is the greatest wrong that a man can do.” “But, what is it, Auntie Sue?” he persisted. “I think,” she answered,--“indeed I am quite sure,--that the greatest wrong is for a woman to kill a man's faith in woman; and for a man to kill a woman's faith in man.” Brian Kent buried his face in his hands. “Am I right, dear?” asked the old gentlewoman, after a little. And Brian Kent answered: “Yes, Auntie Sue, you are right--that is the greatest wrong.” Again they were silent. It was as though few words were needed between the woman of seventy years and this man who, out of some great trouble, had been so strangely brought to her by the river. Then the silvery-haired old teacher spoke again: “Brian, have you ever wondered that I am so alone in the world? Have you ever asked yourself why I never married?” “Yes, Auntie Sue,” he answered. “I have wondered.” “Many people have,” she said, with simple frankness. Then--“I am going to tell you something, dear boy, that only two people in the world beside myself ever knew, and they are both dead, many years now. I am going to tell you, because I feel--because I think--that, perhaps, it may help you a little. I, too, Brian, had my dreams when I was a girl,--my dreams of happiness,--such as every true woman hopes for;--of a home with all that home means;--of a lover-husband;--of little ones who would call me 'mother';--and my dreams ended, Brian, on a battlefield of the Civil War. He went from me the very day we were promised. He never returned. I have always felt that we were as truly one as though the church had solemnized and the law had legalized our union. I promised that I would wait for him.” “And you--you have kept that promise? You have been true to that memory?” Brian Kent asked, wonderingly. “I have been true to him, Brian;--all the years of my life I have been true to him.” Brian Kent bowed his head, reverently. Rising, the old gentlewoman went close to him, and put her hands on his shoulders. “Brian, dear, I have told you my secret because I thought it might help you to know. Oh, my boy--my boy,--don't--don't let anything--don't let anyone--kill your faith in womanhood! No matter how bitter your experience, you can believe, now, that there are women who can be faithful and true. Surely, you can believe it now, Brian,--you must!” And as he caught her hands in his, and raised his face to whisper, “I do believe, Auntie Sue,” she stooped and kissed him. Then, again, Brian Kent was alone in the night with his thoughts. And the river swept steadily on its shining way through the moonlit world to the distant sea. CHAPTER XVII.