In spite of all their care, Brian and Betty Jo did not wholly convince Auntie Sue that there was no more in Judy's disappearance than the report from the neighbors indicated. The dear old lady felt that there was something known to the young people that they were keeping from her; and, while she did not question their motives, and certainly did not worry,--for Auntie Sue never worried,--she was not satisfied with the situation. When she retired to her room for the night, she told herself, with some spirit, that she would surely go to the bottom of the affair the next morning. It happened that Auntie Sue went to the bottom of the affair much sooner than she expected. It must have been about that same hour of the night when Betty Jo, after reaching her decision to go away, retired to her bed, that Auntie Sue was aroused by a low knocking at the open window of her room. The old teacher listened without moving, her first thought being that her fancy was tricking her. The sound came again, and, this time, there could be no mistake. Sitting up in her bed, Auntie Sue looked toward the window, and, at the sound of her movement, a low whisper came from without. “Don't be scared, Auntie Sue. Hit ain't nobody but just me.” As she recognized Judy's voice, she saw the mountain girl's head and twisted shoulders outlined above the window-sill. A moment more, and Auntie Sue was at the window. “Sh-h-h!” cautioned Judy. “Don't wake 'em up. I just naturally got ter tell you-all somethin', Auntie Sue; but, I ain't a-wantin' Mr. Burns an' that there Betty Jo woman ter hear. I reckon I best come through the winder.” Acting upon the word, she climbed carefully into the room. “Judy, child! What--?” The mountain girl interrupted Auntie Sue's tremulous whisper with: “I'll tell hit ter you, ma'm, in a little bit, if you'll just wait. I got ter see if they are sure 'nough a-sleepin' first, though.” She stole silently from the room, to return a few minutes later. “They are plumb asleep, both of 'em,” she said in a low tone, when she had cautiously closed the door. “I done opened the doors ter their rooms, an' listened, an' shet 'em again 'thout ary one of 'em a-movin' even. I'll fix the winder, now, an' then we kin make a light.” Carefully, she closed the window and drew down the shade. Then she lit the lamp. Auntie Sue, who was sitting on the bed, looked at the girl in bewildered amazement. With a nervous laugh, Judy fingered her torn dress and dishevelled hair. “I sure am a sight, ain't I, ma'm? I done hit a-comin' through the bresh in the dark. But, don't--don't--look so kinder lost like; you-all ain't got no call ter be scared of me.” “Why, Judy, dear, I'm not afraid of you. Come, child; tell me what is the trouble.”