Smiling at his puzzled expression, she answered: “I am Auntie Sue. I am LIVING here in the backwoods.”
“But, your real name? Won't you tell me your name? I must know how to address you.”
“Oh, my name is Susan E. Wakefield—MISS Wakefield, if you please. I shall be seventy-one years old the eighteenth day of next November. And you must call me 'Auntie Sue,'—just as every one else does.”
“Wakefield—Wakefield—where have I seen that name?” He wrinkled his brow in an effort to remember. “Wakefield—I feel sure that I have heard it, somewhere.”
“It is not unlikely,” she returned, lightly. “It is not at all an uncommon name. And now that I am properly introduced, don't you think—?”
He hesitated a moment, then said, deliberately, “My name is Brian Kent.”
“That is an Irish name,” she said quickly; “and that is why your hair is so nearly red and your eyes so blue.”
“Yes,” he returned, “from my mother. And please don't ask me more now, for I can't lie to you, and I won't tell you the truth.” And she saw, again, the dark shadows of painful memories come into the blue eyes.
Bending over the bed, she laid her soft hand on his brow, and pushed back his heavy hair; and her sweet old voice was very low and gentle as she said: “My dear boy, I shall never ask you more. The river brought you to me, and you are mine. You must not even think of anything else, just now. When you are stronger, and are ready, we will talk of your future; but of your past, you—”
A loud knock sounded at the door of the living room.