“You-all are aimin' ter stay then, be you? I'm sure powerful glad,” said Judy, simply.
Brian started. A new factor had suddenly been injected into his problem.
“I was powerful scared you-all was aimin' ter go away,” continued Judy. “Hit was that I was a-huntin' you-all to tell you 'bout, when pap he ketched me.”
“What were you going to tell me, Judy?”
“I 'lowed ter tell you-all 'bout Auntie Sue. She'd sure be powerful mad if she know'd I'd said anythin' ter you, but she's a-needin' somebody like you ter help her, mighty bad. She—she's done lost a heap of money, lately: hit was some she sent—”
Brian interrupted: “Wait a minute, Judy. You must not tell me anything about Auntie Sue's private affairs; you must not tell any one. Anything she wants me to know, she will tell me. Do you understand?” he finished with a reassuring smile.
“Yes, sir; I reckon you-all are 'bout right, an' I won't tell nobody nothin'. But 'tain't a-goin' ter hurt none ter say as how you-all ort ter stay, I reckon.”
“And why do you think I ought to stay, Judy?”
“'Cause of what Auntie Sue's done for you-all,—a-nursin' you when you was plumb crazy an' plumb dangerous from licker, an' a lyin' like she did ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man,” returned Judy stoutly; “an' 'cause she's so old an' is a-needin' you-all ter help her; an' 'cause she is a-lovin' you like she does, an' is a-wantin' you-all ter stay so bad hit's mighty nigh a-makin' her plumb sick.”
Brian Kent did not answer. The mountain girl's words had revealed to him the selfishness of his own consideration of his problem so clearly that he was stunned. Why had he not, in his thinking, remembered the dear old gentlewoman who had saved him from a shameful death?