“Sounds steady and reliable,” commented Brian. “But will she come?”
“Yes, indeed, she will, and be tickled to death over the job,” returned Auntie Sue. “I'll write her at once.”
While Auntie Sue was preparing to write her letter, Judy muttered, in a tone which only Brian heard: “Just the same, 'tain't no name for a common gal ter have; hit sure ain't. There's somethin' dad burned queer 'bout hit somewhere.”
“Nonsense! Judy,” said Brian in a low voice; “don't worry Auntie Sue.”
“I ain't aimin' ter worry her none,” returned the mountain girl; “but I'll bet you-all a pretty that this here gal'll worry both of youuns 'fore you are through with her;—me, too, I reckon.”
For some reason, Auntie Sue's letter to Betty Jo seemed to be rather long. In fact, she spent the entire evening at it; which led Judy to remark that “hit sure looked like Auntie Sue was aimin' ter write a book herself.”
A neighbor who went to Thompsonville the following day with a load of hogs for shipment, posted the letter. And, in due time, another neighbor brought the answer. Betty Jo would come.
It was the day following the evening when Brian wrote the last page of his book that another letter came to Auntie Sue,—a letter which, for the second time, very nearly wrecked Brian Kent's world.