“I reckon you're right,” she continued. “Hit sure 'pears ter be that a-way. But I kin tell you-all somethin' else 'bout the river what you didn't put down in your book, Mr. Burns: There's heaps an' heaps er snags an' quicksands an' sunk rocks an' shaller places where hit looks deep an' deep holes where hit looks shaller, an' currents what's hid 'way down under that'll ketch an' drag you in when you ain't a-thinkin', an' drown you sure. 'Tain't all of the river what Auntie Sue an' youuns kin see from the porch. You see, I knows 'bout hit,—'bout them other things I mean,—'cause I was borned and growed up a-knowin' 'bout 'em; an'—an'—the next time you-all writes er book, Mr. Burns, I 'low you-all ought ter put in 'bout them there snags an' things, 'cause folks sure got ter know 'bout 'em, if they ain't a-wantin' ter git drowned.”
When Judy had gone into the house, Brian again sat alone on the porch.
An hour, perhaps, had passed when a voice behind him said: “Why, Brian, are you still up? I supposed you were in bed long ago.”
He turned to see Auntie Sue, standing in the doorway.
“And what in the world are you prowling about for, this time of the night?” Brian retorted, bringing a chair for her.
“I am prowling because I couldn't sleep,—thinking about you, Brian,” she answered.
“I fear that is the thing that is keeping me up, too,” he returned grimly.
“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.”