"
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?
Judy went on: "Hit looks ter me like somebody just naturally's got ter
take care of Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns. All her whole life she's a-been
takin' care of everybody just like she tuck me, an' just like she tuck
you-all, besides a heap of other ways; an' now she's so old and mighty
nigh plumb wore out, hit sure looks like hit was time somebody was
a-fixin' ter do somethin' for her. That was what I was a-huntin' you-all
ter tell you when pap ketched me, Mr. Burns."
"I am glad you told me, Judy;--very glad. You see, I was not thinking of
things in just that way."
"I 'lowed maybe you mightn't. Seems like folks mostly don't."
"But it's all right, now!" Brian cried heartily. "You have settled it.
I'll stay. We'll take care of Auntie Sue,--you and I, Judy. Come on,
now; let's go to the house, and tell her. But we won't say anything
about your father, Judy;--that would only make her unhappy; and we must
never make Auntie Sue unhappy--never." He was as eager and enthusiastic,
now, as a schoolboy.
"'Course," said Judy, solemnly; "'course you just naturally got ter stay
an' take care of her now, after what pap's done said he'd do.
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