"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."
"But, what is it, Auntie Sue?" he persisted.
"I think," she answered,--"indeed I am quite sure,--that the greatest
wrong is for a woman to kill a man's faith in woman; and for a man to
kill a woman's faith in man."
Brian Kent buried his face in his hands.
"Am I right, dear?" asked the old gentlewoman, after a little.
And Brian Kent answered: "Yes, Auntie Sue, you are right--that is the
greatest wrong."
Again they were silent. It was as though few words were needed between
the woman of seventy years and this man who, out of some great trouble,
had been so strangely brought to her by the river.
Then the silvery-haired old teacher spoke again: "Brian, have you ever
wondered that I am so alone in the world? Have you ever asked yourself
why I never married?"
"Yes, Auntie Sue," he answered. "I have wondered."
"Many people have," she said, with simple frankness.
Pages:
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169