Her confidence and poise in such contrast to the chaotic turmoil of his own thoughts, and his utter helplessness in the situation which had so suddenly burst upon him, filled him with unreasoning resentment.
Betty Jo must have read in Brian Kent's face something of the suffering that held him there dumb and motionless before her, and so sensed a deeper tragedy than appeared on the surface of the incident; and her own face and voice revealed her understanding as she said, with quiet, but decisive, force: "Mr.Burns, Judy must go to the house.

Won't you persuade her ?" Brian started as one aroused from deep abstraction, and went to Judy; while Betty Jo drew a little way apart, and stood looking out over the river.
"Give me the manuscript, Judy," said Brian gently, "and go on to the house." "You-all ain't a-goin' ter sling hit inter the river again ?" The words were half-question and half-assertion.
"No," said Brian.

"I promise not to throw it into the river again." As Judy gave him the manuscript, she turned her beady eyes in a stealthy, oblique look toward Betty Jo, and whispered: "You-all best tell her 'bout hit.

I sure hate her poison-bad; but hit's easy ter see she'd sure know what ter do." "Be careful that Auntie Sue doesn't see you like this, Judy," was Brian's only answer; and Judy started off for her much-needed change to dry clothing.
When the mountain girl was gone, Brian stood looking at the water-stained volume of manuscript in his hand.

He had no feeling, now, of more than a curious idle interest in this work to which, during the months just past, he had given so without reserve the best of himself.
It was, he thought, strange how he could regard with such indifference a thing for which a few hours before he would have given his life.