Dumbly, he was conscious of the truth of Judy's words,--that the book was no longer his.

Judy was right--this book which he had called his had always been, in reality, Auntie Sue's.

So the matter of his work, at least so far as he had to do with it, was settled--definitely and finally settled.
But what of himself?
What was to become of him?
Of one thing only he was certain about himself;--he never could face Auntie Sue again.

Knowing, now, what he had done, and knowing that she knew;--that all the time she was nursing him back to health, all the time she had been giving him the inspiration and strength and peace of her gentle, loving companionship, in the safe and quiet harbor of her little house by the river, she had known that it was he who had--A clear, matter-of-fact, but gentle, voice interrupted his bitter thoughts: "Is it so very badly damaged, Mr.
Burns ?" He had forgotten Betty Jo, who now stood close beside him.
"Let me see ?" She held out her hand as he turned slowly to face her.
Without a word, he gave her the manuscript.
Very businesslike and practical, but with an underlying feeling of tenderness that was her most compelling charm, Betty Jo examined the water-stained volume.
"Why, no," she announced cheerfully; "it isn't really hurt much.

You see, the sheets being tied together so tightly, the water didn't get all the way through.