And from that moment until Homer T.Ward should open the door, nothing short of a regiment could have interrupted the interview between Auntie Sue and her old pupil.
Placing the dear old lady tenderly in a deep, leather-upholstered chair, Mr.Ward stood before her as though trying to convince himself that she was real; while his teacher of those long-ago, boyhood days gazed smilingly up at him.
"What in the name of all that is unexpected are you doing here, Auntie Sue ?" he demanded; "and why is not Betty Jo with you?
Isn't the girl ever coming home?
There is nothing the matter with her, is there?
Of course not, or you would have wired me." It was not at all like the bank president to ask so many questions all at once.
Auntie Sue looked around the private office curiously, then smilingly back to the face of the financier.
"Do you know, Homer," she said with her chuckling little laugh, "I--I--am almost afraid of you in here.

Everything is so grand and rich-looking; and there were so many men out there who tried to tell me you would not see me.

I--I am glad I didn't know it would be like this, or I fear I never could have found the courage to come." Homer T.Ward laughed, and then--rather full-waisted as he was--went down on one knee at the arm of her chair so as to bring his face level with her eyes.
"Look at me, Auntie Sue," he said; "look straight through me, just as you used to do years and years ago, and tell me what you see." And the dear old lady, with one thin soft hand on his heavy shoulder, answered, as she looked: "Why, I see a rather naughty boy, whom I ought to spank for throwing spitballs at the old schoolroom ceiling," she retorted.

"And I am not a bit afraid to do it either.

So sit right over there, sir, and listen to me." They laughed together then; and if Auntie Sue wiped her eyes as the schoolboy obediently took his seat in the big chair at the banker's desk, Homer T.Ward's eyes were not without a suspicious moisture.
"Tell me about Betty Jo first," the man insisted.