Poor Judy! The river, sweeping on its winding way through the hills, from the springs of its far-away beginnings to the ocean of its final endeavor,--in all its varied moods and changes,--in all its beauty and its irresistible power,--the river could never mean to Judy what it meant to Auntie Sue.
"Hit sure is er fine night for to go 'possum huntin'," said the girl, at last, getting to her feet and standing in her twisted attitude, with her wry neck holding her head to one side.

"Them there Jackson boys'll sure be out." Auntie Sue laughed her low chuckling laugh.
From the edge of the timber that borders the fields of the bottom-lands across the river, came the baying of hounds.

"There they be now," said Judy.

"Hear 'em?
The Billingses, 'cross from the clubhouse, 'll be out, too, I reckon.

When hit's moonlight, they're allus a-huntin' 'possum an' 'coon.