CHAPTER XXIV

Old Cy had builded wiser than he realized when he coaxed Ray to spend

a winter in the woods.

The long tramps through the vast wilderness; the keen hunt for signs of

mink, fisher, otter, and wildcat, with constant guard against danger;

the unremitting though zestful labor of gum-gathering; the far-sighted

need for winter preparation; and last but not least Old Cy's cheerful

philosophy, had broadened the lad and developed both muscle and mind.

His success, too, had encouraged him. He was eager to try another season

there, and planned for hiring men to gather gum, and saw in this vocation

possible future.

But the change in Chip puzzled him. He had returned, expecting to find

her the same timid, yet courageous little girl, ready to be his companion

at all times and to kiss him when he chose--a somewhat better-educated

girl, of course, using more refined language, but otherwise the same

confiding child, as it were.

She was all this the day of his return; and then, presto! like a sudden

blast of cold air came a change. Too loyal to her to question any one,

he could only wonder why this change.

He called again soon after that first, unsatisfying walk home with her,

to find her the same cool, collected young lady. She was nice to him,

induced him to talk of the woods once more and his own plans; but it was

not the Chip of old who listened, but quite another person.

"I am going back to the lake with uncle and aunt," he said at last,

"and I mean to coax them to take you along. You have been shut up in

school so long, it will do you good."

"Please don't say a word to them about it," she urged, in hurt tone,

"for it will do no good. I wouldn't go, anyway."

"Not go to the woods if you could," he exclaimed in astonishment;

"why, what do you mean?"

"Just what I say," she returned firmly, and then added wistfully,

"I'd fly there, if I had wings. I'd give my life, almost, for one more

summer like the last. But I shall not go again now, and maybe never."

It was unaccountable and quite beyond Ray's ken--this strange decision

of hers--and her "Please don't say any more about it," closed the

subject.

Another and even greater shock came to Ray when late that evening, on the

porch, he essayed to kiss her.

"No, no; please don't," she said with almost a sob, pushing him away.

"It's silly now, and--and--you mustn't."

A week later school closed, and Chip's conduct was then also a puzzle

to Miss Phinney. As usual on these occasions, when the hour came, each

pupil, young and old, filed past the teacher at her desk, the boys to

shake hands, the girls to be kissed, and all bade good-by, after which

they trooped away, glad to escape.

This ceremony now took place as usual. All departed except Chip, and

she remained at her desk. Some intuition of pity or sympathy drew Miss

Phinney to her at once; and then, at the first word from her, Chip gave

way to tears--not light ones, but sobs that shook her as a great grief.

Vainly Miss Phinney tried to cheer and console her, stroking the bowed

head until her own eyes grew misty.

"I didn't mean to give way," Chip said at last, looking up and

brushing away the tears, "but you've been so good and patient with

me, I couldn't help it. I hain't many friends here, I guess, and--"

choking back another sob--"I shall be more lonesome'n ever."

It was true enough, as Miss Phinney well understood, and somehow her

heart went out to this unfortunate girl now, as never before.

"You mustn't think about that," she said at last, in her most soothing

voice, "but come and see me as often as you can--every day, if you

like, for I shall always be glad to have you. I'd keep on studying, if I

were you," she added, as Chip brightened, "it will help you on, and I

will gladly hear you recite every day."

Then hand in hand, like two sisters, they left the dear old schoolhouse.

Little did Miss Phinney, good soul that she was, realize how recently

poor Chip had cried her heart almost out on its well-worn sill, or that

never again would this strange, winsome, woman-grown pupil enter that

temple.

At the parting of their ways the two embraced, kissed, and with

tear-dimmed eyes separated.

"I can't account for it," Miss Phinney said to herself when well away.

"It may be a love-affair with young Stetson, or it may be something

worse."

That evening she called on Angie. The result was fruitless, so far as

obtaining any light upon this puzzling matter was concerned, for Angie

was either blind to the situation, or feigned ignorance.

"They were together all last summer, of course," she said, "in fact,

they were forced to be like two children, you know. I was glad to have

it so, feeling it would benefit the girl. If any love flame was started

then, it has had ample time to die out since."

"There is something else the matter with Chip, then," Miss Phinney

rejoined, "she has been moody and quite upset at times for the past few

weeks, and to-day when school closed, she sobbed like a brokenhearted

woman. It was quite pathetic, and I had to cry myself."

That night Angie took counsel of her husband.

"Well, what if it is so," he responded, to her suggestion that a

love-affair might have started between them. "It won't harm either.

So far as I've observed, the girl couldn't have been better behaved

since she came here. She has never missed an hour at school all winter,

no matter how cold it has been. Her teacher says she has made wonderful

progress. She has attended church with you every Sunday, and as for

Ray--well, if I were in his shoes, I'd be in love with her myself."

It was clear enough that Angie's fears were not shared by Martin.

"But think of her origin and parentage," answered Angie, "and that

outlaw father who might appear at any time! The very idea of Ray marrying

her is preposterous. It would wreck his life."

"But what about Chip?" returned Martin, who had broader views of life.

"You brought her here to Christianize and educate her; do you propose

to turn her adrift because she has a pretty face and the boy sees it? She

isn't to blame for her origin. As for Ray, if he shows that he is able

to support a wife and wants her, I honor him for it, and I'll give him

a house to start with."

At Aunt Comfort's, however, no signs of love troubles were visible;

in fact, no signs of any sort, except the malicious "hanging around"

interference of Hannah whenever Ray was there. She seemed to feel it

her duty to remain on guard at such times, much to Ray's disgust. No

annoyance at this was apparent in Chip. She helped at housework, studied

at odd hours, and when Ray came she met and talked with him as if he were

a brother.

The day he was to leave Greenvale was close at hand, however, and the

evening before he came early, bringing his banjo, and by tacit consent,

perhaps to escape Hannah, they both left the house at once.

Just above the village there was a long, narrow pond, wooded upon one

side and around its upper end, with partially cleared land and scattered

trees along the opposite bank. One of these trees was a monster beech

near the water's edge, the trunk of which was scarred by many entwined

initials.

To this lovers' trysting tree now came Ray and Chip.

The evening was not one for romance, for no moon graced it--only stars

were reflected from the pond's motionless surface, while fireflies

twinkled above it.

The shadow of the near parting also hovered over these two as, hand

in hand, they picked their way up and along the bank; and once seated

beneath the tree, it seemed to forbid speech.

"I wish you'd play some of the songs you used to," Chip said at last

hurriedly, "I'd like to think I'm back at the lake again."

Glad to do so, Ray drew out his banjo and began to tune it. He started

a song also--one of the "graveyardy" ones which Old Cy had interdicted,

but choked at once and stopped abruptly.

"I can't sing to-night," he said, "I'm too blue about going away."

There were two in this frame of mind, evidently, for Chip made no

protest, and for another long interval they watched the fireflies

and listened to the whippoorwills.

"I wish you were going back with us," Ray said at last. "It breaks

my heart to go away so soon and leave you. Why won't you let me ask my

uncle to take you? He might be glad to do it, just for me."

"No," answered Chip, firmly, "you mustn't. It would shame me so that

I couldn't look them in the face." Then, as if this subject and their

own feelings must be avoided, she added hurriedly, "Tell me what you

will do when the folks come back--whether you will come with them or stay

at the lake?"

"Stay there, I suppose," answered Ray, somewhat doggedly, for

money-making and love were in conflict. "Old Cy says we can make a

lot of money if I will. I wish I were rich," he added with a sigh.

He was not the first young man to whom that wish had come at such a

moment. But converse between them was at ebb tide just now, and the

parting moment, ever creeping nearer, overshadowed all else. To

Chip--known only to herself--it meant forever. To Ray, another long

isolation from all the world and young associates, and all for a few

hundred dollars sorely needed by him, yet seeming of scant value

compared to the sweet companionship of this maid.

Then Chip's feelings and the reason for them were quite beyond him.

He could not see why she was unwilling to ask to be taken to the woods

again, nor why she held herself aloof from him. She had not done so at

the lake, or when they met again, and why should she now?

Something of this might have been inferred by Chip, for she suddenly

arose.

"I think we'd best go back," she said. "It's time, and Hannah will

be watching for me."

What Ray might have said had he been a world-wise man, does not matter.

What he did was to pick up his useless banjo, and clasping Chip's arm,

led her along the winding walk.

Below the falls and near the house they paused, for now the last moment

alone together had come, and with it the real parting.

"Tell Old Cy I--I haven't forgot him," whispered Chip, her voice

quivering, "and--and--you won't forget me either, will you, Ray?"

That little sob in her speech was all that was needed to break away the

barrier between them, for the next instant Ray's arms were about the

girl.

No words of love, no protestations, no promises. Only one instant's

meeting of soul and impulse, fierce as love of life, sacred as the hand

of death.

Love consecrated it. The shadowing maples blessed it. The stars hallowed

it.

And yet it was a long, long parting.

When Ray rode away next morning, he watched for her at the first sharp

hilltop.

It was in vain, for Chip's resolve had been taken, and he never saw the

forlorn figure crouching behind that bush-topped wall, or knew that two

wistful, misty eyes had seen him depart.

Few of us ever see even a faint image of ourselves as others see us;

and yet, calm reflection spurred to self-analysis by a hungry heart

occasionally effects that almost miracle.

In Ray's case it did; for after his eager eyes had scanned every rod

of that roadside trysting-place in vain, a revelation came to him--not

a wide open one, such as he deserved, but a glance at himself and his

conduct as it had been. First he saw Chip just as she entered their camp

that night in the wilderness, so pitiful in appearance, so pathetic in

her abject gratitude. Once again he looked at her appealing eyes growing

misty while he played and sang his old-time love songs. He remembered

that during all the days, weeks, and months following, he had never

failed to find the love-light of admiration when his eyes met hers.

It had all been a summer idyl, so sweet, so romantic, so tender, and

so unexpected that he had scarce realized its value--not at all then,

but faintly now.

For all that up-hill, down-dale journey to Riverton, he lived over

this moonlit lake and wilderness camp episode, and every hour and

every thought shared with him by this girl--a playmate and lover

combined--returned again like echoes of past and gone heart throbs,

each time a little sweeter, each time a trifle more piercing, until

his own self-complacency faded quite away and an abject penitence

began to replace it. For the first time in his callow youth he began to

reflect, and once started on this beneficial course, the barometer of

his vanity fell rapidly. It was not long ere his own conduct since he

returned to Greenvale also added an assault. He had utterly failed to

realize the meaning of Chip's abject devotion--her pitiful

first-hour confessions of how hard she had studied, and all for his

sake; how she had counted days and hours until he was likely to

return; how many times she had gone to the hilltop to watch for him; and

even the eagerness of her arms and the warmth of her lips at that first

moment of meeting, now came back to him.

Another and even a more painful self-reproach followed this--his own

neglect of opportunities and the result.

He had returned to Greenvale feeling that Chip was his devoted slave

and had found that she was. Like many another arrogant youth, he had

plumed himself upon that fact, taking everything for granted. He had

yielded to his aunt's and other friends' coaxings to tell his past

winter's history of life in the woods, feeling that Chip could and

would wait; and then, an unexpected and most vexatious frost had fallen

upon his little love-garden, and presto! his confiding sweetheart, his

almost abject slave, was one no longer.

At the moment of starting, that wildwood camp and charming lake had

seemed a Mecca which he must hasten to reach once more. When he again

beheld it, it had lost its fairness, and to return to Greenvale and

beg and implore Chip's forgiveness--ay, even kneel to her, if need

be--seemed the only duty life held.

His punishment had only just begun.

PART II

VERA RAYMOND

CHAPTER XXV

For a few more days, Chip lived the life that had now become unbearable,

and then the end came. It was hastened, perhaps, by Hannah, for that

ill-tempered spinster had been ever watchful, and with shrewd insight

had seen or guessed all that had transpired.

"I s'pose ye know why the Frisbies hurried away so soon after Ray got

back," she said to Chip that last day. "If you don't, I can tell ye.

It was 'cos they noticed the goin's on 'tween you an' him, an'

wanted to head it off."

Not a word of protest came from the poor child in response to this sneer,

and that night she wrote two notes, one to Miss Phinney, the other to

Aunt Comfort. Then, making a bundle of the few belongings she could call

her own--the beaded moccasins, cap, and fur cape old Tomah had given

her, and other trifles--she waited until almost midnight and stole out

of the house.

Once before she had left her only shelter, in a more desperate mood.

Now the same impulse nerved her, and for ample reason. Dependent upon

the bounty of those in no wise kin to her, tortured by the sarcastic

tongue of Hannah, her heart hungering for a love she believed could

never be hers, no other outcome seemed possible; and defiant still,

yet saddened beyond all words, she set out to escape it all.

Where to go, she knew not nor cared--only to leave Greenvale and all the

shame, sorrow, and humiliation it held for her, and make her own way in

the world as best she could.

The village street was as silent as midnight always found it. The low

murmur of the Mizzy Falls whispered down the valley. A half-moon was

just rising, and as Chip reached the hilltop where she had waited for

Ray, she halted. From here must be taken the last glance at Greenvale,

and as she turned about a sob rose in her heart, in spite of her stern

resolve, for ties cannot be sundered easily.

And how vivid and life-lasting was that picture! The two long rows of

white houses facing the broad street, the tall-spired church in the

middle of them; scattered dwellings to the right and left; away to one

side the little brown schoolhouse that had been her Mecca; the stream

that wound through the broad meadows; and over all the faint sheen of the

rising moon.

Only for a moment she paused for this good-bye look, then turned and

ran. On and on she sped mile after mile, up hill, down hill, halting now

and then for breath until a cross-road was reached, and here she stopped.

Here also came the question of direction. To follow the main road was

to reach Riverton, between which and Greenvale the stage journeyed. To

go there meant being recognized perhaps. In her study of geography,

she had found that the village which was her birthplace lay northeast

from Greenvale. She meant sometime and somehow to reach that spot and

visit her mother's grave once more, and also, if possible, to send

word to Old Tomah. And so guided by this vague plan, she turned to the

left.

From now on the road became narrow. Miles elapsed between houses, and

Chip, wearied and heavy-eyed, could only creep along. The way became

more devious now, bending around a wooded hill and then crossing a

wide swamp to enter a stretch of forest. Direction became lost in these

turnings, the road grew hilly and less travelled. The moon scarce showed

it; and Chip, almost exhausted, stumbled over stones and felt that

she was becoming lost in an unsettled country. And then, just as she

emerged from a thicket and ascended a low hill, the light of coming

dawn faced her, and with it the need of sleep and concealment.

Full well she knew she must avoid all observing eyes and place many

more miles between herself and Greenvale to be certain of escape. And

then, as the daylight increased, she caught sight of an old, almost

ruined dwelling half hid among bushes just ahead. Even if empty, as it

appeared, it would serve for shelter, and finding it so, she crept in,

so wearied that she fell asleep at once on the warped and mouldy floor.

It was only a brief nap, for soon the rattle of a passing farm wagon woke

her, but refreshed somewhat by it, she again pushed on.

Soon a brook, singing cheerfully as it tumbled down a ledge, was reached,

and here Chip bathed her face and hands and drank of the sweet, cool

water.

Hunger also asserted itself, but that did not daunt her. She had faced

it once before.

Then something of a plan as to her future movements began to shape itself

in her mind, following which came an increased courage and self-reliance.

Not a cent did she now possess. Food she could not have until she had

made good her escape and could earn it somewhere.

But the sun was shining, the birds were singing, her young, supple body

was strong, life and the world were ahead; and, best of all, never again

would she have to feel herself a dependent upon any one.

With these blessings, scant to most of us, hardened as she had been by

servitude at Tim's Place, came a certain buoyancy of spirit and defiance

of all things human.

No wild beasts were here to menace, no spites to creep and crawl along

fence or hedgerow, no hideous half-breed to pursue, and as she counted

her blessings, while her spirits rose, a new life and new hope came to

her.

And now another feeling came--the certainty that she had come so far that

no one would recognize her. At first that morning, when she heard a team

coming or overtaking her, she had hidden by the roadside until it passed.

When a house was sighted ahead, she made a wide detour in the fields to

avoid it. Now this sense of caution vanished, and she strode on fearless

and confident.

When night came again she crept into an unused sheep barn, and when

daylight wakened her, she hurried on once more.

During all that first day's journey, her one fear had been that some one

she would meet might recognize her and report the fact in Greenvale. To

avoid that had been her sole thought. Now that feeling of danger was

vanishing, and when people were met, she looked at them fearlessly and

kept on. When cross-roads were reached and a choice in ways became

necessary, she followed the one nearest to northeast, and for the reason

that her school map had shown that her birthplace lay in this direction.

How far away it was, she had not the faintest idea, or whether she

could live to reach it. Her sole thought was to escape Greenvale and

the humiliating life of dependence there, and when she was so far away

that no one could find her, obtain work at some farm-house.

All that second day she plodded on that same patient up-hill, down-dale

journey, never halting except to pick a few berries, or where a brook

crossed the road to obtain a handful of watercress or some sweet-flag

buds.

Now and then villages were passed, again it was country sparsely settled,

where farm-houses were wide apart, and when this day was waning, even

these had vanished and she found herself in almost a wilderness once more.

[Illustration: "Won't you please give me a lift an' a chance to earn

my vittles for a day or two?"]

Hills now met her already weary feet; they seemed never ending, for as

the crown of one was reached, another met her eyes. The roadway also

became badly gullied, always stony, with grass growing in the hollows.

By now she was faint and dizzy from two days' fasting, and so footsore

that she could scarce limp along. So far her defiant pride had kept her

from begging food, but now that was weakening, and at the next house she

would have asked a morsel. But no next house came. Only the same scrub

growth along the wayside with now and then a patch of forest, with never

a fence, even, to indicate human ownership.

The sun had now vanished. Already the stretches of forest were shadowy,

and as Chip reached the apex of another long hill, beyond and far below

she could see another darkened valley. Night seemed creeping up from it

to meet her. Not a house, not even a fence or recent clearing--only the

unending tangle of green growth and this dark vale beyond.

"I guess I'll starve 'fore I find another house," poor Chip muttered,

and then as the utter desolation of her situation and surroundings were

realized for a moment, her defiant courage gave way.

For two days and half a night she had plodded on without food and with

scarce a moment's rest. Her feet were blistered, her eyes smarted

from sun and dust, her head swam. She was miles away from any human

habitation, footsore, weary, and despondent, with night enclosing her--a

homeless waif, still clinging to the small bundle that contained her all.

But now as she crouched by the roadside, too exhausted to move on, the

memory of those three days and nights of horror, one year ago, came to

her. Her plight was bad enough now, but nothing to compare with what it

was then, and as all the terror and desperation of that mad flight now

returned, it renewed her courage.

"I ain't so bad off as I was then," she said. "I'm sure of finding

a house to-morrow."

And now, as if this moment marked the turning-point of her fortunes,

from far down the hill she had climbed, came the faint creak, creak,

and jolting sound of an ascending wagon. Slowly it neared, until just

at the hilltop where Chip sat, the tired horse halted, and its driver saw

her rise almost beside the wagon.

"Mister," she said, "I'm nearly tuckered out and 'bout starved.

Won't you please give me a lift an' a chance to earn my vittles for

a day or two?"

The man gave a low whistle.

"Why sartin, sartin," he answered in a moment, "but who be ye? I

thought for a minute ye was a sperit. Git up here," he added, without

waiting for a reply and moving to make room. Then as Chip obeyed, he

chirruped to his horse and down the hill they rattled.

"Who might be ye, girlie, an' whar'd ye come from?" he asked again,

as they came to another ascent and the horse walked.

"My name's Vera, Vera--Raymond," answered Chip, "an' I run away from

where I was livin'."

"That's curis," answered the old man, glancing at her; "whar'd ye

run away from, some poor farm?"

"No, sir," replied Chip, almost defiantly, "but I guess I was a sort

o' pauper. I was livin' with folks that fetched me out o' the woods

an' was schoolin' me, and I couldn't stand it, so I run away. I don't

want to tell where they be, or where I came from either," she added

in a moment, "for I don't want them ever to find me."

"Wal, that's a proper sort o' feelin'," responded the man, still

looking at his passenger, "an' I don't mind. I live down beyond here

in what's called the Holler. Somebody called it Peaceful Valley once.

We'll take keer o' ye to-night 'n' to-morrer we'll see what's best

to be done. I guess ye need a hum 'bout ez bad ez a body kin, anyway."

And so Chip McGuire, waif of the wilderness and erstwhile protegee of a

philanthropic woman, as Vera Raymond found another home, and began still

another life with this old farmer, Judson Walker, and his wife Mandy.

But a sorrow deeper far than Chip ever realized fell upon Aunt Comfort

when her brimming eyes read her note the morning after her flight.

"Dear Aunt Comfort,

"I can't stand Hannah or being a pauper any longer. She as

good as told me I wanted your money and I never thought of

it. She said I wasn't good enough for Ray, either, and that

was the reason Mrs. Frisbie took him away so soon. I know I

ain't good for nothin' nor nobody, but I didn't ask to

be fetched here and I am going away, never, never, never to

come back. If ever I can, I will pay you and Mrs. Frisbie for

all I've eat and had.

"Good-bye Forever,

"Chip."

CHAPTER XXVI

"There's a heap o' comfort in lookin' on the dark side o'

life cheerfully."--Old Cy Walker.

Old Cy especially found life dull after Ray had gone. The hermit also

appeared to miss him and became more morose than ever. He never had

been what might be termed social, speaking only when spoken to, and then

only in the fewest possible words. Now Old Cy became almost a walking

sphinx, and found that time passed slowly. His heartstrings had somehow

become entwined with Ray's hopes and plans. He had bent every energy

and thought to secure for Ray a valuable stock of furs and gum, and,

as was his nature, felt a keen satisfaction in helping that youth to

a few hundred dollars.

Now Ray had departed, furs, gum, and all. He had promised to return with

Martin and Angie later on, but of that Old Cy felt somewhat dubious, and

so the old man mourned.

There was no real reason for it, for all Nature was now smiling. The lake

was blue and rippled by the June breezes; trout leaped out of it night

and morning; flowers were blooming, squirrels frisking, birds singing

and nest-building; and what Old Cy most enjoyed, the vernal season was

at hand.

Another matter also disturbed him--the whereabouts of McGuire and the

half-breed, Pete Bolduc.

Levi had brought the information that neither had been seen nor heard

of since the previous autumn; but that was not conclusive, and somehow

Old Cy felt that a certain mystery had attached itself to them, and once

we suspect a mystery, it pursues us like a phantom. He did not fear

either of these renegades, however. He had never harmed them. But he

felt that any day might bring a call from one or the other, or that some

tragic outcome would be disclosed.

Another problem also annoyed him--who this thief of their game could be,

and whether his supposed cave lair was a permanent hiding-spot.

Two reasons had kept Old Cy from another visit to that sequestered lake

during the fall trapping season: first, its evident danger, and then lack

of time. But now, with nothing to do except wait for the incoming ones,

an impulse to visit again this mysterious spot came to him.

He had, at the former excursion, felt almost certain that this unknown

trapper was either McGuire or the half-breed. Some assertions made by

Levi seemed to corroborate that theory, and impelled by it, Old Cy

started alone, one morning, to visit this lake again. It took him until

midday to carry his canoe, camp outfit, rifle, and all across from

stream to stream, and twilight had come ere he reached the lagoon where

he and Ray had left the main stream and camped. Up here Old Cy now

turned his canoe, and repairing the bark shack they had built, which

had been crushed by winter's snow, he camped there again.

Next morning, bright and early, he launched his canoe and once more

followed the winding stream through the dark gorge and out into the

rippled lake again.

Here he halted and looked about.

No signs of aught human could be seen. The long, narrow lakelet sparkled

beneath the morning sun. The bald mountain frowned upon it, the jagged

ledges just across faced him like serried ramparts, an eagle slowly

circled overhead, and, best indication of primal solitude, an antlered

deer stood looking at him from out an opening above the ledges.

"Guess I'm alone here!" exclaimed Old Cy, glancing around; "but if

this ain't a pictur worth rememberin', I never saw one. Wish I could

take it with me into t'other world; an' if I was sure o' findin' a

spot like it thar, I'd never worry 'bout goin' when my time comes."

After a long wait, as if he wanted to observe every detail of this

wondrous picture of wildwood beauty, he dipped his paddle, crossed the

sheet of rippled water, and stepped ashore at the very spot where he

and Ray had landed over eight months before.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, glancing around, "if thar ain't a canoe,

bottom up! Two, by ginger!" he added, as he saw another drawn out and

half hid by a low ledge.

To this second one he hastened at once, and looked into it.

It had evidently rested there all winter, for it was partially filled

with water, and half afloat in it were two paddles and a setting pole.

A gunny-cloth bag, evidently containing the usual cooking outfit of a

woodsman, lay soaking in one end, a frying-pan and an axe were rusting

in the other, and a coating of mould had browned each crossbar and thwart.

"Been here quite a spell, all winter, I guess," muttered Old Cy,

looking it over, and then he advanced to the other canoe. That was,

as he asserted, bottom up, and also lay half hid back of a jutting

ledge of slate. Two paddles leaned against this ledge, and near by was

another setting pole. All three of these familiar objects were brown

with damp mould and evidently had rested there many months.

"Curis, curis," muttered Old Cy again. "I callated I'd find nothin'

here, 'n' here's two canoes left to rot, 'n' been here all winter."

Then with a vague sense of need, he returned to his canoe, seized his

rifle, looked all around, over the lake, up into the green tangle above

the ledges, and finally followed the narrow passage leading to where he

had once watched smoke arise. Here on top of this ledge he again halted

and looked about.

Back of it was the same V-shaped cleft across which a cord had held

drying pelts, the cord was still there, and below it he could see the

dark skins amid the confusion of jagged stones.

Turning, he stepped from this ledge to the lower one nearer the lake,

walked down its slope, and looked about again. At its foot was a long,

narrow, shelf-like projection, ending at the corner of the ledge. Old Cy

followed this to its end and stepped down into a narrow crevasse.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, taking a backward step as he did so.

And well he might, for there at his feet lay a rifle coated with rust

beside a brown felt hat.

Had a grinning skull met his eyes, he would not have been more astounded.

In fact, that was the next object he expected to see, and he glanced up

and down the crevasse for it. None leered at him, however, and picking

up the rusted weapon, he continued his search.

Two rods or so below where he had climbed the upper ledge, he was halted

again, for there, at his hand almost, was a curious doorlike opening some

three feet high and one foot wide, back of an outstanding slab of slate.

The two abandoned canoes had surprised him, the rusty rifle astonished

him, but this, a self-evident cave entrance, almost took his breath away.

For one instant he glanced at it, stepped back a step, dropped the rusty

rifle and cocked his own, as if expecting a ghost or panther to emerge.

None came, however, and once more Old Cy advanced and peered into this

opening. A faint light illumined its interior--a weird slant of sunlight,

yet enough to show a roomy cavern.

The mystery was solved. This surely was the hiding-spot of the strange

trapper!

"Can't see why I missed it afore," Old Cy muttered, kneeling that he

might better look within, and sniffing at the peculiar odor. "Wonder

if the cuss is dead in thar, or what smells so!"

Then he arose and grasped the slab of slate. One slight pull and it fell

aside.

"A nat'ral door, by hokey!" exclaimed Old Cy, and once more he knelt

and looked in.

The bravest man will hesitate a moment before entering such a cavern,

prefaced, so to speak, by two abandoned canoes, a rusty rifle, human head

covering, each and all bespeaking something tragic, and Old Cy was no

exception. That he had come upon some grewsome mystery was apparent.

Canoes were not left to rot in the wilderness or rifles dropped without

cause.

And then, that hat!

Surely here, or hereabout, had been enacted a drama of murderous nature,

and inside this cavern might repose its blood-stained sequel.

But the filtering beams of light encouraged Old Cy, and he entered.

No ghastly corpse confronted him, but instead a human, if cramped,

abode. A fireplace deftly fashioned of slate occupied one side of this

cave; in front a low table of the same flat stone, resting upon small

ones; and upon the table were rusty tin dishes, a few mouldy hardtack, a

knife, fork, and scraps of meat, exhaling the odor of decay. A smell of

smoke from the charred wood in the fireplace mingled with it all. In

one corner was a bed of brown fir twigs, also mouldy, a blanket, and

tanned deerskins.

The cave was of oval, irregular shape, barely high enough for Old Cy to

stand upright. Across its roof, on either side of the rude chimney, a

narrow crack admitted light, and as he looked about, he saw in the dim

light another doorlike opening into still another cave. Into this he

peered, but could see nothing.

"A queer livin' spot," he muttered at last, "a reg'lar human panther

den. An' 'twas out o' this I seen the smoke come. An' here's his

gun," he added, as, more accustomed to the dim light, he saw one in

a corner. "Two guns, two canoes, an' nobody to hum," he continued.

"I'm safe, anyhow. But I've got to peek into that other cave, sartin

sure," and he withdrew to the open air.

A visit to a couple of birches soon provided means of light, and he

again entered the cave. One moment more, and then a flaring torch of bark

was thrust into the inner cave, a mere crevasse not four feet wide, and

stooping, as he now had to, Old Cy entered and knelt while he looked

about.

He saw nothing here of interest except the serried rows of jutting slate,

across two of which lay a slab of the same--no vestige of aught human,

and Old Cy was about to retreat when his flare burning close to his

finger tips unnoticed, caused him to drop it on the instant, and drawing

another from his pocket he lit it while the flame lasted in the first one.

It is said that great discoveries are almost invariably made by some

trifling accident--a gold mine found by stumbling over a stone, a valley

prolific of diamonds disclosed by digging for water.

In this case it was true, for as Old Cy bent to light his second torch

ere he withdrew from the inner cave, a flash of reflected light came

from beneath this slab--only for one second, but enough to attract his

attention.

He stooped again and lifted the slab. Six large tin cans had been hidden

by it. He grasped one and could scarce lift it. Again his fingers closed

over it. He crawled backward to the better-lighted cave and drew the

cover off the can with eager motion, and poured a heap of shining,

glittering coin out upon that food-littered table.

Into that dark hole he dived again, as a starved dog leaps for food,

seized the cans, two at a time, almost tumbled back, and emptied them.

Four had been filled with gold coin and two stuffed with paper money.

Folded with these bills of all denominations from one to fifty dollars

was a legal paper yellowed by age, with a red seal still glowing like a

spot of blood.

It was an innholder's license, authorizing one Thomas McGuire to furnish

food, shelter, and entertainment for man and beast.

With eyes almost tear-dimmed and heart throbbing at having found poor

Chip's splendid heritage, Old Cy now gazed at it.

The sharp stones upon which he knelt nearly pierced his flesh, but he

felt them not.

The glint of sunlight from the crack above caressed his scant gray hairs

and white fringing beard, forming almost a halo, yet he knew it not.

He only knew that here, before him, on this rude stone table, lay

thousands of dollars, all belonging to the child he loved.

"Thank God, little gal," he said at last, "I've found what belongs

to ye, 'n' ye hain't got to want for nothin' no more. I wish I could

kiss ye now."

Little did he realize that at this very moment of thankfulness for her

sake, poor Chip was lost to all who knew her, and, half starved and

almost hopeless, knew not where to find shelter.

[Illustration: "Thank God, little gal, I've found what belongs to ye."]

CHAPTER XXVII

"When life looks darkest to ye, count yer blessin's, boy,

count yer blessin's."--Old Cy Walker.

When the sun rose again and Chip awoke, she scarce knew where she was.

Outside, and almost reaching the one window of her little room, was the

top of an apple tree in full bloom. Below she could hear ducks quacking,

now and then a barnyard monarch's defiant crow, from farther away came

the rippling sound of running water, and as she lay and listened to the

medley, a robin lit on the tree-top not ten feet away and chirped as he

peered into her window. A scent of lavender mingled with apple blossoms

became noticeable; then the few and very old-fashioned fittings of the

room,--a chest of drawers with little brass handles, over it a narrow

mirror with gilt frame, two wood-seated chairs painted blue, and white

muslin curtains draped away from the window.

And now, conscious that she was in some strange place, back in an

instant came the three days of her long, weary tramp, the nights when she

had slept in a sheep barn and in a deserted dwelling, and at last,

faint, footsore, and almost hopeless, she had been rescued from another

night with only the sky for a roof.

Then the quaint old man, so much like Old Cy, whom she had accosted, the

rattling, bumping ride down into this valley, and the halt where a cheery

light beamed its welcome and a motherly woman made it real.

It was all so unexpected, so satisfying, so protective of herself, that

Chip could hardly realize how it had come about.

No questions had been asked of her here. These two quaint old people had

taken her as she was--dusty, dirty, and travel-worn. She had bathed and

been helped to an ample meal and shown to this sweet-smelling room as if

she had been their own daughter.

"They must be awful kind sort o' people," Chip thought, and then

creeping out of bed she dressed, and taking her stockings and sadly

worn shoes in hand softly descended the stairs.

No one seemed astir anywhere. The ticking of a tall clock in the sitting

room was the only sound, the back door was wide open, and out of this

Chip passed and, seating herself on a bench, began putting on stockings

and shoes. This was scarce done ere she heard a step and saw the old man

emerge from the same door.

"Wal, Pattycake, how air ye?" he asked, smiling. "I heerd ye creepin'

downstairs like a mouse, but I was up, 'n' 'bout dressed. Hope ye

slept well. It's Sunday," he added, without waiting for a reply,

"an' we don't git up quite so arly ez usual. Ye can help Mandy 'bout

breakfast now, if ye like, 'n' I'll do the milkin'."

And this marked the entry of Chip into the new home, and outlined her

duties. No more questions were asked of her. She was taken at her own

valuation--a needy girl, willing to work for her board, insisting on it,

and yet, in a few days, so hospitable were these people and so winsome

was Chip, that she stepped into their affection, as it were, almost

without effort.

"I don't think we best quiz her much," Uncle Jud (as he was known)

said to his wife that first night. "I found her on the top o' Bangall

Hill, where she riz up like a ghost. She 'lowed she run away from

somewhar, but where 'twas, she didn't want to tell. My 'pinion is

thar's a love 'fair at the bottom on't all; but whether it's so or

not, it ain't none o' our business. She needs a home, sartin sure.

She says she means to airn her keep, which is the right sperit, an'

long as she minds us, she kin have it."

That Chip "airned her keep" and something more was soon evinced, for

in two weeks it was "Aunt Mandy" and "Uncle Jud" from her, and

"Patty" or "Pattycake," the nickname given her that first morning,

from them. More than that, so rapidly had she won her way here that

by now Uncle Jud had visited the Riggsville store, some four miles

down this valley, and materials for two dresses, new shoes, a broad sun

hat, and other much-needed clothing were bought for Chip.

Neither was it all one-sided, for these people, well-to-do in their

isolated home, were also quite alone. Their two boys had grown up, gone

away and married, and had homes of their own, and the company of a

bright and winsome girl like Chip was needed in this home.

Her adoption and acceptance of it were like a small stream flowing into

a larger one, for the reason that these people were almost primitive in

location and custom.

"We don't go to meetin' Sundays," Uncle Jud had explained that

first day after breakfast. "We're sorter heathen, I s'pose; but then

ag'in, thar ain't no chance. Thar used to be meetin's down to the

Corners, 'n' a parson; but he only got four hundred a year, an'

hard work to collect that, 'n' so he gin the job up. Since then the

meetin'-house has kinder gone to pieces, 'n' the Corner folks use

it now for storin' tools. We obsarve Sundays here by bein' sorter

lazy, 'n' I go fishin' some or pickin' berries."

To Chip, reared at Tim's Place, and whose knowledge of Sunday was its

strict observance at Greenvale, this seemed a relief. Sundays there had

never been pleasant days to her. She could not understand what the

preaching and praying meant, or why people needed to look so solemn

on that day. She had been stared at so much at church, also, that the

ordeal had become painful. The parson had, on two occasions, glared and

glowered at her while he assured her that her opinions and belief in

spites were rank heresy and that she was a wicked heathen; and, all

in all, religion was not to her taste. With these people she was to

escape it, and instead of being imprisoned for long, weary hours while

being stared at each Sunday, she was likely to have perfect freedom and

a chance to go with this nice old man on a fishing or berry-picking jaunt.

And then Uncle Jud was so much like Old Cy in ways and speech that her

heart was won. And besides these blessings, the old farm-house, hidden

away between two ranges of wooded hills, seemed so out of the world and

so secure from observation that she felt that no one from Greenvale ever

could or would discover her. She had meant to hide herself from all who

knew her, had changed her name for that purpose, and here and now it

was accomplished.

That first Sunday, also, became a halcyon one for her, for after chores,

in the performance of which Chip made herself useful, Uncle Jud took his

fish-pole, and giving her the basket to carry, led the way to the brook,

and for four bright sunny hours, Chip knew not the lapse of time while

she watched the leaping, laughing stream, and her second Old Cy pulling

trout from each pool and cascade.

And so her new life began.

But the change was not made without some cost to her feelings, for

heartstrings reach far, and Miss Phinney and her months of patient

teaching were not forgotten.

Aunt Comfort and her benign face oft returned to Chip, "and dear Old

Cy," as she always thought of him, still oftener. Ray's face also

lingered in her heart. Now and then she caught herself humming some

darky song, and never once did the moon smile into this quiet vale that

her thoughts did not speed away to that wildwood lake, with its rippled

path of silver, the dark bordering forest, and how she wielded a paddle

while her young lover picked his banjo.

No word or hint of all this bygone life and romance ever fell from her

lips. It was a page in her memory that must never be turned,--an idyl

to be forgotten,--and yet forget it she could not, in spite of will or

wishes.

And now as the summer days sped by, and Chip helping Uncle Jud in the

meadows or Aunt Mandy about the house, and winning love from both, saw a

new realm open before her. There was in the sitting room of this quaint

home a tall bookcase, its shelves filled with a motley collection of

books: works on science, astronomy, geology, botany, and the like; books

of travel and adventure; stories of strange countries and people never

heard of by Chip; and novels by Scott, Lever, Cooper, and Hardy. These

last, especially Scott and Cooper, appealed most to Chip, and once she

began them, every spare hour, and often until long past midnight, she

became lost in this new world.

"I know all about how folks live in the woods," she said one Sunday

to Uncle Jud, when half through "The Deerslayer." "I was brought up

there. I know how Injuns live and what they believe. I had an old Injun

friend once. I've got the moccasins and fur cape he gave me now. His

name was Tomah, 'n' he believed in queer things that sometimes creep

an' sometimes run faster'n we can."

It was her first reference to her old life, but once begun, she never

paused until all her queer history had been related.

"I didn't mean to tell it," she explained in conclusion, "for I

don't want nobody to know where I came from, an' I hope you won't

tell."

How near she came to disclosing what was of far more importance to

herself and these people than old Tomah's superstition she never knew,

or that all that saved her was her reference to Old Cy by that name only.

More than that, and like Old Cy standing over the cave where her heritage

lay hid, she had no suspicion that this kindly old man, so much like him

in looks and speech, was his brother.

With the coming of September, however, a visitor was announced. "Aunt

Abby's comin' to stay with us a spell," Uncle Jud said that day;

"she's Mandy's sister, Abigail Bemis, an' she lives at Christmas

Cove. It's a shore town, 'bout a hundred miles from here. She ain't

much like Mandy," he added confidentially to Chip; "she's more

book-larned, so you'll have to mind your _p_'s and _q_'s. If ye like,

ye can go with me to the station to meet her."

And so it came to pass that a few days later, Chip, dressed in her best,

rode to the station with Uncle Jud in the old carryall, and there met

this visitor.

She was not a welcome guest, so far as Chip was concerned, wonted as she

had now become to Uncle Jud and Aunt Mandy, whose speech, like her own,

was not "book-larned," and for this reason, Chip felt afraid of her. So

much so, in fact, that for a few days she scarce dared speak at all.

Her timidity wore away in due time, for Aunt Abby--a counterpart of her

sister--was in no wise awe-inspiring. She saw Chip as she was, and soon

felt an interest in her and her peculiar history, or what was known of

it. She also noted Chip's interest in books, and guessing more than she

had been told, was not long in forming correct conclusions.

"What do you intend to do with this runaway girl?" she said one day to

her sister, "keep her here and let her grow up in ignorance, or what?"

"Wal, we ain't thought much about that," responded Mandy, "at least

not yet. She ain't got no relations to look arter her, so far ez we kin

larn. She's company for us, 'n' willin'. Uncle Jud sets lots of store

by her. She is with him from morn till night, and handy at all sorts o'

work. This is how 'tis with us here, an' now what do you say?"

For a moment Aunt Abby meditated. "You ought to do your duty by her,"

she said at last, "and she certainly needs more schooling."

"We can send her down to the Corners when school begins, if you think

we orter," returned her sister, timidly; "but we hate to lose her now.

We've kinder took to her, you see."

"I hardly think that will do," answered Aunt Abby, knowing as she

did that the three _R_'s comprised the full extent of an education at

the Corners. "What she needs is a chance to mingle with more people

than she can here, and learn the ways of the world, as well as books.

Her mind is bright. I notice she is reading every chance she can get,

and you know my ideas about education. For her to stay here, even with

schooling at the Corners, is to let her grow up like a hoyden. Now what

would you think if I took her back to Christmas Cove? There is a better

school there. She will meet and mingle with more people, and improve

faster."

"I dunno what Judson'll say," returned Aunt Mandy, somewhat sadly.

"He's got so wonted to her, he'll be heart-broke, I'm afraid." And

so the consultation closed.

The matter did not end here, for Aunt Abby, "sot in her way," as

Uncle Jud had often said, yet in reality only advocating what she felt

was best for this homeless waif, now began a persuasive campaign. She

enlarged on Christmas Cove, its excellent school and capable master, its

social advantages and cultured people, who boasted a public library and

debating society, and especially its summer attractions, when a few

dozen city people sojourned there. Its opportunities for church-going

also came in for praise, though if this worthy woman had known how

Chip felt about that feature, it would have been left unmentioned.

"The girl needs religious influence and contact with believers, as

well as schooling," she said later on to Aunt Mandy, "and that must

be considered. Here she can have none, and will grow up a heathen. I

certainly think she ought to go back with me for a year or two, at least,

and then we can decide what is best."

"Thar's one thing ye ain't thought 'bout," Mandy answered, "an'

that's her sense o' obligation. From what she's told me, 'twas that

that made her run away from whar she was, 'n' she'd run away from

here if she didn't feel she was earnin' her keep. She's peculiar in

that way, 'n' can't stand feelin' she's dependent. How you goin'

to get round that?"

"Just as you do," returned Aunt Abby, not at all discouraged. "We live

about as you do, as you know, only Mr. Bemis has the mill; and she can

help me about the house, as she does here."

But Chip's own consent to this new plan was the hardest to obtain.

"I'll do just as Uncle Jud wants me to," she responded, when Aunt

Abby proposed the change; "but I'd hate to go 'way from here. It's

all the real sort o' home I've ever known, and they've been so good

to me I'll have to cry when I leave it. You'd let me come here once

in a while, wouldn't ye?"

As she seemed ready to cry at this moment, Aunt Abby wisely dropped

the subject then and there; in fact, she did not allude to it again

in Chip's presence.

But Aunt Abby carried her point with the others. Uncle Jud consented

very reluctantly, Aunt Mandy also yielded after much more persuasion,

and when Aunt Abby's visit terminated, poor Chip's few belongings were

packed in a new telescope case; she kissed Aunt Mandy, unable to speak,

and this tearful parting was repeated at the station with Uncle Jud. When

the train had vanished he wiped his eyes on his coat sleeves, climbed

into his old carryall, and drove away disconsolate.

"Curis, curis, how a gal like that 'un'll work her way into a man's

feelin's," he said to himself. "It ain't been three months since I

picked her up, 'n' now her goin' away seems like pullin' my heart

out."

CHAPTER XXVIII

Christmas Cove had entered its autumn lethargy when Aunt Abby Bemis and

her new protegee reached it. Captain Bemis, who "never had no say 'bout

nothin'," but who had cooked his own meals uncomplainingly for three

weeks, emerged, white-dusted, from the mill, to greet the arrivals,

and Chip was soon installed in a somewhat bare room overlooking the

cove. Everything seemed slightly chilly to her here. This room, with

its four-poster bed, blue-painted chairs, light blue shades, and dark

blue straw matting, the leafless elms in front, the breeze that swept in

from the sea, and even her reception, seemed cool. Her heart was not in

it. Try as she would, she could not yet feel one spark of affection

for this "book-larned" Aunt Abby, who had already begun to reprove her

for lapses of speech. It was all so different from the home life she

had just left; and as Chip had now begun to notice and feel trifles,

the relations of the people seemed as chilly as the room to which she

was consigned.

When Sunday came--a sunless one with leaden sky and cold wind bearing the

ocean's moaning--Chip felt herself back at Greenvale with its Sundays,

for now she was stared at the moment she entered the church. The singing

was, of course, of the same solemn character, the minister's prayers

even longer, and the preaching as incomprehensible as in Greenvale.

To Chip, doubtless a heretic who needed regeneration, it seemed a

melancholy and solemn performance. The sermon (on predestination, with a

finale which was a description of the resurrection day) made her feel

creepy, and when the white-robed procession rising from countless

graves was touched upon, and a pause came when she could hear the

ocean's distant moan once more, it seemed that spites were creeping

and crawling all about that dim room.

With her advent at school Monday came something of the same trouble first

met at Greenvale, for the master, a weazen, dried-up little old man, who

wore a wig and seemed to exude rules and discipline, lacked the kindly

interest of Miss Phinney.

Chip, almost a mature young lady, was aligned with girls and boys of

ten and twelve, and once more the same shame and humiliation had to

be endured. It wore away in time, however, for she had made almost

marvellous progress under Miss Phinney. Her mind was keen and quick, and

once at study again, she astonished Mr. Bell, the master.

Something of her old fearless self-reliance now came to her aid, also.

It had made her dare sixty miles of wilderness alone and helpless, it

had spurred her to escape Greenvale and her sense of being a dependent

pauper, and now that latent force for good or ill still nerved her.

But Christmas Cove did not suit her. The sea that drew her eyes with

its vastness seemed to awe her. The great house, brown and moss-coated,

where she lived, was barnlike, and never quite warm enough. The long

street she traversed four times daily was bleak and wind-swept. Aunt

Abby was austere and lacking in cordiality; and Sundays--well, Sundays

were Chip's one chief abhorrence.

She may be blamed for it,--doubtless will be,--and yet she never had

been, and it seemed never would be, quite reconciled to Sundays. At

Tim's Place they were unknown. At Greenvale they had been dreaded,

and now at Christmas Cove they were no less so.

At Uncle Jud's, in Peaceful Valley, where she had found an asylum,

loving care, and companionship akin to her, Sundays were only

half-Sundays--days of chore-doing, of reading, of rest, or long

strolls along shady lanes with Uncle Jud, or following the brook and

watching him fish. It was not right, maybe. It was somewhat of

sacrilege, perhaps, this lazy, summer-day-strolling, flower-picking,

berry-gathering way of passing them, and yet, as the months with Martin

and his party in the wilderness where Sunday could not be observed, and

those with Uncle Jud were all that Chip had really enjoyed, she must

not be blamed.

Another influence--an insidious heart-hunger she could not put away--now

added to her loneliness in the new life. It carried her thoughts back

to the rippled, moonlit lake, where Ray had picked his banjo and sung to

her; even back to that first night by the camp-fire when she had watched

and listened to him in rapt admiration. It thrilled her as naught else

could when she recalled the few moments at the lake when, unconscious

of the need of restraint, she had let him caress her.

Then the long days of watching for his return were lived over, and the

one almost ecstatic moment when he had leaped from the stage and over

the wall, with no one in sight, while he held her in his arms.

And then--and this hurt the most--that last evening before they were to

part again, when beside the firefly-lit mill-pond he had the chance to

say so much, and said--nothing!

It was all a bitter-sweet memory, which she tried to put away forever the

night she left Greenvale. She was now Vera Raymond. No one could trace

her; and yet, so at odds were her will and heart, there still lingered

the faint hope that Ray would sometime and somehow find her out.

And so, studying faithfully, often lonesome, now and then longing for

the bygone days with Ray and Old Cy, and always hoping that she might

sometime return to Peaceful Valley, Chip passed the winter at Christmas

Cove.

Something of success came to her through it all. She reached and retained

head positions in her classes. A word of praise came occasionally from

Mr. Bell. Aunt Abby grew less austere and seemed to have a little pride

in her. She became acquainted with other people and in touch with young

folks, was invited to parties and sleigh-rides. The vernacular of

Tim's Place left her, and even Sundays were less a torture, in fact,

almost pleasant, for then she saw most of the young folks she mingled

with, and now and then exchanged a bit of gossip.

Her own dress became of more interest to her. Aunt Abby, fortunately

for Chip, felt desirous that her ward should appear well, and Chip, thus

educated and polished in village life, to a degree, at least, fulfilled

Aunt Abby's hopes.

Another success also came to her, for handsome as she undeniably was,

with her big, appealing eyes, her splendid black hair, and well-rounded

form, the young men began to seek her. One became persistent, and when

spring had unlocked the long, curved bay once more, Chip had become

almost a leader in the little circle of young people.

Her life with those who had taken her in charge also became more

harmonious. In fact, something of affection began to leaven it, for the

reason that never once had Aunt Abby questioned Chip as to her past.

Aunt Mandy and Uncle Jud had both cautioned her as to its unwisdom, and

she was broad and charitable enough to let it remain a closed book until

such time as Chip was willing to open it; and for this, more than

all else that she received, Chip felt grateful. But one day it came

out--or at least a portion of it.

"I suppose you have often wondered where I was born, and who my parents

were," Chip said, one Sunday afternoon, when she and Aunt Abby were

alone, "and I want to thank you for never, never asking." And then,

omitting much, she briefly outlined her history.

"I was born close to the wilderness," she said, "and my mother died

when I was about eight years old. Then my father took me into the

woods, where I worked at a kind of a boarding house for lumbermen. I

ran away from that when I was about sixteen. I had to; the reasons I

don't want to tell. I found some people camping in the woods when I'd

been gone three days and 'most starved. They felt pity for me, I

guess, and took care of me. I stayed at their camp that summer, and then

they fetched me home with them and I was sent to school. Somebody said

something to me there, somebody who hated me. She had been pestering

me all the time, and I ran away. Uncle Jud found me and took care of

me until you came, and that's all I want to tell. I could tell a lot

more, but I don't ever want these people to find me or take me back

where they live, and that's why I don't tell where I came from. Then I

felt I was so dependent on them--I was twitted of it--that it's another

reason why I ran away. I wouldn't have stayed with Uncle Jud more than

over night except I had a chance to work and earn my board."

"But wasn't it unkind of you--isn't it now--not to let these people

know you are alive?" answered Aunt Abby. "They were certainly good to

you."

"I know that they were," returned Chip, somewhat contritely; "but I

couldn't stand being dependent on them any longer. If they found where I

was, they'd come and fetch me back; and I'd feel so ashamed I couldn't

look 'em in the face. I'd rather they'd think I was dead."

"Well, perhaps it is best you do not," returned Aunt Abby, sighing;

"but years of doubt, and not knowing whether some one we care for is

dead or alive, are hard to bear. And now that you have told me some of

your history, I will tell you a lifelong case of not knowing some

one's fate. Many years ago my sister and myself, who were born here,

became acquainted with two young men, sailor boys from Bayport, named

Cyrus and Judson Walker. Cyrus became attached to me and we were engaged

to marry. It never came to pass, however, for the ship that Judson was

captain of, with Cyrus as first mate, foundered at sea. All hands took to

the two boats. The one Judson was in was picked up, but the other

was never heard of afterward. In due time Judson and my sister Amanda

married. He gave up a sailor's life, and they settled down where they

now live. I waited many years, vainly hoping for my sweetheart's

return, and finally, realizing that he must be dead, married Captain

Bemis. That all happened so long ago that I do not care to count the

years; and yet all through them has lingered that pitiful thread of

doubt and uncertainty, that vain hope that somehow and someway Cyrus

may have escaped death and may return. I know it will never happen. I

know he is dead; and yet I cannot put away that faint hope and quite

believe it is so, and never shall so long as I live. Now you have

left those who must have cared something for you in much the same

pitiful state of doubt, and it is not right."

For one moment something almost akin to horror flashed over Chip.

"And was he called--was he never--I mean this brother, ever heard

from?" she stammered, recovering herself in time.

"Why, no," answered Aunt Abby, looking at her curiously, "of course

not. Why, what ails you? You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

"Oh, nothing," returned Chip, now more composed; "only the story and

how strange it was."

It ended the conversation, for Chip, so overwhelmed by the flood of

possibilities contained in this story, dared not trust herself longer

with Aunt Abby, and soon escaped to her room.

And now circumstances came trooping upon her: the shipwreck, which

she had heard Old Cy describe so often; the name she knew was really

his; the almost startling resemblance to Uncle Jud in speech, ways, and

opinions; and countless other proofs. Surely it must be so. Surely Old

Cy, of charming memory, and Uncle Jud no less so, must be brothers,

and now it was in her power to--and then she paused, shocked at the

position she faced.

She was now known as Vera Raymond, and respected; she had cut loose

forever from the old shame of an outlaw's child; of a wretched drudge

at Tim's Place; of being sold as a slave; and all that now made her

blush.

And then Ray!

Full well she knew now what must have been in his heart that last evening

and why he acted as he did. Hannah had told her the bitter truth, as

she had since realized. Ray had been assured that she was an outcast, and

despicable in the sight of Greenvale. He dared not say "I love you;

be my wife." Instead, he had been hurried away to keep them apart;

and as all this dire flood of shame that had driven her from Greenvale

surged in her heart, the bitter tears came.

In calmer moments, and when the heart-hunger controlled, she had hoped

he might some day find her and some day say, "I love you." But now, so

soon, to make herself known, to tell who she was, to admit to these new

friends that she was Chip McGuire with all that went with it, to have to

face and live down that shame, to admit that she had taken Ray's first

name for her own--no, no, a thousand times no!

But what of Old Cy and Uncle Jud, and their lifelong separation?

Truly her footsteps had led her to a parting of the ways, one sign-board

lettered "Duty and Shame," the other a blank.

CHAPTER XXIX

"Good luck comes now 'n' then; bad luck drops 'round

frequently."--Old Cy Walker.

When Old Cy emerged from the cave, his face glorified and heart

throbbing with the blessings now his to give Chip, he looked about with

almost fear. The two abandoned canoes and the trusty rifle had seemed

an assurance of tragic import, and yet no proof of this outlaw's

death. That this cave had been his lair, could not be doubted; and so

momentous was this discovery, and so anxious was Old Cy to rescue this

fortune, that he trembled with a sudden dread.

But no sign of human presence met his sweeping look.

The lake still rippled and smiled in the sunlight. Two deer, a buck and

doe, were feeding on the rush-grown shore just across, while at his feet

that rusty rifle still uttered its fatal message.

Once more Old Cy glanced all about, and then entered the cave again.

Here, in the dim light and with trembling hands, he filled the cans once

more, and almost staggering, so faint was he from excitement, he hurried

to the canoe, and packing them in its bow, covered the precious cargo

with his blanket.

Then he ran like a deer back to the cave, closed it with the slab,

grasped his rifle, and not even looking at the rusty one, bounded down

the path to his canoe again, launched it, and pushed off.

Never before had it seemed so frail a craft. And now, as he swung its

prow around toward the outlet, a curious object met his eyes.

Far up the lake, and where no ripple concealed it, lay what looked like a

floating log, clasped by a human arm.

What intuition led him hither, Old Cy never could explain, for escape

from the lake was now his sole thought. And yet, with one sweep of his

paddle, he turned his canoe and sped across the lake. And now, as he

neared this object, it slowly outlined itself, and he saw a grewsome

sight,--two bloated corpses grasping one another as if in a death

grapple. One had hair of bronze red, the other a hideously scarred face

with lips drawn and teeth exposed.

Hate, Horror, and Death personified.

Only for a moment did Old Cy glance at this ghastly sight, and then he

turned again and sped back across the lake.

The bright sun still smiled calm and serene, the morning breeze still

kissed the blue water, the two deer still watched him with curious eyes;

but he saw them not--only the winsome face and appealing eyes of Chip as

he last beheld them.

And now in the prow of his canoe lay her fortune, her heritage, which

was, after all, but scant return for all the shame and stigma so far

meted out to her.

It was almost sunset ere Old Cy, his nerves still quivering and wearied

as never before, crossed the little lake and breathed a sigh of

heart-felt gratitude as he drew his canoe out on the sandy shore

near the ice-house. No one was in sight, nor likely to be. A thin

column of smoke rising from the cabin showed that the hermit was still on

earth, and now for the first time, Old Cy sat down and considered his

plans for the near future.

First and foremost, not a soul, not even his old trusted companion here,

not even Martin, or Angie, and certainly not Ray, must learn what had

now come into his possession. Neither must his journey to this far-off

lake or aught he had learned there be disclosed.

But how was he to escape from the woods and these people, soon to arrive

for their summer sojourn? And what if Chip herself should come? Two

conclusions forced themselves upon him now: first, he must so conceal

the fortune that none of these friends even could suspect its presence;

next, he must by some pretext leave here as soon as Martin and his

party arrived, and cease not his watchful care until Chip's heritage

was safe in some bank in her name.

And now, with so much of his future moves decided upon, he hurried to the

cabin, greeted Amzi, urged him to hasten supper, and, securing a shovel,

returned to his canoe.

In five minutes the cans of gold were buried deep in the sand, not two

feet from where the half-breed had once landed, and upon Old Cy's person

the bills found concealment. How much it all amounted to, he had not

even guessed, nor scarce thought. To secure it and bear it safely away

from this now almost accursed lake had been his sole thought, and must be

until locks and bolts could guard it better. That night Old Cy hardly

slept a moment.

And now began days of waiting and watching, the slow course of which

he had never before known. He dared not leave the cabin except to fish

close by and within sight of the one focal point of his interest. Each

midday, for not sooner would the expected ones be apt to arrive, he

began to watch the lake's outlet, and ceased not this vigil until

darkness came. A dozen times a day he covertly visited the ice-house to

be certain no alien footprints had been stamped upon the sand near his

buried treasure, and had the hermit been an alert and normal man, he must

have noticed Old Cy's strange conduct.

This burden of care also began to haunt his sleep, and in it he saw the

open cave, and himself watched by vicious, leering faces. Once he saw

those ghastly corpses still clasped together, but hovering over him, and

then awoke with a sense of horror.

A worse dream than this came later, for in it he saw the half-breed

creeping along the lake's shore, and then, stooping where the gold was

buried, he began to dig, at which Old Cy sprang from his bed in sudden

terror.

"I'll go crazy if I don't git rid o' that money 'fore long," he

said to himself; and the next day another place of concealment occurred

to him.

There was, beneath the new cabin, a small cellar entered through a

trap-door. It was some ten feet square, and had been used to store

potatoes, pork, and the like. To carry out his new plan, which was to

hide the gold in this cellar, it became necessary to keep Amzi out of

sight until its transfer was made. That was an easy task, for Amzi,

docile as a child, was sent out on the lake to fish, and then Old Cy,

hastily constructing a bag of deerskin, hurried to the beach, dug up

the treasure, poured the glittering coin into this bag, hid it in the

cellar, nailed the trap-door down, and that night slept better.

Two days after, just as the sun was nearing the mountain top, Martin,

Angie, Levi, and Ray entered the lake.

How grateful both Old Cy and Amzi were for their arrival, how eagerly

they grasped hands with them at the landing, and how like two boys Martin

and Ray behaved needs no description.

All that had happened in Greenvale was soon told. Chip's conduct and

progress were related by Angie. Ray's plans to remain here another

winter were disclosed by him; and then, when the cheerful party had

gathered about the evening fire, Martin touched upon another matter.

"I met Hersey as we were coming in," he said, "and he says that

neither McGuire nor the half-breed has been seen or heard of since early

last fall. Hersey came in early this spring with one of his deputies;

they visited a half-dozen lumber camps, called twice at Tim's Place, and

even went over to Pete's cabin on the Fox Hole, but nowhere could

they learn anything of these two men. More than that, no canoe was found

at Pete's hut, and there was no sign of occupation at all this past

winter. Nothing could be learned from Tim, either, although not much was

expected from that source. It is all a most mysterious disappearance,

and the last that we can learn of Pete was his arrival and departure

from Tim's Place after we rescued Chip."

"I think both on 'em has concluded this section was gittin' too warm

for 'em," remarked Levi, "an' they've lit out."

"It's good riddance if they have," answered Old Cy, "an' I'm sartin

none on us'll ever set eyes on 'em agin."

And Old Cy spoke the truth, for none of this party ever did. In fact,

no human being, except himself and Martin, ever learned the secret that

this mountain-hid lake could tell.

But another matter now began to interest Old Cy--how Ray and Chip stood

in their mutual feelings. That all was not as he wished, Old Cy soon

guessed from Ray's face and actions, and he was not long in verifying it.

"Wal, how'd ye find the gal?" he said to Ray when the chance came.

"Was she glad to see ye?"

"Why, yes," answered Ray, looking away, "she appeared to be. I wasn't

in Greenvale but two weeks, you know."

"Saw her 'most every evenin' durin' that time, I s'pose?"

"No, not every one," returned Ray, vaguely; "her school hadn't closed

when I got home, and she studied nights, you see."

Old Cy watched Ray's face for a moment.

"I ain't pryin' into yer love matters," he said at last, "but as

I'm on your side, I'd sorter like to know how it's progressin'.

Wa'n't thar nothin' said 'tween ye--no sort o' promise, 'fore ye

come 'way?"

"No, nothing of that sort," answered Ray, looking confused, "though

we parted good friends, and she sent her love to you. I'm afraid Chip

don't quite like Greenvale."

Old Cy made no answer, though a smothered "hum, ha" escaped him at the

disclosure of what he feared.

"I wish ye'd sorter clinched matters 'fore ye left," he said, after

a pause; "that is, if ye're callatin' to be here 'nother winter.

It's 'most too long to keep a gal guessin'; 'sides, 'tain't right."

Ray, however, made no defence, in fact, seemed guilty and confused, so

Old Cy said no more.

A few days later he made a proposal that astonished Martin.

"I've been here now 'bout two years," he said, "an' I'm gittin'

sorter oneasy. I callate ye kin spare me a couple o' weeks."

No intimation of his real errand escaped him, and so adroitly had he laid

his plans and timed his movements, that when his canoe was packed and he

bade them good-bye, no one suspected how valuable a cargo it carried.

But Old Cy was more than "sorter oneasy," for the only spot where he

dared close his eyes in sleep during that three days' journey out of

the wilderness was in his canoe, with his head pillowed on that precious

gold.

CHAPTER XXX

"A miser was created to prove how little real comfort kin be

got out o' money."--Old Cy Walker.

When Old Cy joined the little party at the lake again, he seemed to

have aged years. His sunny smile was gone. He looked weary, worn, and

disconsolate.

"Chip's run away from Greenvale," he said simply, "an' nobody can

find hide nor hair on her. They've follered the roads for miles in

every direction. Nobody can be found that's seen anybody like her 'n'

they've even dragged the mill-pond. She left a note chargin' it to

that durn fool, Hannah, and things she said, which I guess was true.

I'd like to duck her in the hoss-pond!"

Such news was like a bombshell in the camp, or if not, what soon followed

was, for after a few days Old Cy made another announcement which upset

the entire party.

"I think I'd best go back to Greenvale," he said, "an' begin a

sarch for that gal. I ain't got nobody in the world that needs me so

much, or I them. I'm a sorter outcast myself, ez you folks know. That

little gal hez crept into my heart so, I can't take no more comfort

here. Amzi don't need me so much as I need her, 'n' I've made up my

mind I'll start trampin' till I find her. I've a notion, too, she'll

head for the wilderness ag'in, 'n' I'm most sartin she'll fetch

up whar her mother was buried. I watched that gal middlin' clus all last

summer. She's true blue 'n' good grit. She won't do no fool thing,

like makin' 'way with herself, 'n' I'll find her somewhar arnin'

her own livin' if I live long 'nuff. From the note she left, I know

that was in her mind."

Martin realized that there was no use in trying to change Old Cy's

intent--in fact, had no heart to do so, for he too felt much the same

toward Chip.

"I'll give you all the funds you need, old friend," he made answer,

"and wish you Godspeed on your mission. I'll do more than that even.

I'll pay some one to watch at Grindstone for the next year, so if Chip

reaches there, we can learn it."

That night he held a consultation with his wife.

"I suspect we are somewhat to blame for this unfortunate happening,"

he said to her, "or, at least, some thoughtless admissions you may have

made led up to it. It's a matter we are responsible for, or I feel so,

anyway. I think as Old Cy does, that this girl must be found if money

can do it, and I propose that we break camp and return to Greenvale.

If Amzi can't be coaxed to go along, I must leave Levi with him. No

power on earth can keep Old Cy here any longer."

But the old hermit had changed somewhat since that night he broke away

and returned to this camp, and when the alternative of remaining here

alone, or going out with them all, was presented, he soon yielded.

"If Cyrus is goin', I'll have to," he said. "I'd be lonesome

without him." And to this assertion he adhered.

Ray, however, was the most dejected and unhappy one now here, though

fortunately Old Cy was the only one who understood why, and he kept

silent.

Old Cy's defection had influenced all alike, and wood life was no longer

attractive. It was a pity, in a way, for no more charming spot than this

sequestered lake could be found. The trout leaping or breaking its glassy

surface night and morning seemed to almost urge an angler; not an hour

in all the day but two to a dozen deer might be seen along its shore, and

blueberries were ripening over in the "blow down." Amzi's garden,

now doubled in size, was well along, and it seemed a sin to leave so

many attractions.

But Martin had lost heart for these allurements. The thought of poor,

homeless Chip begging her way somewhere, spoiled it all. Conscious that

her own neglect might have invited this calamity, Angie was almost

heart-broken, and it was a saddened party that closed and barred the

new cabin and left this rippled lake one morning.

They were even more sad when Aunt Comfort showed them Chip's message,

and Angie read it with brimming eyes.

And now came Old Cy's departure, on a quest as hopeless as that of the

Wandering Jew and as pathetic as the Ancient Mariner's.

But the climax was reached when Old Cy gave Martin his parting message

and charge:--"Here's a bank book," he said, "that calls fer 'bout

sixty thousand dollars. It's the savin's o' McGuire, 'n' belongs

to Chip. I found the cave whar 'twas hid. I found McGuire 'n' the

half-breed, both dead 'n' floatin' in the lake clus by, an' 'twas

to keer fer this money I quit ye three weeks ago.

"If I never come back here,--an' I never shall 'thout I find

Chip,--keep it fer her. Sometime she may show up. If ever she does,

tell her Old Cy did all he could fer her."

CHAPTER XXXI

"Those who hev nothin' but a stiddy faith the Lord'll provide,

never git fat."--Old Cy Walker.

Life at Peaceful Valley and the home of Judson Walker fell into its usual

monotony after Chip's departure.

Each day Uncle Jud went about his chores and his crop-gathering and

watched the leaves grow scarlet, then brown, and finally go eddying up

and down the valley, or heap themselves into every nook and cranny for

final sleep.

Existence had become something like this to him, but he could no longer

anticipate a vernal budding forth as the leaves came, but only the sear

and autumn for himself, with the small and sadly neglected churchyard

at the Corners for its ending.

Snow came and piled itself into fantastic drifts. The stream's summer

chatter was hushed. The cows, chickens, and his horse, with wood-cutting,

became his sole care. Once a week he journeyed to the Corners for his

weekly paper and Mandy's errands, always hoping for a message from

Chip. Now and then one came, a little missive in angular chirography,

telling how she longed to return to them, which they read and re-read

by candlelight.

Somehow this strange wanderer, this unaccounted-for waif, had crept into

his life and love as a flower would, and "Pattycake," as he had named

her, with her appealing eyes and odd ways, was never out of his thoughts.

And so the winter dragged its slow, chill course. Spring finally unlocked

the brook once more, the apple and cherry blossoms came, the robins began

nest-building, and one day Uncle Jud returned from the corner with a

glad smile on his face.

"Pattycake's school's goin' to close in a couple o' weeks more,

'n' then she's comin' home," he announced, and Aunt Mandy, her face

beaming, made haste to wipe her "specs" and read the joyous tidings.

For a few days Uncle Jud acted as if he had forgotten something and knew

not where to look for it. He lingered about the house when he would

naturally be at work. He peered into one room and then another, in an

abstracted way, and finally Aunt Mandy caught him in the keeping room,

with one curtain raised,--a thing unheard of,--seated in one of the

haircloth chairs and looking around.

"Mandy," he said, as she entered, "do you know, I think them picturs

we've had hangin' here nigh on to forty year is homely 'nuff to stop

a horse, 'n' they make me feel like I'd been to a funeral. Thar's

that 'Death Bed o' Dan'l Webster,' an' 'Death o' Montcalm,'

'specially. I jest can't stand 'em no longer, an' 'The Father

o' his Country.' I'm gittin' tired o' that, 'n' the smirk he's

got on his face. I feel jest as though I'd like to throw a stun at

him this minute. You may feel sot on them picturs, but I'd like to

chuck the hull kit 'n' boodle into the cow shed. An' them winder

curtains," he continued, looking around, "things so blue they make me

shiver, an' this carpet with the figgers o' green and yaller birds,

it sorter stuns me.

"Now Pattycake's comin' purty soon. She must 'a' seen more cheerful

keepin' rooms'n ourn, 'n' I'm callatin' we'd best rip this

'un all up an' fix it new. Then thar's the front chamber--in fact,

both on 'em--with the yaller spindle beds 'n' blue curtains, an'

only a square of rag carpet front o' the dressers. Say, Mandy," he

continued, looking around once more, "how'd we ever happen to git so

many blue curtains?"

His discontent with their home now took shape in vigorous action, and

Aunt Mandy came to share it. Trip after trip to the Riggsville store was

made. Two new chamber sets and rolls of carpeting arrived at the station

six miles away, and came up the valley. A paper-hanger was engaged and

kept busy for ten days. The death-bed pictures were literally kicked into

the cow shed, and in three weeks four rooms had been so reconstructed

and fitted anew that no one would recognize them.

Meanwhile Uncle Jud had utterly neglected his "craps," while he worked

around the house. The wide lawn had been clipped close. A new picket

fence, painted white, replaced the leaning, zigzag one around the garden.

Weeds and brush disappeared, and only Aunt Mandy's protest saved the

picturesque brown house from a coat of paint.

And then "Pattycake" arrived.

Nearly a year before she had been brought here, a weary, bedraggled,

dusty, half-starved waif. Now Uncle Jud met her at the station, his face

shining; Aunt Mandy clasped her close to her portly person; and as Chip

looked around and saw what had been done in her honor and to make her

welcome, her eyes filled.

"I never thought anybody would care for me like this," she exclaimed,

and then glancing at Uncle Jud, her eyes alight, she threw her arms about

his neck and, for the first time, kissed him.

And never in all his life had he felt more amply paid for anything he

had done.

Then and there, Chip resolved to do something that now lay in her

power--to face shame and humbled pride and all the sacrifice it meant to

her in the end, and reunite these two long-separated brothers. But not

now, no, not yet.

Before her lay two golden joyous summer months. Aunt Abby was coming up

later. She could not face her own humiliation now. She must wait until

these happy days were past, then tell her wretched story, not sparing

herself one iota, and then, if she must, go her way, an outcast into the

world once more.

How utterly wrong she was in this conclusion, and how little she

understood the broad charity of Uncle Jud, need not be explained. She

was only a child as yet in all but stature. The one most bitter sneer of

malicious Hannah still rankled and poisoned her common sense. Its effect

upon Chip had been as usual on her nature and belief, and this waif

of the wilderness, this gnome child, must not be judged by ordinary

standards. Like reflections from grotesque mirrors, so had her ideas of

right and duty been distorted by eerie influences and weird surroundings.

There was first the unspeakable brutality of her father; then the

menial years at Tim's Place, with no more consideration than a horse

or pig received, her only education being the uncanny teachings of Old

Tomah. Under this baleful tuition, coupled with the ever present menace

and mystery of a vast wilderness, she passed from childhood into

womanhood, with the fixed belief that human kind were no better than

brutes; that the forest was peopled by a nether world of spites, the

shadowy forms of both man and beast; and worse than this, that all

thought and action here must be the selfish ones of personal gain and

personal protection. Like a dog forever expecting a blow, like any

dumb brute ever on guard against superior force, so had Chip grown to

maturity, a cringing, helpless, almost hopeless creature, and yet one

whose inborn impulses and desires revolted at her surroundings.

Once removed from these, however, and in a purer atmosphere, she was

like one born again. Her past impressions still remained, her queer

belief of present and future conditions was still a motive force, and

the cringing, blow-expecting nature was yet hers.

For this reason, and because this new world and these new people were

so unaccountable and quite beyond her ken in tender influence and

loving care, what they had done and for what purpose seemed all the

more impressive. But it was in no wise wasted; instead, it was like

God-given sunshine to a flower that has never known aught except the

chilling shadow of a dense forest.

And now ensued an almost pathetic play of interest, for Chip set herself

about the duty of giving instead of obtaining pleasure.

She became what she was at Tim's Place,--a menial, so far as they would

let her,--and from early morning until bedtime, some step, some duty,

some kindly care for her benefactors, was assumed by her. She worked and

weeded in the garden, she drove and milked the cows, she followed Uncle

Jud to the hay-field, insisting that she must help, until at last he

protested.

"I like ye 'round me all the time, girlie," he assured her, "for

ye're the best o' company, 'n' I'd rather see yer face'n' any

posy that ever grew. But you've got to quit workin' so much in the sun.

'Twill get yer hands all calloused 'n' face freckled, an' I won't

have it. I want ye to injie yourself, read books, pick flowers, 'n'

sit in the shade. I see ye've got into the habit o' workin', which

ain't a bad 'un, but thar ain't no need on't here."

One day a stranger happened up this valley, so seldom travelled that

its roadway ruts were obscured by grass. Chip noticed him that morning

where the brook curved almost to the garden, a fair-haired young man

with jaunty straw hat, delicate, shining rod, and new fish basket. He

was garbed in a spick-span brown linen suit. He saw her also, looking

over the garden wall, and raising his hat gracefully, strode on.

His appearance, so neat and dainty and so like pictures of fishermen in

books, his courteous manner of touching his hat, without a rude stare

or even a second glance at her, caught her attention, and she watched him

a few moments.

He did not look back until he had cast his line into a few eddies some

twenty rods away; and then he turned, looked at her, the house, barns,

garden, all as one picture, and then continued up the brook.

He was not seen again until almost twilight by her, and then he and Uncle

Jud entered the sitting room.

"This is Mr. Goodnow, Mandy," Uncle Jud explained, nodding to the

newcomer and glancing at Aunt Mandy and Chip. "He says he follered the

brook further up'n he figgered on. It's four miles to the Corners,

'n' he wants us to keep him over night. I 'lowed we could, if you was

willin'."

"I shall be most grateful if you kind ladies will permit my intrusion,"

the stranger added. "I have been so captivated by this delightful brook

that I quite forgot where I was or the distance to the village until I

saw that the sun was setting. If you can take care of me until morning,

any payment you will accept shall be yours."

"I guess we can 'commodate ye," responded Aunt Mandy, pleasantly. And

so this modern Don Juan found lodgement in the home of these people.

"I am an enthusiast on trout-catching," he explained, after all had

gathered on the vine-enclosed porch and he had presented Uncle Jud with

an excellent cigar. "About all I do summers is to hunt for brooks. I

came to the village below here yesterday, having heard of this stream,

and never before have I found one quite so attractive."

Then followed a more or less fictitious account of his own station

and occupation in life, all very plausible, entirely frank, and quite

convincing.

"I am unfortunate in one respect," he said, "in that I have no fixed

occupation. My father, now dead, was a prominent physician. I was

educated for the same profession and had just begun its practice when he

died. An uncle also left me a large bequest at about the same time. My

mother insisted that I give up practice, and now I am an enforced idler."

He was such an entirely new specimen of manhood, so charming of manner,

so smooth of speech, that Chip watched and listened while he talked

on and on, quite enthralled. She had seen similar gentlemen pass and

repass Tim's Place, not quite so dainty and suave, perhaps, but dressed

much the same. She had now and then noticed a pictured reproduction of

one in some magazine. Insensibly, she compared this Mr. Goodnow with

Ray, to the latter's discredit, and when the evening was ended and

she was alone in her room, this new arrival's delicately chiselled

face, smiling blue eyes, slightly curled mustache, and refined manners

followed her.

"He's a purty slick talker," Uncle Jud admitted to his wife later

on, "a sorter chinaware, pictur-book feller 'thout much harm in him.

I kinder felt sorry for him, so I 'lowed we'd keep him over night.

Guess he ain't much use in the world."

How little use and how much harm he was capable of may be gleaned from a

brief resume of this stranger's history.

He was, as he stated, without occupation and with plenty of money. He

also, as stated, loved trout brooks and wildwood life--not wildwood life

in its true sense, but the summer-day kind, where, clad as he was,

he could follow some meadow brook or sit in the shade and watch it

while indulging in day-dreams and smoking. He loved these things, but

he loved fair ladies--collectively--still more. He had stumbled upon

Peaceful Valley by accident, coming to it from a fashionable resort to

escape an intrigue with a foolish _grande dame_ and consequent irate

husband. Chip's face and form had caught his eyes as he strolled by that

day, and admission to the home of Uncle Jud and opportunity to meet,

and, if possible, impress this handsome country lass, had been a matter

of shrewd calculation with him. He had purposely remained up the brook

until nightfall. He watched for and intercepted Uncle Jud in the nick

of time, persuaded that confiding man that he was too tired to reach the

village, and with all the blandishments of speech at his command, had

obtained entry to this home.

But he failed to impress Chip as he had hoped. She was no fool, if she

had been reared at Tim's Place. A certain shiftiness in his eyes when he

looked at her, a covert, sideways glance, never firm but ever elusive,

was soon noted and awoke her suspicion. Then the glib story he had

told of himself was soon contradicted by him in a few minor details.

Like all liars, he lacked a perfect memory, and, talking freely, he

occasionally crossed his own tracks.

Unfortunately for him, he also showed more interest in her than in the

brook the next day, and the following one he capped the climax by asking

her to go fishing with him--an invitation which she promptly refused.

"I don't like that Mr. Goodnow," she asserted to Uncle Jud a little

later. "I think he's a deceitful man. He pesters me every chance he

can, and I wish he'd go away."

That was enough for Uncle Jud, and after supper he harnessed his horse

and politely but firmly requested Mr. Goodnow's company to the village.

CHAPTER XXXII

For many weeks now Chip had suffered from a troubled conscience, and,

like most of us, was unable to face its consequences and admit her sin.

Time and again she had planned how she could best evade it and yet bring

those two brothers together without first confessing. Old Cy must be

told, of course. She could explain her conduct to him. He would surely

forgive her, she thought, and then, maybe, find another home for her

somehow and somewhere. Oversensitive as she was, to now confess her

cowardly concealment and her deception of those who had loved and trusted

her, seemed horrible.

But events were stronger than her will, for one day in the last of

August, Uncle Jud returned from the village store, bringing dress

materials and startling information. "Cap'n Bemis is failin' purty

fast," he said, "so Aunt Abby writes, an' she ain't comin' up here.

It won't make no difference to you, girlie," he continued, turning to

Chip. "I've brought home stuff to rig ye out fer school. Miss Solon

the dressmaker's comin' to-morrer, 'n' we'll take keer o' ye in

good shape. We've made up our minds ye belong to us fer good, me

'n' Mandy," he added, smiling at Chip, "an' I shall go with ye

to Christmas Cove, if Cap'n Bemis ain't improvin', 'n' find ye a

boardin' place."

"I'm awful sorry to hear 'bout the Cap'n," interrupted Aunt Mandy,

as if the other matter and Chip's future were settled definitely;

"but if he drops off, Aunt Abby must come here fer good. I dunno but

it'll be a relief," she added, looking at Uncle Jud and sighing.

"'Twa'n't no love-match in the first place, 'n' Abby's mind's

always been sot on your brother Cyrus, 'n' she never quite gin up the

idee he was alive."

And now a sudden faintness came to Chip as the chasm in her own life was

thus opened. Only one instant she faltered, and then her defiant courage

rose supreme and she took the plunge.

"Oh, your brother Cyrus isn't dead, Uncle Jud," she exclaimed, "he's

alive and I know him. I've known it all summer and dare not tell

because I'm a miserable coward and couldn't own up that I lied to you.

My name isn't Raymond, it's McGuire; and my father was a murderer,

and I'm nobody and fit for nobody. I know you'll all despise me now

and I deserve it. I'm willing to go away, though," and the next

instant she was kneeling before Uncle Jud and sobbing.

It had all come in a brief torrent of pitiful confession which few would

be brave enough to make.

To Chip, seeing herself as she did, it meant loss of love, home, respect,

and all else she now valued, and that she must become a homeless wanderer

once more.

But Uncle Jud thought otherwise, for now he drew the sobbing girl into

his lap.

"Quit takin' on so, girlie," he said, choking back a lump; "why,

we'll all love ye ten times more fer all this, an' ez fer bein' a

nobody, ye're a blessed angel to us fer bringin' the news ye hev."

And then he kissed her, while Aunt Mandy wiped her eyes on her apron.

The shower, violent for a moment, was soon over; for as Chip raised her

wet eyes, a sunshiny smile illumined Uncle Jud's face.

"If Cyrus is alive," he said, "as ye callate, I'll thank God till I

set eyes on him, and then I think I'll lick him fer not huntin' me up

all these years."

"But mebbe he found Abby was married 'n' didn't want to," interposed

Aunt Mandy. "We mustn't judge him yet."

"No, I won't judge him," asserted Uncle Jud; "I'll jest cuff him,

good 'n' hard, an' let it go at that.

"Ez fer you, girlie, an' jest to set yer mind at rest, we found out

what your right name was and where ye run away from last fall, but never

let on to nobody. 'Twas your business and nobody else's, an' made no

difference in our feelin's, ez ye must see; an' now I'll tell ye how

I found out.

"I was down to the Corners one day arter ye went to Christmas Cove,

'n' a feller--nice-lookin' feller, too, with honest brown eyes--was

askin' if anybody had seen or heard o' a runaway girl by the name o'

McGuire. Said she'd run away from Greenvale--'That's 'bout a hundred

miles from here,' he said--an' he was huntin' for her. Nobody at

the Corners knew about ye 'n' I kept still, believin' ye had reason

fer not wantin' to be found out."

And now another tide--the thrill of love--surged in Chip's heart, and

her face became glorified.

And so the clouds rolled away. That night Chip wrote a brief but curious

letter, so odd, in fact, it must be quoted verbatim:--

[Illustration: "Quit takin' on so, girlie," he said.]

"Mr. Martin Frisbie,

"Please send word at once to Mr. Cyrus Walker that his brother

Judson, who lives in Riggsville, wants to see him. No one else

must be told of this, for it's a secret.

"One who Knows."

But Chip's secret was a most transparent one, for when this missive

reached Martin three days later, he recognized its angular penmanship

and similarity to the note Aunt Comfort still treasured, and knew that

Chip wrote it.

It startled him somewhat, however, for Old Cy's youthful history was

unknown to him, and suspecting that some mystery lay beneath this

information, he told no one, but started for Riggsville at once.

The tide of emotion that had upset the even tenor of Uncle Jud's home

life slowly ebbed away, and a keen sense of expectancy took its place.

Chip, after giving him her letter, explained that Old Cy was most likely

in the wilderness, and that the letter might not reach him for weeks.

And then one day a broad-shouldered, rather commanding, and somewhat

citified man drove up to the home of Uncle Jud.

"Does Mr. Judson Walker live here?" he inquired of Aunt Mandy, who met

him at the door.

Her admission of that fact was scarce uttered when there came a

rustling of skirts, a "Why, Mr. Frisbie!" and Chip was beside her,

at which Martin, collected man of the world that he was, felt an unusual

heart-throb of thankfulness.

A little later, when Uncle Jud had been summoned into their newly

furnished "keeping room," disclosures astonishing to all followed.

"We have been searching for you, Chip, far and near," Martin assured

them, "and Old Cy is still at it. He left us at the camp, almost a year

ago, came to Greenvale, found you had run away, and came back to tell

us. It upset us all so that we broke camp at once, taking Amzi with us,

and returned to Greenvale. Old Cy there bade us good-bye and started

to find you. Ray also began a search as well. I've advertised in dozens

of papers, have kept Levi on watch for you at Grindstone ever since, and

now I hope you will return with me to Greenvale."

"I thank you all, oh, so much," answered Chip, scared a little at this

proposal, "but I don't want to. I'm nobody there and never can be.

I'd be ashamed to face folks there any more."

"I guess she best stay with us," put in Uncle Jud, "fer we sorter

'dopted her, 'n' not meanin' no disrespect to you folks, I callate

she'll be more content here. I'd like ye to get word to Cyrus, though,

soon's possible. I hain't sot eyes on him fer forty years, 'n',"

his eyes twinkling, "I'm jest spilin' to pull his hair 'n' cuff

him."

"I will help out in that matter at once, and more than gladly,"

replied Martin, again looking at Chip and noting how improved she was;

"but I still think Miss Runaway had better return with me. We need you,

Chip," he continued earnestly, "and so does some else I can name,

more than you imagine, I fancy, and my wife will welcome you with open

arms, you may be sure. As for that foolish Hannah, she's the most

penitent person in Greenvale. There's another reason still," he

added, glancing around with a smile, "and no one is more glad of it

than we all are. It's a sixty-thousand-dollar reason--your heritage,

Miss Vera McGuire, for your father is dead, and that amount is now

in the Riverton Savings Bank awaiting you."

Martin had expected this news to be overpowering, and a "Good God!"

from Uncle Jud, and a gasping "Land sakes!" from Aunt Mandy, proved

that it was.

Chip's face, however, was a study. First she grew pale, then flashed

a scared glance from one to another of the three who watched her, and

then almost did her shame and hatred of this vile parent find expression.

"I'm glad he--no, I won't say so, for he was my father," she

exclaimed; "but I want Old Cy to have some of the money, and Uncle

Jud here, and you folks, all. I was a pauper long enough," and then,

true to her instinct of how to escape from trouble, she ran out of the

room.

"She's a curis gal," asserted Uncle Jud, looking after her as if

feeling that she needed explanation, "the most curis gal I ever saw.

But we can't let her go, money or no money, Mr. Frisbie. I found her

one night upon top o' Bangall Hill. She was so starved an' beat out

from trampin' she couldn't hardly crawl up on to the wagon, 'n'

yet she said she wouldn't be helped 'thout she could arn it. I think

she's like folks we read about, who starve ruther'n beg. But she kin

have all we've got some day, an' we jest can't let her go."

And Martin, realizing its futility, made no further protest.

Something of chagrin also came to him, for, broad-minded as he was,

he realized how partial neglect, the narrow religious prejudice of

Greenvale, and unwise notice of her childish ideas about spites and

Old Tomah's superstitions had all conspired to drive her away. She was

honest and self-respecting, "true blue," as Old Cy had said, grateful

as a fawning dog for all that had been done for her, and in spite of

her origin, a circumstance that carried no weight with Martin, she was

one, he believed, who would develop into splendid womanhood. That she

was well on her way toward that goal, her improved speech and devotion to

these new friends gave ample evidence.

And now Ray's position in this complex situation occurred to Martin;

for this young man's interest in Chip and almost heart-broken grief over

her disappearance had long since betrayed his attachment.

"I suppose you may have guessed that there was a love-affair mixed up

with this episode," he said to the two somewhat dazed people.

"I callated thar was, that fust night," Uncle Jud responded, his eyes

twinkling again, "an' told Mandy so. 'Twas that more'n anything

else kept us from quizzin' the gal. I knowed by her face she had heart

trouble, 'n' I've seen the cause on't."

"You have," exclaimed Martin, astonished in turn, "for Heaven's sake,

where?"

"Oh, down to the Corners, 'most a year ago, 'n' a likely boy he was,

too."

"And never told her?"

"No, why should I, thinkin' she'd run away from him. We didn't want

to spile her plans. We found out, though, her name was McGuire, but

never let on till she told us a spell ago." And then Uncle Jud told

the story of Ray's arrival in Riggsville in search of Chip.

"That fellow is my nephew, Raymond Stetson," rejoined Martin with

pride, "he also is an orphan, and I have adopted him. Chip has no cause

to be ashamed of his attachment."

"I don't callate she is," replied Uncle Jud. "'Tain't that that

jinerally makes a gal kick over the traces. Mebbe 'twas suthin some o'

you folks said." And then a new light came to Martin.

"Mr. Walker," he answered impressively, "in every village there is

always a meddlesome old maid who invariably says things she'd better

not, and ours is no exception. In this case it was a dependent of our

family who took a dislike to Chip, it seems, and her escapade was its

outcome."

"Wal, ye've got to hev charity for 'em," replied Uncle Jud with a

broad smile. "Never havin' suffered the joys 'n' sorrows o' love,

they look at it sorter criss-cross, an' mebbe this 'un did. Old maids

are a good deal like cider--nat'raly turn into vinegar. What wimmin need

more'n all the rest is bein' loved, 'n' if they don't get it, they

sour up in time an' ain't no comfort to themselves nor nobody else.

Then ag'in, not havin' no man nor no babies to look arter, they take

to coddlin' cats 'n' dogs 'n' parrots, which ain't nat'ral."

"I think," continued Uncle Jud, "now that we've turned another

furrow, you'd best stop a day or two with us, 'n' sorter git

'quainted. We'll be mighty glad to hev ye, me an' Mandy, an' then

ag'in thar's a lot o' good trout holes up the brook. We hev plenty

to eat, 'n' mebbe a few days here in Peaceful Valley'll sorter

reconcile ye to leavin' the gal with us." And nothing loath, Martin

accepted.

Aunt Mandy and Chip now bestirred themselves as never before. The

dressmaker was left to her own resources, Martin and Uncle Jud rigged

fish-poles and started for the brook. Chip, with pail in hand, hurried

away to the fields, and when teatime arrived, the big platter of crisp

fried trout, saucers filled with luscious blackberries, and ample

shortcake of the same with cream that poured in clots, assured Martin

that these people did indeed have plenty to eat.

"How did this come to be named Peaceful Valley?" he queried, when they

had all gathered around the table. "It's very appropriate."

"Wal," answered Uncle Jud, "we got it from a feller that come up

here paintin' picturs one summer, an'," chuckling, "'twas all we

got for a month's board, at that. He was a sort o' skimpy critter,

with long hair, kinder pale, and chawed tobacco stiddy. He 'lowed

his name was Grahame, that he was in the show business 'n' gittin'

backgrounds, as he called 'em, fer show picturs. He roved up 'n' down

the brook, puttin' rocks 'n' trees 'n' waterfalls on paper, allus

gittin' 'round reg'lar 'bout meal-time--must 'a' gained twenty

pounds while here. An' then one mornin' he was missin', 'n' so

was Aunt Mandy's gold thimble 'n' all her silver spoons. She'd sorter

took to him, too, he was that palaverin' in his way."

There now ensued a series a questions from Uncle Jud in regard to Old

Cy--how long Martin had known him, and all that pertained to his history.

It was gladly recited by Martin, together with all the strange happenings

in the wilderness, the finding of Chip, the half-breed's pursuit and

abduction of her, and much else that has been told.

It was almost midnight ere Martin was shown to the best front chamber,

and even then he lay awake an hour, listening to the steady prattle of a

near-by brook and thinking of all that had happened.

* * * * *

A tone of regret crept into his voice, however, when, after thanking

Uncle Jud and Aunt Mandy, and bidding them good-bye, he addressed Chip.

"I wish I could take you back with me," he said, "your return would

be such a blessing to Aunt Comfort and my wife. You may not believe it,

but you are dear to them both. I must insist that you at least pay us a

visit soon. Here is your bank book," he added, presenting it. "You

are rich now, or at least need never want, for which we are all grateful.

And what about Ray?" he added, pausing to watch her. "What shall I say

to him? Shall I tell him to come and see you?"

Chip shook her head firmly. "No, no," she answered, "please don't

do that. Some day I may feel different, but not now."

CHAPTER XXXIII

Sad news arrived in Peaceful Valley a week later, for Captain Bemis had

passed on, Aunt Abby was in lonely sorrow, and wrote for Chip to come

at once.

Her fate was now linked with these people. Aunt Abby had been kind and

helpful, and Chip, more than glad to return a little of the obligation,

hurried to Christmas Cove.

It was a solemn and silent house she now entered. Aunt Abby, despite

the fact that it was not a love-match, mourned her departed companion.

The mill's pertinent silence added gloom, and Chip's smiling face and

affectionate interest was more than welcome to Aunt Abby.

And now that concealment was no longer needed, Chip hastened to tell her

story in full.

How utterly Aunt Abby was astonished, how breathlessly she listened

to Chip's recital, and how, when the climax came and Chip assured her

that good Old Cy Walker was still alive, Aunt Abby collapsed entirely,

sobbing and thanking God all at once, is but a sidelight on this tale.

"I couldn't tell you before," Chip assured her, while her own tears

still flowed. "I was so ashamed and guilty all in one, I couldn't

bear to. I never did so mean a thing in all my life, and never will

again. But when Uncle Jud told me what you didn't, and how much he

cared for me, and how you once cared for Uncle Cy, I went all to pieces

and told the whole story and sent word to Uncle Cy that day. I feel so

guilty now, and so mean, I don't see how you can forgive me."

But Aunt Abby's forgiveness was not slow in coming. The past ten days of

sorrow had left her heart very tender. In spite of being "book-larned,"

she was very humane. Chip's sad life and misfortunes appealed to

her, as they had to Uncle Jud, and true Christian woman that she was, her

heart opened to Chip.

"I hope we shall never be parted while I live," she said, as the tears

came again. "I have no children, and no one to live for but my sister.

I am so wonted to Christmas Cove, I could not feel at home anywhere else.

If Uncle Jud will consent, I will adopt you legally, and when I am laid

away, all I have shall be yours."

And so Chip McGuire, waif of the wilderness, child of an outlaw, once

sold to a human brute, yet fighting her way upward and onward to a better

life, despite every drawback, now found a home and mother.

No light of education had illumined her pathway, no Christian teaching

and no home example, only the inborn and God-given impulse of purity,

self-respect, and gratitude; and yet, like a bud forcing its way up out

of a muck heap and into the sunshine, so Chip had emerged to win respect

and love.

But all her history is not told yet. She still lacked even a common

education. There was still an old man seeking to find her, who was yet

wandering afar. A homeless, almost friendless old man was he, whose

life had gone amiss, and whose sole ambition was to do for her and

find content in her happiness. A wanderer and recluse for many years, he

was still more so now, and out of place as well among the busy haunts

of men. More than that, he was an object of curiosity to all grown people

and the jest of the young, as he tramped up and down the land in search

of Chip.

And what a pitiful quest it was,--this asking the same question thousands

of times, this lingering in towns to watch mill operatives file out,

this peering into stores and marts, to go on again, and repeat it for

months and months.

There was still another link in this chain,--a boy, so far as experience

goes, who was only deterred from unwise haste by a cool-headed man.

"You had better not go to Chip now," Martin said to him on his

return from Peaceful Valley. "She is an odd child of nature, and you

won't lose by waiting. My advice to you is to forget her for the

present, find some profitable occupation, and then, when you have made a

little advancement in life, go and woo her if you can. To try it now

is foolish."

It was cold comfort for Ray.

One of Chip's first acts of emancipation was to write to Aunt Comfort

and Angie, assuring both of her love and best wishes, and thanking them

for all they had done. Both letters were cramped in chirography but

correct in spelling, and in Angie's was a note for Martin, asking that

he draw one hundred dollars of her money and send it to her, and as

much more to pay some one to follow Old Cy. The latter request Martin

ignored, however, for he had already set the machinery of newspaperdom at

work, and an advertisement for information of that wanderer was flying

far and wide.

Of the money sent her, Chip made odd and quite characteristic uses, only

one of which needs mention,--the purchase of a banjo. Had Ray known

this, and that the tender memory it invoked was the reason for this

investment, he would have had less cause for grief. But Ray did not,

which was all the better for him.

And now, while she is in good company at Christmas Cove, with Mr. Bell,

syntax, decimal fractions, the planetary system, and divisions of the

earth six hours of each school day, or with Aunt Abby sewing, or picking

at the banjo, or attending church, we must leave Chip and follow Old Cy.

With a hunter's instinct he had calculated that Chip would head for the

place of her birth, and then, if possible, send word to either himself

or the Indian. That she had made way with herself he did not consider

probable. She was not of that fibre, he felt positive; but instead,

would make her own way across country, working, if need be, to obtain

food and shelter until she at last reached the one spot nearest her

heart,--her mother's grave.

Believing this of her, and judging rightly, he left Greenvale, and, as

it happened, twice crossed and once followed the very route she had

taken for miles. That he failed to hear of her from the many he asked

was solely due to accident, added to her own caution in avoiding all

observant eyes.

And what an almost hopeless and interminable tramp he took! Back and

forth across the section of country she was likely to follow for weeks

and weeks, halting a day in every village and two or three in each city,

asking the same question over and over again, until his indomitable

courage and almost deathless faith slowly ebbed away.

Autumn came, the leaves grew scarlet and brown, snow followed, and winter

locked all streams, and still Old Cy journeyed on. Spring and sunshine

once more warmed the earth into life, the fields grew green, and yet he

paused not.

With June and the real beginning of summer, however, came a new

inspiration, which was to go at once by rail and stage to Chip's native

town and learn if, perchance, she, or any news of her, had reached this

village.

Another thought also came with this,--that Martin might soon again visit

the woods and perhaps he could intercept him.

A little satisfaction was obtained by this advance move, for when this

village was reached, Levi was found waiting.

"I've been watchin' for the gal over eight months now, under pay from

Mr. Frisbie," he assured Old Cy when they met. "I also sent word to Old

Tomah late last fall, 'n' he came out o' the woods 'n' stayed here

two months, but nothin's been heard o' poor Chip by any one, 'n' I

doubt ever will be."

"Mebbe not yet," answered Old Cy, "but thar will be some day, an'

here, too. She hadn't a cent when she left Greenvale--only grit,

'n' it's a long ways here fer a gal what's got to arn her vittles

while she's trampin'. It may be one year, it may be two, but some

day Chip'll show up here, if she lives to do it. I callate I'd best

wait here a few weeks tho', an' then, if nothin' turns up, I'll

start ag'in."

Nothing did, however; but during his stay, Old Cy learned that Chip's

entire history, from the night she left Tim's Place until she ran away

from Greenvale, was known at this village. This fact was of no value

whatever, except to prove the universal interest all humanity has in

the fate and fortune of one another.

"I never told what happened in the woods," Levi responded when Old

Cy questioned him, "an' didn't need to, for it got here 'fore I

did. I jest 'lowed it was true, 'n' that I was hired to wait and watch

here for Chip. It's curis, too, how everybody here feels 'bout it.

They're a poorish sort here, families o' lumbermen, men that work in

the sawmills, some farmin', an' all findin' it hard work to git a

livin'. An' yet they're so interested in Chip 'n' so sorry for

her, if she shows up now she'd be carried 'round the village like

some queen 'ud be, with everybody follerin'. Thar's 'nother curis

thing happened since I've been here that I'd never believed o'

these people neither. I told them, of course, who I was, 'n' what I

was here for, 'n' who was payin' me, when I come, an' then as

time kinder went slow, I began huntin' some 'round here. Wal, thar's a

little graveyard up back o' the village 'n' all growed up to weeds

'n' bushes, an' one day last fall I happened to be lookin' it

over 'n' somebody come 'long. It was a man that keeps store here,

an' I asked him if 'twas here Chip's mother was buried. He said

'twas, an' pointed out the spot 'way up in one corner, 'thout any

stone, 'n' the mound most hid in a tangle. I didn't say nothin'--jest

looked, an' went on, 'n' that was all. Wal, the curis part is last

spring they sot a couple o' men to work cleanin' up the graveyard

o' bushes an' laid out walks 'n' built a new fence 'round it. That

one unmarked grave got the most attention o' all, for they turfed it

over nice and built a little fence 'round it. I kinder callated how

'n' why it all come 'bout, 'n' feelin' I oughter do suthin, I

had a little stun sot up with Chip's mother's name on it."

But time also went "kinder slow" for Old Cy, and as the date for

Martin's probable coming had now passed, he finally yielded to Levi's

suggestion and the call of the wilderness as well, and the two started

for Martin's camp.

It was almost like a pilgrimage to one's boyhood home; for while scarce

a year had elapsed since Old Cy and Martin's party left it, Nature,

always seeking to hide human handiwork, had been busy, and the garden

was a tangle of weeds. Amzi's old cabin was almost hid by bushes, the

walks were choked with them, and a colony of squirrels frisked about,

and now, alarmed at human presence, added a touch of pathos.

One act of vandalism was in evidence, for some wandering trappers had

apparently used the larger cabin the previous season. Its floor was

littered with all manner of debris, the bones of a deer mouldered in the

woodshed, and a family of porcupines had also found the premises

available. The impression conveyed by the entire spot and its

surroundings made even Levi gloomy, while Old Cy scarce spoke the entire

first day there, except to exclaim at "varmints" who would break

locks, use the cabin for months, and then leave a litter of garbage to

draw vermin.

"It's curis how near to hogs 'n' hyenas a few humans are," he

said as he looked around and saw how these vandals had behaved. "They

wa'n't satisfied with burglin' the cabin, turnin' it into a pig-pen,

stealin' all they could carry off, but they was so durned lazy, they

smashed up the furniture to burn."

For a few days only these two fine old backwoodsmen tarried here, and

then Old Cy proposed departure.

"I can't take no comfort here, nohow," he said, "for the premises

seem ha'nted. Whichever way I turn I 'spect to meet Amzi with his moon

eyes, or see Chip watchin' me, or Angie steppin' out o' the cabin.

If I stayed here long, I'd see Chip's spites crawlin' out o' the

bushes soon ez it got dusky. I'm used to the woods, but this spot seems

like a graveyard.

"I never done no prayin'," he added sadly. "I don't b'lieve in't.

But if I could set eyes on Chip this minit, I'd go right down on my

knees 'n' say, 'Thank God for this blessin'.' I'm 'fraid I never

will, though."

The next morning these two friends left this abode of unseen forms,

more disconsolate than ever. They halted at Tim's Place long enough

to learn that no tidings of McGuire or the half-breed had even reached

that filthy station, and then returned to the settlement once more. Here

Old Cy waited until the summer waned, vainly hoping each day would at

least bring some word from Martin or Chip, and then bade Levi good-bye,

and departed.

He had been gone a week, a wandering tramp once more, when Ray appeared,

bearing the glad news that Chip had been found. And also another and a

more astounding fact.

But Old Cy was not there.

CHAPTER XXXIV

Life, always colorless at Christmas Cove, except in midsummer, now

became changed for Aunt Abby. For all the years since her one girlish

romance had ended, she had been a patient helpmate to a man she merely

respected. Religion had been her chief solace. The annual visit to her

sister's gave the only relief to this motionless life, monotonous as

the tides sweeping in and out of the cove; but now a counter-current

slowly flowed into it.

Chip, of course, with her winsome eyes and grateful ways, was its

mainspring, and so checkered had been her career and so humiliating all

her past experiences, that now, escaped from dependence and feeling

herself a valued companion, she tasted a new and joyous life. So true

was this, that hard lessons at school, the regularity of church-going,

and the unvarying tenor of it all seemed less by comparison.

Another undercurrent, aside from Chip's devotion, also swept into Aunt

Abby's feelings,--the strange emotions following the knowledge that

her former lover was still alive. For many years she had waited and hoped

for this sailor boy's return; then her heart had grown silent, as hope

slowly ebbed, and then, almost forgetfulness--but not quite, however,

for the long, lily-dotted mill-pond just above had now and then been

visited by them. A certain curiously grown oak which was secluded near

its upper end was once a trysting-place, and even the old mill with its

plashing wheel held memories.

And now after forty years, during which she had become gray-haired and

slightly wrinkled, all these memories returned like ghosts of long ago.

No word or hint of them fell from her lips, not even to Chip, who was

now nearest to her; and yet had that girl been a mind-reader, she would

have seen that Aunt Abby's persistent interest in all she had to tell

about Old Cy meant something. Where he was now, how soon he would learn

that his brother was still alive after all these years, was the one

most pertinent subject oft discussed.

How Chip felt toward him, not alone for the heritage he had secured

for her, but for other and more valued heart interests, need not be

specified. He had seemed almost a father to her at the lake. He was

the first of her new-found friends whose feelings had warmed toward her,

and Chip was now mature enough to value these blessings at their true

worth.

A certain mutual expectancy now entered the lives of Chip and Aunt Abby.

Nothing could be done, however. Old Cy had gone out into the wide, wide

world, as it were, searching for the little girl he loved. No manner

of reaching him seemed possible; and yet, some day, he must learn what

would bring him to them as fast as steam could fetch him.

"I know that he loved me as his own child there at the lake," Chip said

once in an exultant tone. "His going after me proves it; and once he

hears where I am, he will hurry here, I know."

Whether Aunt Abby's heart responded to that wish or not, she never

disclosed.