But the days, weeks, and months swept by, and Old Cy came not. Neither

did any message come to Chip from Greenvale. At first, rebelling at

Ray's treatment of her, Chip felt that she never wanted to see him

again. She had been so tender and loving toward him at the lake, had

striven so hard to learn and to be more like him, had waited and

watched, counting the days until his return, only to be told what she

could not forget and to find him so neglectful, so cool to her, when

her girlish heart was so full of love, that her feelings had changed

almost in one instant, and pride had made her bitter.

Hannah had told an unpleasant truth, as Chip knew well enough; but truth

and confiding love mixed illy, and Ray's conduct, leaving her as he did

with scarce a word or promise, was an episode that had chilled and almost

killed Chip's budding affection. As is always the case, such a feeling

fades and flares like all others. There would now be a brief space when

Chip hoped and longed for Ray's coming, and then days when no thought of

him came.

It was perhaps fortunate for him that Christmas Cove contained no serious

admirer of Chip the while, else his cause and all memory of him would

have been swept away. But that quaint village was peopled chiefly by old

folk, those of the male persuasion being quite young, with a few girls

of Chip's age. Few young men remained there to make their way, and so no

added interest came to vary Chip's life.

The coming of summer, however, brought the annual influx of city boarders

once more. First came elderly ladies, more anxious about suitable rooms

and food than aught else, and then came the younger ones, whose gowns

and their display appeared the only motive for existence. A few young

men followed in their wake. Now and then a small yacht anchored in the

mouth of the cove. The long wharf became a rendezvous for promenaders,

tennis courts were established, and gay costumes, bright parasols, and

astounding hats were in evidence.

It was all a new and fascinating panorama for Chip. Never before had she

seen such butterflies of fashion, who glanced at her and her more modest

raiment almost with scorn, and scarce conscious of them, she looked on

with awe and admiration.

The old mill, the quaint house where she dwelt, and especially the

long pond, now sprinkled thickly with lilies, became a Mecca for these

newcomers, and not a pleasant day passed but from two to a dozen of

them came trooping about and around it. They peered into the mill,

exclaimed over the great dripping wheel, and almost shouted at the sight

of the white blossoms on the pond.

One day a bevy of laughing and chattering girls with one gallant in

white flannels approached the mill while Chip in calico was kneeling

beside a flower-bed. She looked up at once and saw her erstwhile admirer

at Peaceful Valley, Mr. Goodnow. One instant only their eyes met, his

to turn quickly away, and then Chip, coloring at the slight, rose and

entered the house. Once safe in this asylum, womanlike, she hastened

to peep out at the arrivals. They halted for only a glance about and

then, their protector (?) still in the lead, vanished behind the mill.

The next afternoon, just as Chip was returning from the village store,

she met Mr. Goodnow again, this time alone.

With a bow and smile he raised his hat and halted.

"Why, Miss Raymond," he exclaimed eagerly, "I am so glad to meet you

again. Are you visiting here, and when did you leave Peaceful Valley?"

"I am living here now," returned Chip, coolly, continuing on her way,

"where you saw me yesterday."

"Oh, yes," he answered, not the least abashed, "and you must pardon

me for not recognizing you then. It's been a year, you know, since I

saw you, and you have changed so in that time."

"Of course," responded Chip, her eyes snapping, "you couldn't

remember me so long. Why don't you tell the truth and say you didn't

dare know me before those ladies?"

"Why, Miss Raymond, you wrong me; but I admire your frankness--it is

so unusual among your charming sex!"

"Then you did know me," she returned sarcastically, "I knew well

enough, and if they were with you now, you wouldn't know me. I'm no

fool, if I do wear calico."

It was blunt. It was truthful. It was Chip all over; but this polished

rake never winced.

"I never dispute a lady," he answered suavely; "it doesn't pay.

Besides, I have found they all prefer sweet lies instead of truth. And

now I will admit you looked so charming as you raised your face from

among the flowers that I was dazed and didn't think to bow."

"You weren't so dazed but that you managed to get away in a hurry."

"Why, of course, I was piloting my friends up to the lily pond," he

returned, still unruffled, "and much as I desired, I couldn't pause to

visit with you."

They had now reached Chip's home. She halted at the gate, turned, and

looked at him.

"I hope we may be friends, now that you have scolded me enough," he

added. "I had a delightful week with you last summer. I've lived it

over many times. May I not call here to-morrow, and you and I will gather

some of the lilies?"

A droll smile crept over Chip's face at this.

"Yes, if you will bring your lady friends also," she answered. And

with a "Thank you," and raising his hat once more, this smooth-spoken

fellow, impervious to sarcasm, turned away.

"Who was the young man?" Aunt Abby queried, when Chip entered the house.

"It's a Mr. Goodnow, who spent a week with Uncle Jud," she answered,

smiling. "He came by here yesterday with three ladies and was close to

me when I was working in my posy bed. He made out he didn't remember

me then, when I met him this afternoon. I guess I was saucy to him. I

meant to be. He wouldn't take it, and walked home with me."

Aunt Abby looked surprised.

"I hope you weren't really saucy," she answered, "that wouldn't have

been becoming."

Mr. Goodnow appeared next day, not at all disturbed, and Chip, a little

more gracious, consented to gather lilies with him. The leaky punt

that had served for that purpose many years was bailed out. He manned

the oars. Chip bared one rounded arm, and, thus equipped, two really

enjoyable hours were passed.

As Uncle Jud had said, he was a "slick talker." Truth was not

considered by him; instead, subtile flatteries were his stock in

trade, and Chip, for the first time in her life, felt their insidious

influence. She was in no wise deceived. Her woman's wit and good sense

detected the sham, and caring not one whit for him, she responded as

saucily as she chose. It was not, perhaps, quite ladylike, but Chip

was not as yet a polished lady; instead, she was a decidedly blunt-spoken

girl who enjoyed exasperating this fashionable Lothario.

And never before had he met her like or one so fearless of speech.

"You are the sauciest girl I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,"

he said, as they drew up to the landing and began sorting the lilies. "I

didn't notice it so much last summer; and yet you are no less charming,

mainly because you are so frank. Most ladies whom I know are not so.

They are arrant hypocrites and not one assertion in ten can be taken

at its face value."

"You seem to have been an apt scholar," Chip responded, smiling. "If

you like my blunt speech, as you say, why don't you imitate it and be

truthful for once in your life?"

"I dare not. No man ever yet won a woman's favor by plain speech."

"And so you want my favor. What for? I am not of your sort. I do not

spend my life playing golf and tennis and wearing fine clothes."

"But you ought to. You have the face and form required, and once you

got into the swim of society, you would become a leader."

Chip greeted this with a laugh. "Do you plaster it on as thick as that

with every one," she queried, "and will they stand it?"

"Why, yes," he chuckled, "and almost beg for more. My ladies thrive on

flattery, and unless a man doles it out to them, they think him stupid."

When he had helped her out of the boat, holding and pressing her hand

unduly long she thought, he gathered up the lilies and, with a graceful

bow and "Sweets to the sweet," offered them to her.

"I don't want them," she answered bluntly. "Take them to your arrant

hypocrites and tell them a girl you couldn't fool sent 'em." And

nonplussed a little at this speech, but still smiling, he followed Chip

to the house. At the gate he halted and their eyes met.

"I've had a most charming morning, for which I thank you," he said.

And drawing two of the largest blooms from the bunch of lilies, he laid

the rest on the gate-post. "You will have to take them," he added.

"And now I have something else to propose. I own a small yacht. It is

anchored down near the wharf. How would you like a sail to-morrow? I

shall be highly pleased to have you for my guest. Will you go?"

But Chip was not caught so easily.

"I'll go if you will ask Aunt Abby also," she answered, "not

otherwise."

"Why, of course," he responded graciously, "that is understood."

And still unruffled by this parting evidence of distrust, he bowed

himself away.

CHAPTER XXXV

"A girl with a new ring allus hez trouble with her hair."

--Old Cy Walker.

_As_ might be expected, Chip gave Aunt Abby a full recital of her

morning's episode as soon as she entered the house, and with it her

comments upon this smooth-spoken young man.

"He reeled off flattery by the yard," she said, "and no matter how I

took it, or how sharply I set him back, he kept at it. The way he piled

it on was almost funny, just as though he thought I believed it. Of

course I didn't, not a word, and what's more I wouldn't trust him

farther than I could see him. He's got shifty eyes, and Cy once told

me never to believe a man with such eyes. He wants me to go sailing

with him to-morrow, and I said I would go if you were asked. I knew you

wouldn't go, however."

"Of course not," answered Aunt Abby, severely, "and his asking you in

such a way was almost an insult. If he had meant well, he would have

said he was taking other friends out and would have asked us both to

join them. I should not have consented to that even, however. These

summer people are not our sort, and to accept such favors from them is to

put ourselves in a fair way of being laughed at. I would advise, also,

that you have no more to say to this young man. It will not reflect

credit upon you if you do."

That afternoon, while Chip practised upon her banjo, it being vacation

time, Aunt Abby called upon several neighbors with news-gathering intent.

She succeeded to the fullest, and that evening related it to Chip.

"This Mr. Goodnow has been here about two weeks," she said, "and is

boarding at Captain Perkins's. He came in a small steam yacht he claims

he owns, and has been going about with three ladies who are stopping at

the Mix House. Two of them are sisters, the Misses Wilson, and a Mrs.

Simpson, a widow. He seems the most devoted to the widow. They have been

out driving quite often, and once or twice she has been sailing with

him alone. It's all right, of course, only she being a good deal older

than he is, makes it seem curious. When he calls here to-morrow, as I

suppose he will, I'd better see him."

He called quite early the next morning, as may be guessed, and a more

picture-book yachtsman Aunt Abby never set eyes upon. His white duck

shoes, trousers, and cap, white flannel coat, dark blue silk shirt,

jaunty sailor tie and russet belt, all completed an attire so spick and

span that it seemed that he must have just emerged from a tailor shop.

But Aunt Abby was not awed overmuch. She had seen his like before, and

met him at her door with serene self-possession.

"I am Mr. Goodnow," he explained with easy assurance, "and Miss

Raymond has kindly consented to accept a few hours' enjoyment in my

yacht if you will also honor me." And he bowed again.

"We thank you very much, sir," Aunt Abby responded stiffly, "but I

must decline for us both. We should hardly care to accept hospitalities

which we could not return."

"I regret it very much," he answered in a hurt tone, "and assure you

I am the one to feel obligated." And then, as Aunt Abby drew back, and

the door began to close very slowly, he bowed and retreated in good order.

But he was not to be thus checkmated, and from now on he began to watch

for chances to intercept and accost Chip.

It was, and always had been, a part of her nature to be out of doors as

much as possible, and since the close of school she was out more than

ever. Somewhat akin to Old Cy in love of Nature, the fields, woods, and

streams had always attracted her, and at Christmas Cove the sea added a

new charm to which she yielded nearly every pleasant day. And her steps

led her far and wide.

Down to the seldom-used wharf to watch the tide ebb and flow between its

mussel-coated piles, over the broad-rippled sands of the cove when the

tide left them bare, around to the long, rocky barrier beyond the cove

where the sea waves dashed, were her favorite strolls.

The next afternoon she strayed to where the ocean spray was leaping. She

had scarce reached her favorite lookout spot, a shaded cliff, when she

saw Goodnow approaching.

Her first impulse was to return home at once, the next to remain.

She did not fear him, he seemed such an effeminate, foppish sort of man,

that lithe and strong as she was, she felt she could outrun him, or, if

need be, throw him into the sea. And so she waited, cool and indifferent.

Although conscious that he was nearing her, she never turned her head

until he was beside her. Then she looked up.

"I beg your pardon," he said, raising his hat, "but may I share this

cliff with you?" And he seated himself near.

"It isn't mine," answered Chip, rather ungraciously, "so there's no

need to ask."

"But every lady has a right to decline a gentleman's company wherever

she is," he responded in his usual suave tone. "I saw you coming here,

and I'll admit I was bold enough to follow."

"And what for?" she answered, in her blunt way, "I never invited you."

"No, you didn't, and I never expect you will. But you are such a saucy,

fascinating little wood-nymph that I couldn't help it. I am sorry,

though, that you and your worthy aunt refused my yacht yesterday. I

wanted an opportunity to get better acquainted with her and yourself as

well, and thought that a good way.

"Do you love the ocean," he continued, as Chip made no response, "and

is this village your real home, or do you reside at Peaceful Valley?"

"I live here now," returned Chip, resolving to be brief in all her

answers and hoping he would betake himself away.

She did not like him, nor his smooth, polished speech. She felt that

it was all affected, and that at heart he meant no good toward her.

Then his failure to recognize her when with his lady friends still

rankled. She knew well enough that he dared not admit acquaintance

with a calico-clad country girl at that moment. And what the gossips of

Christmas Cove insinuated about him and this widow awoke her contempt.

Totally unused to the ways of fashionable society as she was, for him to

play court to a widow evidently ten or fifteen years his senior seemed

unnatural.

His almost nauseating and persistent flattery of herself was equally

objectionable. All this flashed over her now while he was talking.

"You must find it lonesome here," he said, in response to her

admission; "but perhaps you have a beau, a sweetheart, somewhere, whom

you care for."

Chip colored slightly, but made no answer.

"I'm sure you haven't here," he went on, "for I've not seen an

eligible fellow native to this village since I came." He paused a

moment, awaiting an admission, and then continued: "How do you pass

the time, anyway, and isn't life here monotonous? Don't you long for

some excitement, some fun, some color to it all? I've watched these

villagers now for three weeks and their lives seem so prosy, so dead

slow, it is painful. They get up, eat, chase the cows and chickens, hoe

in the gardens, mow hay, and every blessed woman wears the same calico

gown six days in the week. Sundays they all spruce up, go to meeting,

and the next week repeat the programme. Isn't it so?"

"I presume it is," answered Chip, with rising ire; "but if folks here

weren't satisfied, they could move away, couldn't they? And if it's

all so dull, what did you come here for? Nobody asked you, did they?"

"No," he responded, laughing, "no one did, and no one will miss me

when I go--not even you. The only redeeming feature is that they all seem

willing to take my money."

"Would you stay if they weren't," she returned, still more hotly,

"would you sponge on us folks and sneer at us as well?"

"Keep cool, my dear girl," he answered unruffled, "keep cool, and

let your lovely hair grow. I'm not sneering at you or any one. I am

merely stating facts. To us who live in the whirl of city life, a few

weeks here is a delightful change, and we are glad to pay well for it. I

am only speaking of how it must seem to live this way all the time."

He paused a moment, watching Chip's face turned half away, and then

continued persuasively: "I am sorry you are so ready to believe ill

of me or to think I am sneering at all things. In that you have changed

very much since last summer. Then you seemed to enjoy talking with me;

now you blaze up into wrath at my pleasantry. I am very sorry you feel

as you do. I'd like to be better friends with you if possible, otherwise

I wouldn't have risked the rebuff I received from your excellent aunt

yesterday. I'd like very much to call on you, and nothing would give

me greater pleasure than to entertain you and your aunt on my boat. I

am an idle fellow, I'll admit, with nothing to do but spend my time

and money, but that is my misfortune, and you ought to have pity on me."

And so this smooth-tongued, persuasive talker ran on and on while Chip,

fascinated, in spite of her dislike of him, listened.

More than that, he grew eloquent and even pathetic at times in describing

his hopes and ambitions in life. He even asserted that he longed to

live differently and to become a useful man, instead of an idle one. It

was all hypocrisy, of course, but Chip was scarce able to detect it, and

lulled by his specious, pleading voice, she admitted that she had no

real reason for distrusting or disliking him. Also, that she would

enjoy a sail on his boat, and would try to persuade her aunt to accept

another invitation.

This especially was what he most wanted, for shrewd schemer that he was,

he knew that if he could ingratiate himself with this guardian aunt,

permission to call must follow, and with that, some opportunity to make

a conquest of this simple country girl.

Sated as he was with the society of more polished and therefore

artificial womanhood, _blase_ to all the purities of life and refined

society, a roue and rake conversant with all vice, this fearless,

wholesome, yet unsophisticated girl who seemed like a breath from the

pine woods, attracted him as no other could.

And now he had her almost spellbound on this lonely shore, with the sea

murmuring at their feet and the cool winds whispering in the pine trees

shading them.

It was Don Juan and Haidee over again, only this Juan was a more selfish

and heartless one, calculating on the ruin of this wood-born flower

without thought of consequences.

He made one mistake, however, after he had lulled her into almost

believing him to be both honest and worthy,--he sneered at religion.

"All that people go to church for is to see and be seen, ladies

especially," he said. "They live to dress and show off their new

gowns and hats, and were it not for the chance church-going gives

them, not one parson in a hundred would have a corporal's guard for

audience. As for the preaching, not one in ten understands a word of

it, and most of those who understand fail to believe it. I don't, I am

sure. I consider a minister is a man who talks to earn his money. A

few old tabbies, of course, are sincere and believe in prayer and all

that sort of foolishness, but the rest only make believe they do.

There may be a God and maybe there isn't--I don't know. I doubt it,

however. As for the hereafter, that is all moonshine. When we go,

that is the end of us."

"And so you don't believe in spirits and a future life," answered

Chip, with sudden defiance. "Well, I do, and I know that people have

souls that live again, for I've seen them, hundreds of times. As for all

church-going people being hypocrites, that's a lie, and I know better.

The best woman I ever knew believed in praying, and so did my mother,

and I won't hear them called such a name."

It was Chip, blazing up again, in defence of her own opinions, and this

smooth-spoken fellow saw his mistake on the instant.

"Oh, well, you may be right," he admitted at once. "I wasn't

speaking of all womankind--only the fashionable ones whom I know. As

for soul life, I want to believe as you do, of course, and wish you

would convince me that it is true." And so peace was restored, and

once more the lullaby of his wooing talk began.

For two hours he spun to Chip the web of his blandishments, and then the

sun warned her, and she rose to go.

"It would be delightful to escort you home," he said, "but I fear I'd

better not. Your aunt might see us returning, and scold you. Now if you

will meet me here again to-morrow afternoon, and try to convince me that

there is a future life, I shall be most happy. Will you?"

But Chip was alert.

"No, I don't think I shall," she responded bluntly; "I am not running

after you--not a step. As for what you believe or don't believe, that

isn't my lookout," and with an almost uncivil "Good day, sir," she

left him.

The farther away she got from this snakelike charmer, the more an

intuitive belief in his real intentions possessed her. She was unskilled

in the fine art of conversation, had only the inborn purity of her

thoughts to protect her; and yet she half read this specious flatterer,

and felt, rather than realized, his baseness.

A change in her own convictions that now served as a mantle of protection

against his persuasions had come to her during these dreamy hours by the

sea. Accepting at first Old Tomah's superstitions, she had been led to

contemplate the great question of future life and the existence of

God. Aunt Comfort's unselfish character, combined with perfect faith

in the Supreme Power, had had its influence. Angie's kindness and that

first prayer Chip had heard in the tent were not lost. Aunt Abby's

consistent belief and devotion to duty also had had its effect; and all

these pertinent examples, combined with the impress of the vast ocean,

the solitude of this lonely shore, and the echo of its ceaseless billows,

had awakened true veneration in Chip's heart, and convinced her that

some Unseen Power moved all human impulse and controlled all human

destiny.

CHAPTER XXXVI

After Chip had run away from Greenvale, concealment of her name and

all else had forced itself upon her. It was not natural for her to

deceive. She had kept it up for one unhappy year only under inward

protest, which ended in abject confession and tears. Now recalling that

unpleasant episode, she made haste to confess her long conversation with

this fluent fellow.

"Mr. Goodnow followed me over to the point this afternoon," she

explained that evening to Aunt Abby, "and talked for two hours. He was

nice enough, but he made me sick of him, he flattered me so much."

Aunt Abby looked at her with a slight sense of alarm.

"He certainly has the gift of impudence, at least," she said, "in

view of the way I declined his invitation yesterday. I think you'd best

discontinue your long rambles for the present, or until he leaves here.

He is not our sort. He is not even a friend of ours, and if people see

you together, they will say unkind things."

That was warning enough for Chip, and from that time on she never even

walked down to the village store except with Aunt Abby.

A curious and almost ridiculous espionage followed, however, for a week,

and not a pleasant afternoon passed but this fellow was noticed strolling

somewhere near the old mill or past the house.

Another amazing evidence of his intent was received a few days later, in

the shape of a five-pound box of choicest candies, that came by express

with his card. Aunt Abby opened this and saw the card, and the next day

she commissioned the stage driver to deliver the box, card and all, to

Mr. Goodnow at his boarding house.

A long and adroitly worded letter to Chip came a day later, so humble,

so flattering, and so importuning that it made her laugh.

"I think that fellow must have gone crazy," she said, handing the

letter to Aunt Abby, "he runs on so about how he can't sleep nights

from thinking about me. He says that he must go away next week, and

shall die if he can't see me once more. What ails him, anyway?"

"Nothing, except evil intentions," responded Aunt Abby, perusing the

missive. "He must think you a fool to believe such bosh," she added

severely, after finishing it. "Honest love doesn't grow like a mushroom

in one night, and the difference between his position and yours gives

the lie to all he says. I hope he will go away next week, and never come

back."

Whether Chip's studied avoidance of him, combined with the snubbing,

served its purpose, or he decided his quest was hopeless, could only be

guessed, for he was seen no more near the mill, and the next week his

yacht left Christmas Cove, and Chip felt relieved.

It had been an experience quite new to her, and, in spite of its

annoyance, somewhat exciting. It also served another purpose of more

value,--it recalled Ray to her by sheer force of contrast. She had felt

hurt ever since the night she left Greenvale. She had meant to put him

out of her thoughts and forget all the silly hours and promises at the

lake; and yet she never had succeeded. Instead, her thoughts turned

to him in spite of her pride.

And now, contrasting and comparing that honest, manly lad, a playmate

only, and yet a lover as well, with this polished, fulsome, flattering,

shifty-eyed fop, who sneered at everything good, only made Ray, with his

far different ways, seem the more attractive.

Then conscience began to smite her. She had yielded to pride and put

him away from her thoughts. His uncle had almost pleaded for her to

return to Greenvale, if only for a visit. She knew Ray had spent weeks

in searching for her; yet not once in all the two years since they parted

had she sent him a line of remembrance.

More mature now, Chip began to see her own conduct as it was, and to

realize that she had been both ungrateful and heartless; but she could

not confess it to any one, not even Aunt Abby.

Chip's life had been a strange, complex series of moods of peculiar

effect, and her conduct must be judged accordingly.

First, the dense ignorance of years at Tim's Place, with its saving

grace of disgust at such surroundings and such a life. Then a few months

with people so different and so kind that it seemed an entrance into

heaven, to be followed by weeks of a growing realization that she was a

nobody, and an outcast unfit for Greenvale.

And then came the climax of all this: the bitter sneers of Hannah, Ray's

cool neglect, the consciousness that she was only a dependent pauper,

and then her flight into the world and away from all that stung her

like so many whips.

But a revulsion of feeling was coming. Chip, no longer a simple child of

the wilderness, was realizing her own needs and her own nature. Something

broader and more satisfying than school life and the companionship of

Aunt Abby was needed; yet how to find it never occurred to her.

With September came Aunt Abby's annual visit to Peaceful Valley. A

few days before their departure, Chip received a letter which was so

unexpected and so vital to her feelings that it must be quoted.

It was dated at the little village of Grindstone, directed to Vera

McGuire, care of Judson Walker, by whom it was forwarded to Christmas

Cove.

"My dear Chip," it began.

"I feel that you will not care to hear from me, and yet I

must write. I know I am more to blame than any one for the way

you left Greenvale, and that you must consider me a foolish

boy, without much courage, which I have been, and I realize

it only too well now, when it is too late. But I am more of

a man to-day, I hope, and sometime I shall come and try to

obtain your forgiveness for being so blind. No one ever has

been, and I know no one ever will be, what you are to me. As

Old Cy says, 'Blessings brighten as they vanish,' and now,

after this long separation, one word and one smile from dear

little Chip would seem priceless to me, and I shall come and

try to win it before many months.

"I am here with Uncle Martin's old guide, Levi. We are going

into the woods to-morrow to gather gum and trap until spring.

I have hired two other men to help, and hope to do well and

make some money. I think you will be glad to know that Old

Cy was here this summer and was well. He does not know that

you have been found, and is still hunting for you. Levi told

me that the people here are much interested in you, that they

have fixed up the yard where your mother is buried, and he

put up a small stone.

"I wish I could hear from you, but there is no chance now.

Please try to forgive a foolish boy for being stupid, and think

of me as you did during those happy days by the lake.

"Good-bye,

"Ray."

How every word of this half-boyish, half-manly letter was read and

re-read by Chip; how it woke the old memories of the wilderness and of

herself, a ragged waif there; and how, somehow, in spite of pride and

anger, a little thrill of happiness crept into her heart, needs no

explanation.

But she was not quite ready yet to forgive him, and what he failed to

say when he might, still rankled in her feelings.

But Old Cy, that kindly soul, so like a father! Almost did she feel that

to meet him would be worth more than to see any one else in the world.

And to think he was still hunting for her, far and near!

And now, quite unlike most young ladies, who deem their love missives

sacred, Chip showed hers to Aunt Abby.

"It's from Raymond Stetson," she said, rather bashfully, "a boy who

was in the woods with those people who were kind to me, and we became

very good friends."

Aunt Abby smiled as she perused its contents.

"And so he was the cause of your running away from Greenvale," she

said. "Why didn't you write him a note of thanks after you learned

he had been searching for you? I think he deserved that much, at least."

"I wouldn't humble myself," Chip answered spiritedly, "and then I

was ashamed to let any one know I had used his name. I hadn't time to

think what name to give when Uncle Jud asked me, and his was the first

that came to mind," she added naively.

Aunt Abby laughed.

"I guess Master Stetson won't find forgiveness hard to earn," she

said, and then her face beamed at the disclosure of a romance while she

read the letter a second time.

But there was more to tell, as Aunt Abby knew full well, and now, bit by

bit, she drew the story from Chip, even to the admission of the tender

scenes between these two lovers, in which they promised to love each

other and be married.

"It was silly, I suppose," Chip continued blushingly, "but I didn't

know any better then, and I was so happy that I didn't think about

it at all. I never had a beau before, you see, and I guess I acted

foolishly. Old Cy used to help us, too, and took us away so we could

have a chance to hold hands and act silly. I was so lonesome, too, for

Ray all that winter in Greenvale, and nobody knew it. I walked a mile

to meet the stage every night for a month, to be the first to see him

when he came. I guess he must have thought he owned me. I wouldn't

do it now."

Once more Aunt Abby laughed, a good, hearty laugh, and then, much to

Chip's astonishment, she took her face in her hands and kissed it.

"You dear little goose," she said, "and to think you ran away from

a boy you cared for like that! I only hope he is good enough for you,

for I can see what the outcome will be."

That night when the tea-table had been cleared and the lamp lit, Aunt

Abby once more began her adroit questioning of Chip; but this time it was

of Old Cy, and all about him. For an hour, Chip, nothing loath, recited

his praises, repeated his odd sayings, described his looks and ways and

portrayed him as best she could, while Aunt Abby smiled content.

"It makes me feel young again to hear your story and about Cyrus," she

said when all was told. "I was just sixteen when he first came to see

me. He was also my first beau, you know. I should judge he must have

changed so I would never know him, and maybe he wouldn't recognize me.

Forty years is a long time!" And she sighed.

And now Aunt Abby closed her eyes, let fall her knitting, and lapsed into

bygones.

No longer was she a staid and matronly widow--not young, it is true, yet

not old, but with rounded face, few wrinkles, and slightly gray hair.

Instead was she sweet Abby Grey of the long ago, and once more the belle

of this quiet village and Bayport, and the leader at every dance, every

husking, and every party. Once more she primped and curled her hair,

and donned her best, and waited her sailor boy's coming. Once more she

heard the bells jingle and saw the stars twinkle as they sped away to a

winter night's dance--and once more she felt the sorrow of parting, the

long years of waiting, waiting, waiting, and at last the numb despair

and final conviction that never would her lover return.

And now he was still alive, though a wanderer, and some day he

might--surely would come to see her, just once, if no more.

"Ah, me," she said, rousing herself at last and looking at Chip's

smiling, sunny face, "life is a queer riddle, and we never know how to

guess it."

Then she sighed again.

CHAPTER XXXVII

"The milk o' human kindness 'most allus turns out old

cheese, 'n' all rind at that."--Old Cy Walker.

Some sneering critic once said that few young men ever start out in the

world until they are kicked out, and there is a grain of truth in that

assertion. It is seldom an actual kick, however, but some motive force

quite as compelling.

In Ray's case it was his uncle's assertion that if he hoped to win

Chip he must first show the ability to provide a home for her, which is

excellent advice for any young man to follow.

"It won't be a pleasure trip," Martin said when Ray proposed to go to

the wilderness and, with Levi and a couple of other assistants, make a

business of gum-gathering and trap-setting, "but you can't lose much

by it. You are welcome to the camp; Levi will see that you have game

enough to eat, and boss the expedition. I will loan you five hundred,

and with what you have, that is capital enough and you ought to do well.

It would be better if Old Cy could take charge, but as it is, you must

go it alone." And go it alone Ray did.

Levi's services were easily secured. Two young fellows whom he knew

were hired at Greenvale. A bateau was purchased, together with more traps

and supplies, and after Ray had written Chip his plan, the party started

for Martin's camp. They had been established there a month and were

doing well. The first ice had begun forming in shallow coves when one

afternoon, who should enter the lake and paddle rapidly across but Old Cy.

"Ye can't git rid o' me when trappin's goin' on," he said cheerily,

as Ray and Levi met him at the landing. "I fetched into the settlement

kinder homesick fer the woods last week. I heard the good news 'bout

Chip's bein' found 'n' you'd come here fer the winter, 'n' I

didn't wait a minute 'fore I hired a canoe 'n' started." And then,

in the exuberance of his joy, he shook hands with Ray and Levi once more.

That evening, Ray, who had hard work to keep the secret so long, told

Old Cy who lived in Peaceful Valley.

It was like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, a shock of joyful news that

made Old Cy gasp.

"Why, I feel jest like a colt once more," he said after the exclamation

stage had passed. "An', do ye know, boys, I felt all the way comin'

in ez though good news was waitin' fer me. I 'spose 'twas from

hearin' Chip was all right ag'in."

That evening was one that none who were in that wildwood camp ever

forgot, for Old Cy was the central figure, and told as only he could

the story of his year's wandering in search of Chip.

It was humorous, pathetic, and tragic all in one, and a tale that held

its listeners spellbound for three delightful hours.

"I had dogs set on me, hundreds on 'em," Old Cy said, in conclusion,

"an' I never knew afore how many kinds 'n' sizes o' dogs thar was in

this world. I uster think thar warn't more'n two dozen or so kinds. I

know now thar's two million 'n' a few more I didn't wait to count.

I got 'rested a few times on account o' not havin' visible means o'

support. I've been hauled over the coals by doctors tryin' to make me

out a lunatic, 'n' I'd 'a' done time in jail if I hadn't had

money to show. I tell ye, boys, this is an awful 'spicious world fer

strangers, 'n' the milk o' human kindness is mostly old cheese,

'n' all rind at that. I had a little fun, too, mixed in with all

the trouble, 'n' one woman who owned a place where I 'plied for

lodgin' jest 'bout told me she'd be willin' to marry me if I'd stay

'n' work the farm. She had red hair, hard eyes, 'n' bossy sort o'

ways, an' that's a dangerous combination. I watched my chance when

she wa'n't lookin', 'n' lit out middlin' lively."

And now life at this wilderness camp, less restrained than when womankind

were here, became one of work, and persistent, steady, no-time-wasted

work at that. Martin had said that Levi could boss matters, but it was

Ray who assumed management instead. Two years had changed him almost

from boy to man. His new ambition was the controlling power. He was

here to make his mark, as it were, and the half-hearted, boyish interest

in work had changed into a tireless leadership. Then, too, an unspoken,

tacit interest in his ambition was felt by those who helped. They knew

what he was striving for, and that Chip was the ultimate object. Her

history, known as it now was to all who came into the wilderness,

influenced these woodsmen. She had been of them and from them, and as

an entire village will gather to help at a house-raising, so these

three, Levi and the two helpers, now felt the same incentive.

Success usually comes to all who strive for it, and now, with four

willing workers to aid him, Ray was rapidly making a success of this

venture. Old Cy, the most valuable assistant, was indefatigable. He

not only kept the larder well supplied with game, but tended and set

traps, worked in the woods with the rest between times, and his cheerful

optimism and droll humor bridged many a stormy day and shortened many a

weary tramp. And he seemed to grow younger in this new, helpful life

for others. His eyes were bright, his step elastic, his spirits buoyant,

his strength tireless.

With Chip safe and provided for, with Ray succeeding in manhood's

natural ambition, Old Cy saw his heart's best hopes nearing fruition,

and for these two and in these two all his interest centred.

Only once was the bond of feeling between Ray and Chip referred to by Old

Cy, and then in response to a wish of Ray's that he might hear from her.

"I don't think ye've cause to worry now, arter ye've sent her word

what ye're doin' 'n' who for," he answered. "Chip's true blue, not

one o' the fickle sort, 'n' once she keers fer a man, she won't give

him up till he's married or dead. I think ye'd orter sent her word

sooner,--ye know she run 'way out o' spunk,--but when ye go to her

like a man 'n' say, 'I've been workin' 'n' waitin' fer ye all the

time,' thar won't be no quarrellin'."

"I'm not so sure about that," responded Ray, soberly. "From what

Uncle Martin said, my chance is gone with Miss Chip, and I don't blame

her for feeling so. Like every young fellow, I took it for granted that

she was in love with me and ready to fall into my arms on call. Then I

hadn't any plans in life, anyway, and, like a fool, believed it made no

difference to her. To mix matters up still more, Hannah crowded herself

into our affairs and said things to Chip, with the result that Chip got

mad, ran away, and you know the rest."

"Wal," asserted Old Cy, his eyes twinkling, "the time to hug a

gal is when she's willin', 'n' ye orter spunked up that night

'fore ye come away 'n' told her ye was callatin' to make yer fortin

in the woods, an' that ye wanted her to wait 'n' share it--then

hugged 'n' kissed her a little more by way o' bindin' the bargain,

an'--knowin' that gal ez I do, she'd fought Hannah, tooth 'n' nail,

'n' walked through fire 'n' brimstun fer ye. I think, 'stead o'

hidin' herself fer two years, an' changin' her name, she'd 'a'

tramped clear to Grindstun jest to tell ye her troubles, 'n', if

need be, she'd 'a' starved fer ye. I tell ye, boy, wimmin like her is

scarce in this world, 'n' when ye find one young 'n' pretty ez she

is, hang on to her an' hang hard."

"I know it now well enough," returned Ray, ruefully; "but that don't

help matters. Then that fortune you found for her makes my case all the

worse, and Chip quite independent."

"It do, it do," chuckled Old Cy, as if glad of it, "an' all the more

need o' you hustlin'. It's a case o' woodchuck with ye now. But

don't git discouraged. Jest dig. Chip's worth it, ten times over,

'n' no man ever worked to win a woman 'thout bein' bettered by it."

It was terse and homely advice, and not only convinced Ray that he had

neglected one whom he now felt meant home, wife, happiness, and all that

life might mean for him, but made him realize that all possible striving

and self-denial must be made in atonement. With whom and what sort of

people Chip had found asylum, he knew not. What influence they would

have upon her feelings was an equally unknown matter; and worse than

that, the ogre of another suitor for Chip's favor now entered Ray's

calculations, and the slang truism, "There are others," was with him

every waking moment--a much-deserved punishment, all womankind will say.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

One day while Aunt Abby and Chip were enjoying the newly furnished home

of Uncle Jud, a capacious carriage drawn by a handsome pair of horses

halted there and Martin and Angie alighted.

"We are taking a cross-country drive for an outing," he explained,

after Angie had kissed Chip tenderly and greetings had been exchanged.

"We have waited for you, Miss Runaway, to come and visit us," he added,

turning to Chip, "until we couldn't wait any longer and so came to look

for you. We have also some news that may interest you. Old Cy has been

heard from at last. He spent a year looking for you. He has now gone

into the woods, to my camp, where Ray located for the winter, and when

spring comes, I can guess where they will head for."

How welcome this news was to Chip, her face fully indicated; but neither

Martin nor Angie realized how much or for what reason it interested

this soft-voiced, gracious lady whom Chip called Aunt Abby. They knew

Uncle Jud was Old Cy's brother and that they had once been sailors

from Bayport, but the long-ago romance of Aunt Abby's life was unknown

to them.

And now ensued a welcome to the callers such as only Uncle Jud and Aunt

Mandy could offer.

"We sorter feel we robbed ye o' Vera," Uncle Jud explained, "though

'twa'n't any intention on our part, an' so ye must gin us some chance

to make amends. We callate 'twa'n't no fault of yourn, either, only

one o' them happenin's that was luck for us."

That evening was one long to be remembered by all who were present,

for Chip's history, as told by Martin and Angie, was the entertaining

topic, and its humorous side was made the most of by Martin. Chip was

in no wise annoyed by Martin's fun-making, either. Instead, conscious of

the good-will and affection of the friends who had rescued her from

the wilderness, she rather enjoyed it and laughed heartily at Martin's

description of various incidents, especially her first appearance in

their camp, and the language she used.

"I couldn't help swearing," she explained. "I never had heard much

except 'cuss' words. I think also now, as I recall my life at Tim's

Place, I would never have dared that desperate mode of escape had I not

been hardened by such a life. I wish I could see Old Tomah once more,"

she added musingly, "and I'd like to send him some gift. He was the

best-hearted Indian I ever saw or heard of, and his queer teachings

about spites and how they rewarded us for good deeds and punished us

for evil ones was no harm, for it set me thinking. The one thought that

encouraged me most during those awful days and nights alone in the woods

was the belief that among the spites which I was sure followed me was

my mother's soul. I've never changed in my belief, either, and shall

always feel that she guided me to your camp."

Uncle Jud also obtained his share of fun at Chip's expense, describing

his finding of her with humorous additions.

"She was all beat out that night I found her on top o' Bangall Hill,

'n' yet when I asked her if she'd run away from some poor farm, she

was ready to claw my eyes out, an' dunno's I blame her. I was innocent,

too, fer I really s'posed she had."

Martin's visit at this hospitable home was not allowed to terminate for

a week, for visitors seldom came here, and Uncle Jud, as big a boy as

his brother when the chance came, planned all sorts of trips and outings

to entertain them, and quite characteristic affairs they were, too.

One day they drove to a wood-bordered pond far up the valley, fished a

few hours for pickerel and perch, and had a fish fry and picnic dinner.

The next day they visited a strange, romantic grotto up in the mountains,

known as the Wolf's Den, and here a table was set, broiled chicken,

sweet corn, and such toothsome fare formed the meal, with nut-gathering

for amusement.

Squirrel and partridge shooting also furnished Martin a little

excitement. When he and Angie insisted that they must leave, both

host and hostess showed genuine regret. A few remarks made by Angie to

her former protegee, in private, the last evening of this visit, may

be quoted.

"I must insist, my dear child," she said, "that you make us a visit

in the near future. You left us under an entirely false impression and it

has grieved me more than you can imagine. There was never a word of

truth in anything that Hannah said. She was spiteful and malicious

and desired to get even with you for a hurt to her pride. We had no

thought of hurrying away to the woods to separate you and Ray for any

reason whatever. Of course, as you must know, I had no suspicion of any

attachment between you, and if I had, I certainly should not have tried

to break it off in that way. That is a matter that concerns only you and

him. My own life experience shows that first love is the wisest and

best, and while you were both too young then for an engagement, you must

believe me when I tell you that I had no wish to interfere."

And so the breach was healed.

This visit of the Frisbies to Peaceful Valley also awakened something

of repentance in Chip's mind, and more mature now, it occurred to her

that leaving Greenvale as she did, was, after all, childish.

Then Angie's part in this drama of her life now returned to Chip in a

new light. Once she began to reflect, her self-accusation grew apace and

her repentance as well. Now she began to see herself as she was at Tim's

Place.

"I think I treated my Greenvale friends very ungratefully," she said

to Aunt Abby one evening after they had returned to Christmas Cove once

more, "and what Mrs. Frisbie said to me has made me realize it. I know

now that few would have done what she did for me. I was an ignorant,

dirty, homeless creature and no relation of hers, and yet she took charge

of me, bought me clothes, paid all my expenses going to Greenvale,

clothed me there, and always treated me nicely without my even asking

for it.

"The Frisbies certainly ran some risk by keeping me at their cabin when

they knew that half-breed was after me. I don't know why they should

have done all this. I was nothing to them. And yet when I recall the

night I stumbled into their camp, how Mrs. Frisbie dressed me in her own

clothes, shared her tent with me, and even prayed for me, I feel ashamed

to think of what I have done. I did think that Mrs. Frisbie despised me

from what Hannah said. I know now that I was wrong, and running away

as I did, was very ungrateful."

"I think it was, myself," responded Aunt Abby, "and yet believing

as you did, Mrs. Frisbie ought not to blame you. I don't think she

does, either. She seems a very sensible woman, and I like her. You made

your mistake in not confiding in her more. You should have gone to her

as you would to a mother, in the first place, and told her just what

Hannah had said to you and how you felt about it. To brood over such

matters and imagine the worst possible, is unwise in any one. I think

from what you have told me, that this person who sneered against you so

much must have had a spite against you."

"Hannah was jealous, I know," Chip interrupted, smiling at the

recollection, "and I hurt her feelings because I asked her why she

didn't shave."

"Didn't shave!" exclaimed Aunt Abby, wide-eyed, "what do you mean?"

"Why, she has whiskers, you see," laughed Chip, "almost as much

as some men--a nice little mustache and some on her chin. I told her

the next day after I got there I thought she was a man dressed as a

woman. I snickered, too, I remember, when I said it, for she looked so

comical--like a goat, almost--and then I asked her why she didn't

shave. I guess she laid it up against me ever after."

"She revenged herself amply, it seems," answered Aunt Abby.

When Christmas neared, and with it a vacation for Chip, new impulses

came to her: a desire to visit Greenvale once more and make amends as

best she could to her friends there; and her gift-giving desire was

quickened by the coming holidays. She now felt that she had ample means

to gratify this latter wish. Day by day, since meeting Angie again,

her sense of obligation had increased, and now it was in her power at

Christmas-tide to repay at least a little of the debt.

Others were also included in this generous project: Uncle Jud, Aunt

Mandy, her foster-mother, Aunt Abby, as well; and then there was Old Cy,

whom most of all she now desired to make glad. That was impossible,

however. He was still an absent wanderer, and so, as it ever is and

ever will be, some thread of regret, some note of sorrow, must be woven

into all joys.

A rapid and almost wonderful growth of this yule-tide impulse now swept

over Chip, so much so that it must be told. At first it took shape in

the intended purchase of comparative trifles,--a fishing-rod for Uncle

Jud, a pipe for Martin, gloves for Aunt Abby, and so on. Then as that

seemingly vast fortune, now hers to spend, occurred to Chip, and her

sense of obligation as well, the intended gifts increased in proportion

until a costly picture of some camp or wildwood scene for Angie and a

valuable watch for Miss Phinney were decided upon.

Her plans as to how to obtain these presents also took shape. Riverton

was the only place where they could be obtained. To that village she

would go first, obtain the money needed, devote one entire day to making

her purchases, and then go on to Greenvale and astonish these good

friends from whom she was once so eager to escape.

It was all a most delightful episode which was now anticipated by Chip.

Again and again she lived it over, especially her arrival in Greenvale,

and how like a Lady Bountiful she would present her gifts to her friends.

So eager was she thus to make some compensation to them that lessons

became irksome, the day seemed weeks in length, and she could scarce

sleep when bedtime came.

But the slow days dragged by at last, and then Chip, happier than ever

before in her life, dressed in her best, bade Aunt Abby good-bye and

started on her journey alone.

CHAPTER XXXIX

"A man braggin' gits riled if ye try 'n' choke him off."

--Old Cy Walker.

Riverton, less provincial than Greenvale, was a village of some two

thousand inhabitants. A few brick blocks, with less pretentious

wooden buildings, formed a nucleus of stores. A brownstone bank,

four churches, two hotels, the Quaboag House and the Astor House were

intermingled among these, and a railroad with two trains in each

direction a day added life and interest to the place. Each of the hotels

sent a conveyance to meet every train, with a loud-voiced emissary to

announce the fact of free transportation. In each hostelry a bar

flourished, and like rival clubs, each had its afternoon and evening

gathering of loafers who swapped yarns and gossip, smoked and chewed

incessantly, and contributed little else to support the establishments.

Three times daily, at meal hours, each of the rival landlords banged a

discordant gong in his front doorway, without apparent result.

At about eleven in the forenoon each weekday in summer, Uncle Joe Barnes

on his lumbering two-horse stage, arrived from Greenvale, paused at

the post-office, threw off a mail-pouch, thence around to the Quaboag

House stable, and cared for his horses. At two he was ready for the

return trip and mounting his lofty seat, he again drove to the front

of the hotel, shouting "All aboard!" dismounted to assist lady

passengers, but let masculine ones do their own climbing, and after

halting to receive a mail-bag, again departed on his return trip.

A certain monotonous regularity was apparent in every move and every act

and function of village life in Riverton. At precisely seven o'clock

each morning the two landlords appeared simultaneously and banged their

gongs. At twelve and six, this was repeated. At eight o'clock the three

principal storekeepers usually entered their places of business; at

nine, and while the academy bell was ringing near by, every village

doctor might be seen starting out. At ten exactly, Dwight Bennett,

the cashier of the bank, unlocked its front door, and the two hotel

'buses invariably started so nearly together that they met at the

first turn going stationward. Even the four church clocks had the same

habit, and it was often related that a stranger there, a travelling man,

on his first, visit, made an amusing discovery.

"What kind of a fool clock have you got in this town?" he said to Sam

Gates, the landlord of the Quaboag, next morning after his arrival. "I

went to bed in good season last night an' just got asleep when I heard

it strike thirty-two. I dozed off an' the next I knew it began clanging

again, and I counted forty-four. What sort of time do you keep here,

anyway? Do you run your town by the multiplication table?"

The half-dozen chronic loafers who met every afternoon in the Quaboag

House office arrived in about the same order, smoked, drank, told their

yarns, gathered all the gossip, and departed at nearly the same moment.

Their evening visits partook of the same clocklike regularity.

These of the old guard were also dressed much the same, and "slouchy"

best describes it. Gray flannel shirts in winter or summer alike.

Collars, cuffs, and ties were never seen on them, though patches were,

and as for shaving or hair-cutting, a few shaved once a week, some

never did, and semi-annual hair-cuts were a fair average.

The worst sinner in this respect, Luke Atwater, occasionally called

"Lazy Luke," never had his beard shortened but once, and that was

due to its being burnt off while he was fighting a brush fire in spring.

It was related of him, and believed by many, that once upon a time many

years previous he had had his hair cut, and on that occasion the barber

had found a whetstone concealed in Luke's shock of tangled hair. It was

also asserted that he admitted always carrying his whetstone back of his

ear while mowing, and so losing it that way.

All the news and every happening in Riverton, from the catching of an

extra big trout to twins, was duly commented upon and discussed by this

coterie. Village politics, how much money each storekeeper was making,

crop prospects, the run of sap every spring, drouth, weather indications,

rain or snow falls, each and all formed rotating subjects upon which

every one of this faithful-to-the-post clique expressed opinions.

Chip's arrival there with the Frisbie family, and her later history,

learned from Uncle Joe, furnished a fertile topic, her escapade in

running away from Greenvale a more exciting one, while Old Cy's

visit and deposit of a fabulous sum in the bank in her name had been a

nine days' wonder. That amount, hinted at only by the cashier as a

comfortable fortune, soon grew in size until it was generally believed

to be almost a million.

This was Riverton and its decidedly rural status when late one December

afternoon the Quaboag free 'bus (a two-seated pung, this time) swept

up to that hotel's front door, where the porter assisted a stylish young

lady to alight, and he, stepping like a drum major, led the way into the

Quaboag's unwarmed parlor.

"Young lady, sir, a stunner, wants room over night, sir," he announced

to the landlord in the office a moment later. "Goin' to Greenvale

to-morrer, she says."

On the instant all converse in the office ceased, and the six constant

callers hardly breathed until Sam Gates hastened to the parlor and

returned.

"It's that McGuire gal--lady, I mean," he asserted pompously; then to

the porter, "Git a move on, Jim, 'n' start a fire in Number 6, an'

quick, too!" And hastily brushing his untidy hair before the office

mirror, he left the room again, followed by six envious glances. Then

those astonished loafers grouped themselves, the better to observe the

passage between parlor and office.

Only one instant sight of this important guest was obtained by them as

Chip emerged from the parlor and followed the landlord upstairs, and then

the hushed spell was broken.

"By gosh, it's her!" exclaimed one in an awed whisper, "an' Jim was

right, she's a stunner!"

"I 'member jest how she looked that fust day she came," asserted

another. "Saw her legs, too, when she shinned up top o' the stage."

"Ye won't git 'nother chance, I'll bet!" declared a third.

"What do ye s'pose she's here for," queried a fourth, "to draw the

int'rest on her money, or what?"

It was precisely four-forty-five when Chip appeared before this judge and

jury of all Riverton's happenings. At five-forty-five they had agreed

that she was the handsomest young lady who had ever set foot in the

town, that she must be going to get married soon, and that her mission

there was to draw out a few thousand dollars for wedding finery. Then

they dispersed, and at six-forty-five, when they assembled at the Quaboag

again, half of Riverton knew their conclusions, and by bedtime all knew

them.

By eight-thirty next morning, this all-observant and all-wise clique

had gathered in the hotel office once more, an unusual proceeding, and

when Chip tripped out, eight pairs of eyes watched her depart. Then they

dispersed.

At nine o'clock Chip walked up the stone steps to the bank door, read

the legend, "Open from 10 a.m. until 2 p.m.," turned away, and once

more resumed her leisurely stroll up and down the street while she peered

into store windows. At ten precisely by the four church clocks she was

back at the bank again, and the cashier lost count of the column he

was adding when he saw her enter.

"I would like three hundred dollars, if you please, sir," she said,

presenting her little book, and he had to count it over four times,

to make sure the amount was right. Then he passed the thick bundle of

currency out under his latticed window, seeing only the two wide-open,

fathomless eyes and dimpled face that had watched him, and feeling, as

he afterward admitted, like fifty cents.

And now ensued an experience the like of which poor Chip had never

even dreamed,--the supreme joy of spending money without stint for

those near and dear to her. And what a medley of gifts she bought!

Two silk dress patterns, two warm wraps, three winter hats, a gold

watch for Miss Phinney, an easy-chair, two of the finest pipes she

could find, a trout rod, four pairs of gloves, and finally a gun for

Nezer. Then as her roll of money grew less, she began to pick up smaller

articles,--handkerchiefs, slippers, and the like.

"Send them to the hotel, please," she said to one and all of whom she

purchased articles of any size, "marked for Vera McGuire."

That was enough!

Riverton had sensations, mild ones, of course. Now and then a fire had

occurred, once an elopement. Occasionally a horse ran away, causing

damage to some one. But nothing had occurred to compare with the arrival

of a supposed fabulously rich young lady who came without escort, who

walked into and out of stores like a young goddess, noticing no one,

and who spent money as if it were autumn leaves.

A few of the Quaboag retinue followed her about in a not-to-be-observed

manner. Women by the dozen hastily donned outdoor raiment, and visited

stores, just to observe her. They crossed and recrossed the street to

meet her, and a battery of curious eyes was focussed on her for two hours.

When she returned to the hotel, the old guard, recruited by every idle

man in town, filled the office, awaiting her. Uncle Joe, who had heard of

her arrival the moment he came, was among them, recounting her history

once more, and when she neared the hotel, he emerged to meet her.

"Why, bless yer eyes, Chip," he said, extending a calloused hand, "but

I'm powerful glad to see ye once more. Whatever made ye run away the way

ye did, 'n' what be ye doin' here? Buyin' out the hull town? I've

got the pung filled wi' bundles a'ready wi' yer name on 'em."

He beaued her into the parlor, like the ancient gallant he was. He

washed, brushed his hair and clothing, and awaited her readiness to dine,

without holding further converse with the curious crowd. He ushered

her into the dining room and made bold to sit and eat with her unasked,

and when he assisted her to the front seat in his long box sleigh,

crowded with her purchases, and drove away, he was envied by two dozen

observers.

"Why didn't ye send us word o' yer comin'," he said as they left

Riverton, "so I cud 'a' spruced up some an' come down with a better

rig, bells on the hosses and new buffler robes?"

"There was no need of that," answered Chip, pleased, as well she might

be. "I am just the same girl that I always was, only happier now that

I have more friends. How is dear old Aunt Comfort, and every one in

Greenvale? I am anticipating seeing them so much."

And never during all the twenty years in which Uncle Joe had journeyed

twice each day over this road had the way seemed shorter, or had he been

blessed with a more interesting companion.

The only regret Chip had, was that she had forgotten to buy Uncle Joe a

present. She made up for it later, however.

At Greenvale, Chip met almost an ovation. Aunt Comfort kissed her and

cried over her. Nezer ran for Angie, who soon appeared on the scene,

and Hannah was so "flustered" she was unable to speak after the first

greeting. Martin, who had heard of Chip's arrival from Uncle Joe,

hastened to Aunt Comfort's, and had Chip been a real "millionnairess"

or some titled lady, she could not have awakened more interest or

received half so cordial a welcome.

Hannah was the one who felt the most embarrassed, however, and guilty as

well. For half an hour, while Chip was the centre of interest, she could

only stare at her in dumb amazement. Then she stole out of the room, and

later Chip found her in the kitchen, shedding copious tears.

"I'm a miserable sinner 'n' the Lord'll never forgive me," she

half moaned, when Chip tried to console her. "An' to think ye feel the

way ye say, 'n' to bring me a present, arter all the mean things I

said. It's a-heapin' coals o' fire on my head, that it is." And the

shower increased.

"I have forgotten all about them, Hannah, truly I have," Chip assured

her, "and I wish you would. You didn't understand me then, perhaps,

or I you, so let us be friends now."

The next afternoon Chip, who had learned that Miss Phinney's school was

to close the day following, set out to call on her in time to arrive at

its adjournment.

No hint of her return had reached Miss Phinney, no letters had been

exchanged, and not since that tearful separation had they met.

And now as Chip followed the lonely by-road so often traversed by her,

what a flood of bitter-sweet memories returned,--each bend, each tree,

each rock, and the bridge over the Mizzy held a different recollection.

Here at this turn she had first met Ray, after her resolve to leave

Greenvale. At the next landmark, a lane crossing the meadows, she had

always parted from her teacher, the last time in tears. And how long,

long ago it all seemed!

Then beyond, and barely visible, was the dear old schoolhouse. She

could see it now, half hid in the bushes, a lone and lowly little brown

building outlined on the winter landscape and apparently dwarfed in

size. Once it had awed her; now it seemed pathetic.

The last of its pupils were vanishing as Chip drew near, and inside, and

as lonely as that lone temple, Miss Phinney still lingered.

That day had not gone well with her. A note of complaint had come

from one parent that morning, and news that a dearly loved scholar was

ill as well, and Miss Phinney's own life seemed like the fields just

now--cold, desolate, and snow-covered.

And then while she, thus lone and lonesome, was putting away books,

slates, ink-bottles, and all the badges of her servitude, Chip, without

knocking, walked in.

How they first exclaimed, then embraced, then kissed, and then repeated

it while each tried to wink the tears away, and failed; how they sat

hand in hand in that dingy, smoke-browned room with its knife-hacked

benches, unconscious of the chill, while Chip told her story; and how,

just as the last rays of the setting sun flashed from the icicles along

its eaves, they left it, still hand in hand, was but an episode such as

many a schoolgirl can recall.

Of the few friends Greenvale held for Chip, none seemed quite so near

and dear as Miss Phinney, and none lived longer in her memory. They had

been for many months not teacher and pupil, but rather two sisters,

confiding, patient, and tender. Life swept them apart. They might never

meet again, and yet, so long as both lived, never would those school

days be forgotten.

With Sunday came Chip's most gratifying experience, perhaps, for her

arrival was now known by the entire village and the fact that she was

an heiress as well. Her fortune (also known) was considered almost

fabulous according to Greenvale standards, and when Chip with Angie

entered the church porch, it was crowded with people waiting to receive

them. Chip, of course, now well clad and well poised, was once more the

cynosure of all eyes except when the pastor prayed. At the close of

service a score, most of whom she knew by sight only, waited to greet

her and shake hands with her in the porch. The parson hurried down the

aisle to add his smile and hand clasp, and, all in all, it was a most

gratifying reception.

And here and now, let no carping critic say it was all due to that bank

account, but rather a country town's expression of respect and good-will

toward one whom they felt deserved it.

That it all pleased Angie, goes without saying. That Chip well deserved

this vindication, no one will question; and when her visit ended and she

departed, no one, not even Miss Phinney, missed her more than Angie.

Only one thread of regret wove itself into Chip's feelings as she

rode away with Uncle Joe, whose horses were now decked properly for

this important event. She had received a most cordial reception on

all sides--almost a triumph of good-will. Her gifts had brought an

oft-repeated chorus of thanks and a few tears. On all sides and among all

she had been welcome, even receiving a call and words of praise from

Parson Jones. She was a _nobody_ no longer; instead, a _somebody_

whom all delighted to honor and commend.

But the one whose motherly pride would have been most gratified, she for

whom Chip's heart yearned for oftenest, would never know it.

CHAPTER XL

With the birds and flowers once more returning to Christmas Cove, came

outdoor freedom for Chip again. Like the wood-nymph she was in character

and taste, the wild, rock-bound coast outside and the low, wooded

mountain enclosing this village were her playgrounds where she found

companionship. Other associates she cared but little for, and a few

hours alone on a wave-washed shore, watching the wild ocean billows

tossing spray aloft, or a long ramble in a deep, silent forest, appealed

to her far more than parties and girlish enjoyments.

The wood-bordered road, leading from the village to the railroad ten

miles away, was now a favorite walk of hers. It was suited to her in

many ways, for it was seldom travelled; it followed the sunny side of

the low mountain range back of Christmas Cove, not a house stood along

its entire way, and to add charm, a brook kept it company, crossing

and recrossing it for two miles. That feature was the most especial

attraction, for beds of watercress waved beneath the limpid waters in

deep pools, bunches of flag grew along its banks, their blue flowers

bending to kiss the current; its ripples danced in the sunlight; its

music was a tinkling melody, and these simple attractions appealed to

Chip.

There was also another reason for now choosing this byway walk. She knew,

or felt sure, that Ray would visit Christmas Cove on his return from

the woods. He must come in the old carryall,--about the only vehicle

ever journeying along this road,--and now, like a brownie of the forest,

she watched until she spied it afar and then hid in the bushes and

peeped out until it passed each day.

A curious and somewhat complex feeling toward this young man had also

come to her. At first, like a child, she had loved him unasked. She had

known no different. He had seemed like a young god to her, and to

cling to him was supreme happiness. Then had come an awakening, a

consciousness that this freedom was not right and must be checked.

Following that also--a bitter lesson--it had come to her that she

was a kind of outcast, a child of shame, as it were, whose origin

was despicable, and who was dependent upon the charity of others.

This awakening, this new consciousness, was like a black chasm in

front of her, a horror and shame combined, and true to her nature, she

fled from it like one pursued.

But two years had changed her views of humanity. She had learned that

money and social position did not always win friends and respect. That

birth and ancestry were of less consideration than a pure mind and honest

intentions, and that fine raiment sometimes covered a base heart and vile

nature.

Toward this boyish lover, also, her feelings had been altered. A little

of the old-time fondness remained, however. She could not put that

away. She had tried and tried earnestly, yet the wildwood illusion still

lingered. She had meant, also, to put him and herself quite apart--so

far, and in such a way, that she would never be found by him. That had

failed, however; he knew where she was. He had said that he was coming

here. Most likely he would expect to renew the old tender relations;

but in that he would be disappointed. She was sure she would be glad

to see him for old times' sake, however. She would be gracious and

dignified, as Aunt Abby was. She wanted to hear all about the woods and

Old Cy again, but caresses must be forbidden. More than that, every

time she recalled how freely she had permitted them once, she blushed

and felt that it would be an effort to look him in the face again.

But she was anxious to see how he would appear now: whether the same boy,

with frank, open face, or a commanding, self-possessed man.

And so each pleasant afternoon she strolled up this byway road. When the

ancient carryall was sighted, she hid and watched until it passed.

But Captain Mix, its driver, also had observing eyes. He knew her now as

far as he could see her, as every one in the village did, and he soon

noticed her unusual conduct. He also watched along the wayside where she

left it, and slyly observed her peeping out from some thicket. Just why

this odd proceeding happened time and again, he could not guess, and not

until a strange young man alighted from the train one day and asked to

be left at the home of Mrs. Abby Bemis, did it dawn on him.

Then he laughed. "Friend o' Aunt Abby, I 'spose?" he inquired in his

Yankee fashion, after they had started.

"No," answered Ray, frankly, "I have never seen the lady. I know some

one who is living with her, however. A Miss Mc--Raymond, I mean."

Captain Mix glanced at him, his eyes twinkling. "So ye're 'quainted

with Vera, be ye," he responded. "Wal, ye're lucky." Then as

curiosity grew he added, "Known her quite a spell, hev ye?"

But Ray was discreet. "Oh, three or four years," he answered

nonchalantly. "I knew her when she lived in Greenvale." Then to

check the stage-driver's curiosity, he added, "She was only a little

girl, then. I presume she has changed since."

"She's a purty good-lookin' gal now," asserted Captain Mix, "but

middlin' odd in her ways. Not much on gallivantin' round wi' young

folks, but goin' to school stiddy 'n' roamin' round the woods when

she ain't. Purty big gal to be goin' to school she is. I callate her

arly eddication must 'a' been sorter neglected. Mebbe ye know 'bout

it," and once more this persistent Yankee glanced at his companion.

But Ray was too loyal to the little girl he loved to discuss her further,

and made no answer. Instead, he began inquiries about Christmas Cove, and

as they jogged on mile after mile, he learned all that was to be known

of that quiet village. When they had reached a point some three miles

from it, a kindly thought came to the driver.

"If Vera ain't 'spectin' ye," he said, "mebbe ye'd like to

s'prise her. If so be it, ye kin. She's 'most allus out this way

'n', curislike, hides 'fore I get 'long whar she is. If I see her

to-day, 'n' ye want to, I'll drop ye clus by 'n' let ye."

And so it came to pass.

Chip, as usual, had followed her oft-taken walk on this pleasant May

afternoon. When the carryall was sighted also, as usual, she had hidden

herself. With beating heart she saw two occupants this time, and looking

out of her laurel screen, she saw that one was Ray.

Then she crouched lower. The moment she had waited for had come.

But now something unexpected happened, for after the carryall passed her

hiding spot, Ray, brown and stalwart, leaped out. The carryall drove on,

and she saw him returning and scanning the bushes.

She was caught, fairly and squarely. One instant she hesitated, then,

blushing rose-red, emerged from the undergrowth.

And now came another capture, for with a "Chip, my darling," Ray sprang

forward, and although she turned away, the next moment she was clasped

in his arms.

In vain she struggled. In vain she writhed and twisted. In vain she

pushed him away and then covered her blushing face.

Love, fierce and eager, could not be thus opposed. All her pride, anger,

resentment, shame, and intended coldness were as so many straws, for

despite her struggles, he pulled her hands aside and kissed her again and

again.

"My darling," he exclaimed at last, "say you forgive me; say you love

me; say it now!"

Then, as she drew away, he saw her eyes were brimming with tears.

"I won't," she said, "I hate--" but his lips cut the sentence in

two, and it was never finished.

"I did mean to hate you," she declared once more, covering her face,

"but I--I can't."

"No, you can't," he asserted eagerly, "for I won't let you. You

promised to love me once, and now you've got to, for life."

And she did.

When the outburst of emotion had subsided and they strolled homeward,

Chip glanced shyly up at her lover.

"Why did you pounce on me so?" she queried; "why didn't you ask me,

first?"

"My dear," he answered, "a wise man kisses the girl first, and asks

her afterwards." Then he repeated the offence.

[Illustration: "I did mean to hate you, but I--I can't."]

And now what a charming summer of sweet illusion and castle-building

followed for the lovers! How Aunt Abby smiled benignly upon them, quite

content to accord ample chance for wooing! How many blissful, dreamy

hours they passed on lonely wave-washed cliffs, while the marvel of

love was discussed! How its wondrous magic opened a new world whose walks

were flower-decked, whose sky was ever serene, where lilies bloomed,

birds sang, sea winds whispered of time and eternity, and where Chip was

an adored queen! How all the shame and humiliation of her past life

faded away and joy supreme entered on the azure and golden wings of this

new morning! Even Old Cy was almost forgotten; the spites, Old Tomah,

and Tim's Place quite so; and all hope, all joy, all protection, and all

her future centred in the will and wishes of this Prince Perfect.

"Blind and foolish," I hear some fair critic say. Yes, more than that,

almost idiotic; for selfish man never pursues unless forced to do so,

and an object of worship once possessed, is but a summer flower.

CHAPTER XLI

"A man'll hev all the friends he kin keer for if he tends to

his own knittin' work."--Old Cy Walker.

Quite different from the meeting of the lovers was that which occurred

when Old Cy reached Peaceful Valley. There were no heroics, no falling

upon one another's necks, no tears. Just a "Hullo, Cyrus!" "Hullo,

Judson!" as these two brothers clasped hands, and forty years were

bridged.

Aunt Mandy, however, showed more emotion, for when Old Cy rather

awkwardly stooped to kiss her, the long ago of Sister Abby's sorrow

welled up in her heart, and the tears came.

That evening's reunion, with its two life histories to be exchanged, did

not close until the tall clock had ticked time into the wee, small hours.

All of Old Cy's almost marvellous adventures had to be told by him,

and not the least interesting were the last few years at the wilderness

home of the hermit. Chip's entry into it and her history formed another

chapter fully as thrilling, with Uncle Jud's rescue of her for a

_denouement_.

The most pathetic feature of this intermingled history--the years while

sweet Abby Grey waited and watched for her lover--was left untold. Only

once was it referred to by Aunt Mandy, in an indirect way; but the quick

lowering of Old Cy's eyes and the shadow that overspread his face,

checked her at once. Almost intuitively she realized its unwisdom, and

that it was a sorrow best not referred to.

Old Cy evidently felt it a subject to avoid, and not until the next

day did he even ask how Aunt Abby looked or what had been her life

experiences. A little of this reticence wore away in due time, however,

and then Aunt Mandy once more referred to her sister.

"I kinder feel you blame Abby somehow, Cyrus, the way you act," she

said, "and yet thar ain't no cause for it. She'd waited 'most seven

years. We'd all given you up for dead, and life in Christmas Cove

wa'n't promisin' much for Abby."

"I don't blame her a mite," Old Cy answered quickly, "an' no need

o' yer thinkin' so. I don't blame no woman fer makin' the best shift

they kin. They've got to hev a home 'n' pertecter, bless 'em, or

be nobody in this world. Comin' here and findin' how things are, sorter

makes me realize how much I've missed in life, though, an' how much

sorrer I've had to outgrow. I don't lay up nothin' 'gainst Abby, not

fer a minit. Only I hated to hev ye tell me what I knew ye'd hev to,

that fust night."

"But you're goin' to see her, ain't ye, Cyrus?" Aunt Mandy asked

anxiously. "Ye won't shame her by not goin', will ye?"

"Wal, mebbe," he answered slowly, and after a long pause. "I wouldn't

want to hurt her knowin'ly. I callate I've done more grievin'n she

has, though, ten times over, an' seein' her now's a good deal like

openin' an old tomb--a sorter invitin' ghosts o' old heartaches to

step out. Abby's outgrowed the old times, 'n' I'm sartin, too,

won't be the happier by seein' me ag'in. I may be wrong, but I've a

notion she'll sorter hate to see me. 'Twas to keep her from feelin'

'shamed 'n' miserable 'n' spoilin' her life, I've never let

her nor nobody that knew her find out I was alive. I'm doubtin' I

would now if she hadn't larned it from Chip."

He relented a little from this strange and almost cruel whim a week

later, and after visiting the Riggsville store and obtaining what really

amounted to a disguise in new garments, he announced his plans.

"I've got to see Chip," he said, "an' see how she 'n' Ray's

gittin' on. I've got to see Abby, I s'pose. I want to, an' I don't

want to, both in one. Then ag'in, these two young folks--Chip 'n'

the boy--hev sorter got tangled up in my feelin's, 'n' I can't rest

content till I've seen 'em settled in life. I'm goin' to Christmas

Cove fer a day. Then back here till they hitch up, 'n' then--wal,

then mebbe I'd better go to the woods ag'in. I ain't fitted by natur

fer dressed-up folks."

No opposition to this unseemly outcome was made by Uncle Jud or Aunt

Mandy. They knew, or hoped, the leaven of bygone memories and association

would change the hermit-like impulse of Old Cy, and all in good time a

better ending of his life would seem possible to him. To argue it now

was apparently useless. A man so set in his ideas as to remain a homeless

wanderer for almost a lifetime, was not to be changed in a month, or

perhaps in a year.

Neither did Old Cy seem in a hurry to visit Christmas Cove.

"I don't look nat'ral or feel nat'ral in them new clothes," he said

to Aunt Mandy one day, "an' while I want to see Abby, I've lived in

the woods so long I'm sorter 'shamed to go 'mongst respectable people.

Then I look like one o' them wooden men dressed up in a store winder

with that new rig on, an' jest know folks'll all be laughin' at me.

I've got to go, I callate, but I'd like to make the trip in a cage.

I'm sartin sure Abby'll laugh at me arterwards." From which it may be

seen how hard it was for Old Cy to fit himself into civilized life

once more.

He nerved himself for the trip to Christmas Cove in a few days, however,

and how he met and renewed acquaintance with his old-time sweetheart

shall be told in his own words.

"Abby hain't changed near so much as I callated," he said on his

return; "a leetle fuller in figger, but jest the same easy-spoken, sweet

sorter woman I always knew she'd be. She was 'lone when I called,

an' fer a minit arter we shook hands neither on us could speak ag'in.

Then she kinder bit her lip 'n' swallered her feelin's, keepin'

her face turned away, an' then we sot down 'n' begun talkin'. It

was techin', too, the way she acted, fer she kept tryin' to smile,

'n' all the while the tears kept startin'. It was like one o' them

summer days when the rain patters while the sun is shinin'. I don't

think she noticed my clothes much, either, an' we sot up till 'most

midnight talkin' over old times. It all turned out 'bout the way I

'spected--a sorter funeral o' old hopes with us two fer mourners.

She's powerful considerate, too, Abby is, for all the time we was

talkin' she never once spoke o' Cap'n Bemis, 'n' I didn't. It

was jest ez if we started in whar we left off, 'n' skippin' the gap

between. She 'lowed she hoped she'd see me soon ag'in, that she felt

like a mother to Chip; an' when I bid her good-bye, she kinder choked

once more.

"I didn't see much o' Chip, either, which sorter hurt me. Take it all

in all, my visit thar upsot me more'n I callated, 'n' I guess when

Chip's settled, I'd best go to the woods 'n' forgit all that's past.

My life's been a failure, anyway."

And Old Cy was right; but it was grim and merciless Fate that made it

so, and for that he was not responsible.

Love in youth is a sweet song of joy and hope and promise. But love

that spans a lifetime, that reaches and caresses our heartstrings once

again as we enter the final shadows, has only the pathos of parting

and the tender chords of almost forgotten melodies in it. Vainly do we

strive to enter the enchanted garden once more. Vainly do our heart

throbs beat against its adamant walls. Vainly do we hope to catch just

one more of the old bygone thrills. It is useless, for none can live

life over, and once age has locked the portals of youth and fervor, they

are never opened again.

CHAPTER XLII

With September came a supreme event in the lives of Chip and Ray, when

Mr. and Mrs. Frisbie, Aunt Comfort, Miss Phinney and Hannah, Uncle

Jud and Aunt Mandy, and Old Cy, all gathered in Aunt Abby's quaint

parlor to see her aged pastor join their hands and lives. Then came the

kisses, the congratulations, the rice, and old-shoe throwing, and then

solitude and tears for Aunt Abby. All the wedding guests except Old Cy

hied themselves away with the new pair, and he left for Bayport.

And thus closes the history of Chip McGuire, waif of the wilderness and

slave of Tim's Place.

Bless her!

Two days later Old Cy returned.

No one was in the house when he knocked at Aunt Abby's door, and then,

led perhaps by the invisible chord that spanned forty years, he slowly

strolled up the path beside the old mill-pond, which he and she had often

followed in the old, old days.

His heart had led him aright, for there, at the foot of the ancient oak

that had once been their trysting-place, she sat.

"I thought I'd come over 'n' bid ye good-bye, Abby," he said gently,

as she arose to meet him. "I've been doin' a good deal o' biddin'

good-bye to-day. I bid good-bye to the old graveyard whar my folks

is; it's all growed up to weeds 'n' bushes, I'm sorry to say. But

that can't be helped. It's the way o' natur. I've been down to the

p'int whar you 'n' I used to go, an' I bid that good-bye," he

added, seating himself near her. "Ye 'member it, don't ye, Abby,

'n' them days when we went thar to watch the waves?"

"I do, Cyrus," she answered, her voice trembling. "I remember all the

old days only too well."

"They all come back to me, too," he continued in a lower tone, "an'

I wish I could skip back to 'em, but I can't. I'm an old man now,

an' no use to nobody, 'n' not much to myself. I've been a wanderer

many years--ye know why, Abby. I've had a short spell o' joy, kinder

helpin' this boy 'n' gal into sunshine 'n' a home. They've gone

their way now 'n' sure to forgit me an' you. It's nat'ral they

should, 'n' all that's left me is to go back to the woods 'n' stay."

He paused a moment, glancing up the narrow pond to where it ended in

shadow, and then continued: "It's curis, Abby, how life begins with

how-de-do's 'n' smilin' friends 'n' cheerin' prospects, 'n' then

ends with good-byes 'n' bein' forgot. It's what we must callate on,

though, an' a good deal like a graveyard is left to weeds and bushes."

Once more he paused, closed his eyes, and remained silent for a time.

"Wal, I might as well be goin'," he said finally, rising and extending

his hand, "so good-bye, Abby. I wish ye well in life."

"But is there any need of it?" she answered, turning her face to hide

the tears as his hand clasped hers.

"Why, no, only to fergit my sorrer," he answered; "I can't do it

here."

"But who will care for you there--at last--and--must you go?" Then she

turned to him again.

And then he saw, not the gentle, saddened face upraised to his, but the

tender face of sweet Abby Grey of the long, long ago.

"Must you leave us--me?" she whispered once again.

"Wal, mebbe not," he answered.

THE END

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BY RIGHT OF SWORD

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A DASH FOR A THRONE

With illustrations by D. Murray Smith.

MISER HOADLEY'S SECRET

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THE PRICE OF FREEDOM

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THE HERITAGE OF PERIL

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No Field Collection is Complete Without this Book

A LITTLE BOOK of TRIBUNE VERSE

By EUGENE FIELD

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the several years in which he was on the staff of that paper.

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These poems are the early product of Field's genius. They breathe the

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MR. ISAACS: A Tale of Modern India.

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THE HEART OF ROME.

The legend of a buried treasure under the walls of the palace of Conti,

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SARACINESCA

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SANT' ILARIO; A Sequel to Saracinesca.

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IN THE PALACE OF THE KING: A Love Story of Old Madrid. Illustrated.

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dull moment for the young people--nor for the reader either."--_ New

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THE KING OF DIAMONDS

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End of Project Gutenberg's The Girl From Tim's Place, by Charles Clark Munn