Title: The Girl From Tim's Place
Author: Munn, Charles Clark, 1848-1917
Language: English
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[Illustration: "For God's sake give me suthin' to eat."]



THE GIRL FROM TIM'S PLACE



THE GIRL FROM TIM'S PLACE

BY CHARLES CLARK MUNN

Author of "Pocket Island," "Uncle Terry,"
"The Hermit," "Rockhaven."

ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK T. MERRILL

New York

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS



Published, March, 1906.

Copyright, 1906, by LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

All rights reserved.

The Girl from Tim's Place.



INTRODUCTION


When we leave the world's busy haunts and penetrate the primal solitude
of a vast wilderness, a new realm peopled by mystic genii opens to
us. Each sombre gorge, where twisted roots clasp the moss-coated walls,
discloses fabled gnomes and dryads. Nymphs and naiads outline their
shadowy forms in the mist of every cascade. Elfin sprites dance in
the ripples of a laughing brook, and brownies scamper away over the
leaf-swept hilltops.

A wondrous Presence, multiform, omnipresent, and ever fascinating, meets
us on every hand, and there in those magic aisles and sombre glades,
where man seems far away and God very near, Nature sits enthroned.

It is with the hope that a few of my readers may feel this forest-born
mood, and in its poetic spirit forget worldly cares, that I have written
the story of "The Girl from Tim's Place."

                                                        THE AUTHOR.



ILLUSTRATIONS

  "For God's sake give me suthin' to eat"
  (_Frontispiece_)                                           23
  All the goblin forms and hideous shapes of Old
  Tomah's fancy were rushing and leaping about               21
  Nearer and nearer that unconscious girl it crept!         123
  He grasped and struck at this enemy in a blind
  instinct of self-preservation                             195
  "Won't you please give me a lift an' a chance
  to earn my vittles for a day or two?"                     260
  "Thank God, little gal, I've found what belongs
  to ye"                                                    272
  "Quit takin' on so, girlie," he said                      325
  "I did mean to hate you, but I--I can't"                  416



PART I

CHIP MCGUIRE



CHAPTER I


Chip was very tired. All that long June day, since Tim's harsh, "Come,
out wid ye," had roused her to daily toil, until now, wearied and
disconsolate, she had crept, barefoot, up the back stairs to her room,
not one moment's rest or one kindly word had been hers.

Below, in the one living room of Tim's Place, the men were grouped
playing cards, and the medley of their oaths, their laughter, the thump
of knuckles on the bare table, and the pungent odor of pipes, reached
her through the floor cracks. Outside the fireflies twinkled above the
slow-running river and along the stump-dotted hillside. Close by, a
few pigs dozed contentedly in their rudely constructed sty.

A servant to those scarce fit for servants, a menial at the beck and call
of all Tim's Place, and laboring with the men in the fields, Chip, a
girl of almost sixteen, felt her soul revolt at the filth, the brutality,
the coarse existence of those whose slave she was.

And what a group they were!

First, Tim Connor, the owner and master of this oasis in the wilderness,
sixty miles from the nearest settlement; his brother Mike, as coarse;
their wives and a half a dozen children who played with the pigs,
squealed as often for food, and were left to grow up the same way;
and Pierre Lubec, the hired man, completed the score.

There was another transient resident here, an old Indian named Tomah,
who came with the snow, and deserted his hut below on the river bank when
spring unlocked that stream.

Two occasional visitors also came here, both even more objectionable
to Chip than Tim and his family. One was her father, known to her to be
an outlaw and escaped murderer in hiding; the other a half-breed named
Bolduc, but known as One-eyed Pete, a trapper and hunter whose abode
was a log cabin on the Fox Hole, ten miles away. His face was horribly
scarred by a wildcat's claws; one eye-socket was empty; his lips,
chin, and protruding teeth were always tobacco-stained. For three months
now, he had made weekly calls at Tim's Place, in pursuit of Chip. His
wooing, as might be expected, had been a persistent leering at her with
his one sinister eye, oft-repeated innuendoes and insinuations of
lascivious nature, scarce understood by her, with now and then attempted
familiarity. These advances had met with much the same reception once
accorded him by the wildcat.

Both these visitors were now with the group below. That fact was of
no interest to Chip, except in connection with a more pertinent one--a
long conference she had observed between them that day. What it was
about, she could not guess, and yet some queer intuition told her that it
concerned her. Ordinarily, she would have sought sleep in her box-on-legs
bed; now she crouched on the floor, listening.

For an hour the game and its medley of sounds continued; then
cessation, the tramp of heavily shod feet, the light extinguished,
and finally--silence. A few minutes of this, and then the sound of
whispered converse, low yet distinct, reached Chip from outside.
Cautiously she crept to her window.

"I gif you one hunerd dollars now, for ze gal," Pete was saying, "an'
one hunerd more when you fotch her."

"It's three hundred down, I've told ye, or we don't do business,"
was her father's answer, in almost a hiss.

A pain like a knife piercing her heart came to Chip.

"But s'pose she run away?" came in Pete's voice.

"What, sixty miles to a settlement? You must be a damn fool!"

"An' if she no mind me?"

"Wal, thrash her then; she's yours."

"But I no gif so much," parleyed Pete; "I gif you one-feefty now, an'
one hunerd when she come."

"You'll give what I say, and be quick about it, or I'll take her out
to-morrow, and you'll never see her again; so fork over."

"And you fotch her to-morrow?"

"Yes, I told you." And so the bargain was concluded.

Only a moment more, while Chip sat numb and dazed, then came the sound of
footsteps, as the two men separated, and then silence over Tim's Place.

And yet, what a horror for Chip! Sold like a horse or a pig to this
worse than disgusting half-breed, and on the morrow to be taken--no,
dragged--to the half-breed's hut by her hated father.

Hardly conscious of the real intent and object of this purchase, she yet
understood it dimly. Life here was bad enough--it was coarse, unloved,
even filthy, and yet, hard as it was, it was a thousand times better
than slavery with such an owner.

And now, still weak and trembling from the shock, she raised her head
cautiously and peeped out of the window. A faint spectral light from
the rising moon outlined the log barn, the two log cabins, and pigsty,
which, with the frame house she was in, comprised Tim's Place. Above
and beyond where the forest enclosed the hillside, it shone brighter,
and as Chip looked out upon the ethereal silvered view, away to the
right she saw the dark opening into the old tote road. Up this they
had brought her, eight years before. Never since had she traversed it;
and yet, as she looked at it now, an inspiration born of her father's
sneer came to her.

It was a desperate chance, a foolhardy step--a journey so appalling,
so almost hopeless, she might well hesitate; and yet, escape that way was
her one chance. Only a moment longer she waited, then gathering her few
belongings--a pair of old shoes, the moccasins Old Tomah had given her, a
skirt and jacket fashioned from Tim's cast-off garments, a fur cap,
and soft felt hat--she thrust them into a soiled pillow-case and crept
down the stairs.

Once out, she looked about, listened, then darted up the hillside,
straight for the tote road entrance. Here she paused, put on her
moccasins, and looked back.

The moon, now above the tree-tops, shone full upon Tim's Place,
softening and silvering all its ugliness and all its squalor. Away to
the left stood Tomah's hut, across the river, a shining path bright
and rippled.

In spite of the awful dread of her situation and the years of her hard,
unpaid, and ofttimes cursed toil, a pang of regret now came to her. This
was her home, wretched as it was. Here she had at least been fed and
warmed in winters, and here Old Tomah had shown her kindness. Oh, if
he were only in his hut now, that she might go and waken him softly,
and beg him to take her in his canoe and speed down the river!

But no! only her own desperate courage would now avail, and realizing
that this look upon Tim's Place was the last one, she turned and fled
down the path. Sixty miles of stony, bush-encumbered, brier-grown,
seldom-travelled road lay ahead of her! Sixty miles of mingled swamp,
morass, and rock-ribbed hill! Sixty miles through the sombre silence
and persistent menace of a wilderness, peopled only by death-intending
creatures, yellow-eyed and sharp-fanged!

With only a sickening, soul-nauseating fate awaiting her at Tim's
Place, and her sole escape this almost insane flight, she sped on. The
faint, spectral rifts of moonlight through interlaced fir and spruce
as often deceived as aided her; bending boughs whipped her, bushes
and logs tripped her, sharp stones and pointed sticks bit her; she
hurried over hillocks, wallowed through sloughs and dashed into tangles
of briers, heedless of all except her one mad impulse to escape.

Soon the ever present menace of a wilderness assailed her,--the yowl
of a wildcat close at hand; in a swamp, the sharp bark of a wolf; on a
hillside above her, the hoot of an owl; and when after two hours of this
desperate flight had exhausted her and she was forced to halt, strange
creeping, crawling things seemed all about.

And now the erratic, fantastic belief of Old Tomah returned to her. With
him the forest was peopled by a weird, uncanny race, sometimes visible
and sometimes not--"spites," he called them, and they were the souls
of both man and beast; sometimes good, sometimes evil, according as
they had been in life, and all good or ill luck was due to their ghostly
influences. They followed the hunter and trapper day and night, luring
him into safety or danger, as they chose. They were everywhere, and in
countless numbers, ready and sure to avenge all wrongs and reward all
virtues. They had a Chieftain also, a great white spectre who came forth
from the north in winter, and swept across the wilderness, spreading
death and terror.

Many times at Tim's Place, Chip had sat enthralled on winter evenings,
while Old Tomah described these mystic genii. They were so real to him
that he made them real to her, and now, alone in this vast wilderness,
spectral in the faint moonlight and filled with countless terrors, they
returned in full force. On every side she could see them, creeping,
crawling, through the undergrowth or along the interlaced boughs above
her. She could hear the faint hiss of their breath in the night wind,
see the gleam of their little eyes in dark places--they were crossing
the path in front of her, following close behind, and gathering about
her from every direction.

Beneath bright sunlight, a vast wilderness is at best a place peopled
by many terrors. Its solitude seems uncanny, its shadow fearsome, its
silence ominous. The creaking of limbs moving in the breeze sounds like
the shriek of demons; the rush of winds becomes the hiss of serpents.
Vague terrors assail one on every hand, and the rustle of each dry
leaf, or breaking of every twig, becomes the footfall of a savage
beast. We advance only with caution, oft halting to look and listen. A
stern, defiant _Presence_ seems everywhere confronting us, and the weird
mysticism of Nature bids us beware. By night this invisible Something
becomes of monstrous proportions. Ghosts fashion themselves out of each
rift of light, and every rock, thick-grown tree-top, or dark shadow
becomes a goblin.

To Chip, educated only in the fantastic lore of Old Tomah, these terrors
now became insanity-breeding. She could not turn back--better death
among the spites than slaving to the half-breed; and so, faint from
awful fear, gasping from miles of running, she stumbled on. And now a
little hope came, for the road bent down beside the river, and its low
voice seemed a word of cheer. Into its cool depths she could at least
plunge and die, as a last resort.

Soon an opening showed ahead, and a bridge appeared. Here, for the first
time, on this vantage point, she halted. How thrice blessed those knotted
logs now seemed! She hugged and patted them in abject gratitude. She
crawled to the edge and looked over into the dark, gurgling water. Up
above lay a faint ripple of silver. Here, also, she could see the
moon almost at the zenith, and a few flickering stars.

A trifle of courage and renewal of hope now came. Her face and hands were
scratched and bleeding, clothing torn, feet and legs black with mud. But
these things she neither noticed nor felt--only that blessed bridge of
logs that gave her safety, and the moon that bade her hope.

Then she began to count her chances. This landmark told her that five
miles of her desperate journey had been covered and she was still alive.
She began to calculate. How soon would her escape be discovered, and
who would pursue her? Only Pete, her purchaser, she felt sure, and
there was a possible chance that he might return to his cabin before
doing so. Or perhaps he might sleep late, and thus give her one or two
hours more of time.

[Illustration: All the goblin forms and hideous shapes of Old Tomah's
fancy were rushing and leaping about.]

And now she began to review the usual morning movements at Tim's
Place--Tim the first one up, calling her, then going out to milking; the
others, slower to arise, getting out and about their special duties.
Pete, she knew, always slept in one of the two empty log cabins which
were first built there. Her father slept in the other or in the barn.
Neither would be called, she knew--it was get around in time for
breakfast at Tim's Place or go hungry. And so she speculated on her
chances of early pursuit. Here on this bridge she now meant to remain
until the first sign of dawn, then push on again with all speed. She
already had a five-mile start, she was weary, footsore, and still faint
from the awful terrors of her flight; to go on meant to rush into the
swarm of spites once more, and so she lay inert on the hard logs
watching, listening, calculating.

And now cheered by this trifling hope and lessening sense of danger,
her past life came back. Her childhood in a far-off settlement; the
home always in a turmoil from the strange men and women ever coming and
going; the drinking, swearing, singing, at all hours of the night, her
constant fear of them and wonder who they were and why they came. There
were other features of this disturbed life: frequent quarrels between
her father and mother; curses, tears, and sometimes blows, until at
last after a night more hideous than any other her mother had taken her
and fled. Then came a long journey to another village and a new life
of peace and quietness. Here it was all so different--no red-shirted men
to be afraid of, no loud-voiced women drinking with them. She became
acquainted with other children of her own age, was sent to school and
taken to church. Here, also, her mother began to smile once more, and
look content. For two years, and the only ones Chip cared to recall,
she had been a happy schoolgirl, and then came a sudden, tragic end to
it all. Of that she never wished to think. It was all so horrible, and
yet so mercifully brief.

The one friend life held, her mother, had been brought home, wounded
to death amid the whirring wheels of the mill where she worked; there
were a few hours of agonized dread as her life ebbed away, a whisper or
two of love and longing, and then the sad farewell made doubly awful by
her father's frowning face and harsh voice. At its ending, and in spite
of her fears and tears, she was now borne away by him. For days they
journeyed deeper and deeper into a vast wilderness, to halt at last at
Tim's Place.

Like a dread dream it all came back now, as she lay there on this one
flat spot of security--the bridge--and listened to the river's low
murmur.

The moon was lowering now. Already the shadow of the stream's bordering
trees had reached her. First the stars vanished, then the moon faded
into a dim patch of light, finally that disappeared, a chill breeze
swept down from a neighboring mountain, and the trees began to moan
and creak. Then a fiercer blast swept through the forest, the great
firs and spruces bent and groaned and screamed. Surely the spites were
gathering in force again, and this was their doing.

Once more she began to hear them creeping, crawling, over the bridge.
They spit, they snarled, they growled. The darkness grew more intense,
no longer could the river's course be seen, but only a black chasm.

All through her mad flight the wilderness had been ghostly and spectral
in the moonlight; now it had become lost in inky blackness, yet alive
with demoniac voices. All the goblin forms and hideous shapes of Old
Tomah's fancy were rushing and leaping about. Now high up in the
tree-tops, now deep in the hollows, they screamed and shrieked and moaned.

And now, just as this fierce battle of sound and spectral shape was at
its worst, and Chip, a hopeless, helpless mite of humanity, crouched low
upon the bridge, suddenly a vicious growl reached her, and raising her
head she saw at the bridge's end two gleaming eyes!



CHAPTER II


Martin Frisbie and his nephew Raymond Stetson, or Ray, were cutting
boughs and carrying them to two tents standing in the mouth of a
bush-choked opening into the forest. In front of this Angie, Martin's
wife, was placing tin dishes, knives, and forks, upon a low table of
boards. Upon the bank of a broad, slow-running stream, two canoes were
drawn out, and halfway between these and the table a camp-fire burnt.

Here Levi, Martin's guide for many trips into this wilderness, was also
occupied, intently watching two pails depending from bending wambecks,
a coffee-pot hanging from another, and two frying-pans, whose sputtering
contents gave forth an enticing odor.

Twilight was just falling, the river murmured in low melody, and a few
rods above a small rill entered it, adding a more musical tinkle.

Soon Levi deftly swung one of the pails away from the flame with a
hook-stick and speared a potato with a fork.

"Supper ready," he called; and then as the rest seated themselves at
the table, he advanced, carrying the pail of steaming potatoes on the
hooked stick and the frying-pan in his other hand.

The meal had scarce begun when a crackling in the undergrowth back of
the tent was heard, and on the instant there emerged a girl. Her clothing
was in shreds, her face and hands were black with mud, streaks of blood
showed across cheek and chin, and her eyes were fierce and sunken.

"For God's sake give me suthin' to eat," she said, looking from one
to another of the astonished group. "I'm damn near starved--only a
bite," she added, sinking to her knees and extending her hands. "I
hain't eat nothin' but roots 'n' berries for three days."

Angie was the first to recover. "Here," she said, hastily extending
her plate, "take this."

Without a word the starved creature grasped it and began eating as only a
desperate, hungry animal would, while the group watched her.

"Don't hurry so," exclaimed Martin, whose wits had now returned.
"Here, take this cup of coffee."

Soon the food vanished and then the girl arose. "Sit down again, my poor
child," entreated Angie, who had observed the strange scene with moist
eyes, "and tell us who you are and where you came from."

"My name's Chip," answered the girl, bluntly, "an' I'm runnin'
away from Tim's Place, 'cause dad sold me to Pete Bolduc."

"Sold--you--to--Pete--Bolduc," exclaimed Angie, looking at her
wide-eyed. "What do you mean?"

"He did, sartin," answered the girl, laconically. "I heerd 'em
makin' the bargain, 'n' I fetched three hundred dollars."

Martin and his wife exchanged glances.

"Well, and then what?" continued Angie.

"Wal, then I waited a spell, till they'd turned in," explained
the girl, "and then I lit out. I knowed 'twas sixty miles to the
settlement, but 'twas moonlight 'n' I chanced it. I've had an awful
time, though, the spites hev chased me all the way. I was jist makin' a
nestle when I seed yer light, an' I crept through the brush 'n'
peeked. I seen ye wa'n't nobody from Tim's Place, 'n' then I cum
out. I guess you've saved my life. I was gittin' dizzy."

It was a brief, blunt story whose directness bespoke truth; but it
revealed such a pigsty state of morality at this Tim's Place that the
little group of astonished listeners could scarce finish supper or
cease watching this much-soiled girl.

"And so your name is Chip," queried Angie at last. "Chip what?"

"Chip McGuire," answered the waif, quickly; "only my real name ain't
Chip, it's Vera; but they've allus called me Chip at Tim's Place."

"And your father sold you to this man?"

"He did, 'n' he's a damn bad man," replied Chip, readily. "He
killed somebody once, an' he don't show up often. I hate him!"

"You mustn't use swear words," returned Angie, "it's not nice."

The girl looked abashed. "I guess you'd cuss if you'd been sold to
such a nasty-looking man as Pete," she responded. "He chaws terbaccer
'n' lets it drizzle on his chin, 'n' he hain't but one eye."

Angie smiled, while Martin stared at the girl with increased
astonishment. He knew who this McGuire was, and something of his
history, and that Tim's Place was a hillside clearing far up the
river, inhabited by an Irish family devoted to the raising of
potatoes. He had halted there once, long enough to observe its somewhat
slothful condition, and to buy pork and potatoes; but this tale was a
revelation, and the girl herself a greater one.

This oasis in the wilderness was fully forty miles above here, its only
connection with civilization was a seldom-used log road which only an
experienced woodsman could follow, and how this mere child had dared it,
was a marvel.

But there she was, squat on the ground and watching them with big black,
pleading eyes. There was but one thing to do, to care for her now,
as humanity insisted, and Angie made the first move. It was in the
direction of cleanliness; for entering the tent, she soon appeared with
some of her own extra clothing, soap, and towels, and bade the girl
follow her up the river a few rods.

The moon was shining clearly above the tree-tops, the camp-fire burned
brightly, and Martin, Ray, and Levi were lounging near it when the two
returned, and in one an astonishing transformation had taken place.

Angie had gone away with a girl of ten in respect to clothing, her skirt
evidently made of gunny cloth and reaching but little below her knees,
and for a waist, what was once a man's red flannel shirt, and both in
rags. Soiled with black mud, and bleeding, she was an object pitiable
beyond words; she returned a young lady, almost, in stature, her face
shining and rosy, and her eyes so tender with gratitude that they were
pathetic.

Another change had also come with cleanliness and clothing--a sudden
bashfulness. It was some time ere she could be made to talk again,
but finally that wore away and then her story came. What a tale it
was--scarce credible.

At first were growing terrors as she plunged deeper and deeper into
the shadowy forest, the brush and logs that tripped her, the mud holes
she wallowed through, the ever increasing horrors of this flight, the
blood-chilling cries of night prowlers, the gathering darkness while
she waited on the bridge, the awful moment when she saw two yellow eyes
watching her, not twenty feet away, her screams of agonized fear, and
then time that seemed eternity, while she expected the next moment to
feel the fangs of a hungry panther.

How blessed the first dawn of morning had seemed, how she ran on and
on, until faint with hunger she halted to eat roots, leaves,
berries--anything to sustain life! The river had been her one boon
of hope and consolation, and even beyond the fear of wild beast had
been the dread of pursuit and capture by this half-breed. When night
came, she had crept into a thicket, covering herself with boughs;
when daylight dawned, she had pushed on again, ever growing weaker and
oft stumbling from faintness.

Hope had almost vanished, her strength had quite left her, the last day
had been a partial blank so far as knowledge of her progress went, but
filled with eerie sights and sounds. From first to last the spites of
Old Tomah had kept her company--by day she heard them, swifter-footed
than she, in the undergrowth; by night they were all about, dodging
behind trees, hopping from limb to limb, and sometimes snapping and
snarling. The one supreme moment of joy, oft referred to, was when she
had seen her rescuers' camp-fire, with human, and possibly friendly,
faces about it.

It was a fantastic, weird, almost spookish tale,--the spectres she had
seen were so real to her that the telling made them seem almost so to
the rest, and beyond that, the girl herself, so like a young witch, with
her shadowy eyes and furtive glances, added to the illusion.

But now came a diversion, for Levi freshened the fire, and at a nod
from Angie, Ray brought forth his banjo. It was his one pet foible, and
it went with him everywhere, and now, with time and place so in accord,
he was glad to exhibit his talent. He was not an expert,--a few jigs and
plantation melodies composed his repertory,--but with the moonlight
glinting through the spruce boughs, the river murmuring near, somehow one
could not fail to catch the quaint humor of "Old Uncle Ned," "Jim
Crack Corn," and the like, and see the two dusky lovers as they floated
down the "Tombigbee River," and feel the pathos of "Nellie Grey"
and "Old Kentucky Home."

Ray sang fairly well and in sympathy with each theme. To Angie and the
rest it was but ordinary; but to this waif, who never before had heard
a banjo or a darky song, it was marvellous. Her face lit up with keen
interest, her eyes grew misty at times, and once two tears stole down
her cheeks.

For an hour Ray was the centre of interest, and then Angie arose.

"Come, Chip," she said pleasantly, "it's time to go to bed, and you
are to share my tent."

"I'd rather not," the girl replied bluntly. "I ain't fit. I kin jist
ez well curl 'longside o' the fire."

But Angie insisted and the girl followed her into the tent.

Here occurred another incident that must be related. Angie, always
devout, and somewhat puritanical, was one who never forgot her nightly
prayer, and now, when ready for slumber, she knelt on the bed of fir
twigs, and by the light of one small candle offered her usual petition,
while Chip watched her with wide and wondering eyes. As might be
expected, that waif was mentioned, and with deep feeling.

"Do ye s'pose God heard ye?" she queried with evident candor, when
Angie ceased.

"Why, certainly," came the earnest answer; "God hears all prayers."

"And do the spites hear 'em?"

"There are no such creatures as 'spites,'" answered Angie,
severely; "you only imagine them, and what this Indian has told you is
superstition."

"But I've seen 'em, hundreds on 'em, big and little," returned the
girl, stoutly.

Angie looked at her with pity.

"Put that notion out of your head, once for all," she said, almost
sternly. "It is only a delusion, and no doubt told to scare you."

And poor Chip, conscious that perhaps she had sinned in speech, said no
more.

For a long time Angie lay sleepless upon her fragrant bed, recalling the
waif's strange story and trying to grasp the depth and breadth of her
life at Tim's Place; also to surmise, if possible, how serious a taint
of evil she had inherited. That her father was vile beyond compare seemed
positive; that her mother might have been scarce better was probable.
No mention, thus far, had been made of her; and so Angie reflected
upon this pitiful child's ancestry and what manner of heritage she had
been blessed or cursed with. Some of her attributes awoke Angie's
admiration. She had shown utter abhorrence of this brutal sale of
herself, a marvellous courage in endeavoring to escape it. She seemed
grateful for what had been done for her, and a partial realization of
her own unfitness for association with refined people. Her speech was no
worse than might be expected from her life at Tim's Place. Doubtless,
she was unable to read or write. And so Angie lay, considering all the
pros and cons of the situation and of this girl's life.

There was also another side to it all, the humane one. They were on
their way out of the wilderness, for a business visit to the nearest
settlement, intending to return to the woods in a few days--and what
was to be done with this child of misfortune?

Most assuredly they must protect her for the present. But was there any
one to whom she could be turned over and cared for? It seemed possible
this brutal buyer of her would follow her out of the woods, to abduct her
if found, and then the moral side of this episode with all its abominable
possibilities occurred to Angie, who was, above all, unselfish and
noble-hearted. Vice, crime, and immorality were horrible to her.

Here was a self-evident duty thrusting itself upon her, and how to meet
it with justice to herself, her husband, and her own conscience, was a
problem. Thus dwelling upon this complex situation, she fell asleep.

The first faint light of morning was stealing into the tent when Angie
felt her companion stir. She had, exhausted as she doubtless was, fallen
asleep almost the moment she lay down; but now she was evidently awake.

Curious to note what she would do, Angie remained with closed eyes and
motionless. From the corner of the tent where she had curled up the night
before, the girl now cautiously crept toward the elder woman. Inch by
inch, upon the bed of boughs, she moved nearer, until Angie, watching
with half-open eyes, saw her head lowered, and felt two soft warm lips
touch her hand.

It was a trifle. It was no more than the act of a cat who rubs herself
against her mistress or a dog who licks his master's hand, and yet it
settled once for all that waif's fate and Angie's indecision.



CHAPTER III


  Women are like grasshoppers--ye kin never tell which
  way they're goin' to jump.--Old Cy Walker.

Levi was starting a fire, Ray washing potatoes, and Martin, in his
shirt-sleeves, using a towel vigorously near the canoes, when Angie and
Chip emerged that morning; and now while breakfast is under way, a
moment may be seized to explain who these people were and their mission
in this wilderness.

Many years before, in a distant village called Greenvale, two brothers,
David and Amzi Curtis, had quarrelled over an unfortunate division of
inherited land. The outcome was that Amzi, somewhat misanthropic over
the death of his wife, and of peculiar make-up, deserted his home and
little daughter Angeline, and vanished. For many years no one knew of
his whereabouts, and he was given up as dead.

In the meantime his child, cared for by a kindly woman known as Aunt
Comfort, had grown to womanhood. About this time a boyhood sweetheart of
Angeline's, named Martin Frisbie, who had been gathering wealth in a
distant city, invited a former schoolmate, now the village doctor in
Greenvale, to join him on an outing trip into the wilderness.

Here something of the history of a notorious outlaw named McGuire
became known to Martin, and more important than that, a queer old
hermit was discovered, dwelling in solitude on the shore of a small
lake. Who he was, and why this strange manner of life, Martin could not
learn, and not until later, when he returned to Greenvale to woo his
former sweetheart once more, did he even guess. Here, however, from a
description furnished by a village nondescript,--a sort of Natty Bumpo
and philosopher combined, known as Old Cy Walker, who had been Martin's
youthful companion,--he was led to believe that the queer hermit and
the long-missing Amzi were one and the same.

Another trip into this wilderness with Old Cy, taken to identify the
hermit, resulted in proving the correctness of the surmise. Then Martin
set about making this misanthropic recluse more comfortable in all ways
possible; and then, leaving Old Cy to keep him company, he returned to
Greenvale and Angie.

A marriage was the outcome of his return to his native village, and then,
with his nephew, Ray, and long-tried guide, Levi, as helpers on this
unique wedding trip, the hermit was visited.

It was hoped that meeting his child once more would result in inducing
him to abandon his wildwood existence and to return to civilization;
and it did--partially. He seemed happy to meet his daughter again,
consented to return with them when ready, and after a couple of weeks'
sojourn here, the canoes were packed and all set out for civilization and
Greenvale once more.

But "home, sweet home," albeit it was, as in this case, a lonely
log cabin in a vast wilderness, proved stronger than parental love or
aught else; and sometime during first night's camp on the way out,
this strange recluse stole away in his canoe and returned.

"It's natur," Old Cy observed when morning came, "an' home is the
hardest spot in the world to fergit. Amzi's lived in that old shack all
'lone for twenty years. He's got wonted to it like a dog to his kennel,
an' all the powers o' the univarse can't break up the feelin'."

It seemed an indisputable, if disappointing, fact, and Martin led his
party back to the hermit's home once more.

Another plan was now considered by Martin--to buy the township, or at
least a large tract enclosing this lake, build a more commodious log
cabin for the use of himself and his wife, and spend a portion of each
summer there. There were several reasons other than those of affection
for this decision.

This lake, perhaps half a mile in diameter, teemed with trout. The low
mountains enclosing it were thickly covered with fine spruce and fir,
groves of pine with some beech and birch grew in the valleys; deer,
moose, and feathered game abounded here, and best of all, no vandal
lumbermen ever encroached upon this region.

It was, all considered, a veritable sportsman's paradise. Most likely
a few thousand dollars would purchase it, and so, for these collective
reasons, Martin decided to buy it.

Old Cy was left to keep the hermit company; Martin, his wife, and Ray,
with Levi, started for civilization to obtain needed supplies, and had
been four days upon the way when this much-abused waif appeared on
the scene. The party were journeying in two canoes, one manned by Ray,
who had already learned to wield a paddle, which carried the tents and
luggage; while the other was occupied by Martin, his wife, and Levi. The
only available seat for the new arrival was in Ray's canoe, and when
breakfast was disposed of and the voyagers ready to start, she was given
a place therein.

The river at this point was broad and of slow current, only two days'
journey was needful to reach the settlement, and no cause for worry
appeared--but Levi felt otherwise.

"You'd best hug the futher shore," he observed to Ray quietly when
the boy pushed off, "an' don't git out o' sight o' us." "I ain't
sartin 'bout the outcome o' this matter," he said to Martin later. "I
know that half-breed, Bolduc, and he's a bad 'un. From the gal's
story he paid big money fer her. He don't know the meanin' o' law,
and if he follers down the tote road, as I callate he will, 'n' ketches
sight o' her, the first we'll know on't 'll be the crack o' a rifle.
The wonder to me is he didn't ketch her 'fore she got to us. He could
track her faster'n she could run. I don't want to 'larm you folks,
but I shan't feel easy till we're out o' the woods."

It wasn't reassuring.

But no thought of this came to Ray, at least, and these two young
people, yielding to the magic of the morning, the rippled river that
bore them onward, the birds singing along the fir-clad banks, and all the
exhilaration of the wilderness, soon reached the care-free converse
of youthful friends.

"I never had nothin' but work 'n' cussin'," Chip responded, when
Ray asked if she never had any time she could call her own. "Tim
thinked I couldn't get tired, I guess. He'd roust me up fust of all
'n' larrup me if he caught me shirkin'. Once I had a little posey
bed back o' the pig-pen. I fixed it after dark an' mornin's when I
ketched the chance. He ketched me thar one mornin' a-weedin' it
'n' knocked me sprawlin' an' then stomped all over the posies.
That night I went out into the woods 'n' begged the spites to git him
killed somehow. 'Nother time I forgot to put up the bars, an' the cows
got into the taters. That night he tied me to a stump clus to the bars,
an' left me thar all night. I used to be more skeered o' my dad 'n
I was o' Tim, tho'. He'd look at me like he hated me, an' say,
'Shut up,' if I said a word, an' I 'most believed he'd kill me,
just fer nothin'. Once he said he'd take me out into the woods at
night 'n' bait a bear trap with me if he heerd I didn't mind Tim. I
told Old Tomah that, an' he said if he did, he'd shoot him; but Old
Tomah wasn't round only winters. I hated dad so I'd 'a' shot him
myself, I guess, if I cud 'a' got hold o' a gun when he wa'n't
watchin'."

"It's awful to have to feel that way toward your own father,"
interrupted Ray, "for he was your father."

"I s'pose 'twas," admitted Chip, candidly, "but I never felt
much different. I've seen him slap mother when she was on her knees
a-bawlin', an' the way he would cuss her was awful."

"But you had some friendship from this old Indian," queried Ray, who
began to realize what a pitiful life the girl had led; "he was good to
you, wasn't he?"

"He was, sartin," returned Chip, eagerly; "he used to tell me the
spites 'ud fix dad 'fore long, so he'd never show up agin, 'n'
when I got big 'nuff he'd sneak me off some night 'n' take me to
the settlement, whar I could arn a livin'. Old Tomah was the only
one who cared a cuss fer me. I used to bawl when he went away every
spring, an' beg him to take me 'long 'n' help him camp 'n' cook.
I'd 'a' done 'most anything fer Old Tomah. I didn't mind havin'
to work all the time fer Tim. I didn't mind wearin' clothes made
out o' old duds 'n' bein' cussed fer not workin' hard 'nuff.
What I did mind was not havin' nobody who cared whether I lived or
died, or said a good word to me. Sometimes I got so lonesome, I used
to go out in the woods nights when 'twas moonlight 'n' beg the spites
to help me. I used to think mother might be one on 'em 'n' she'd
keer fer me. I think she was, an' 'twas her as kept me goin' till I
found you folks's camp. I got awful skeered them nights I was runnin'
away, an' when 'twas so dark I couldn't see no more, an' I heerd
wildcats yowlin', I'd git on my knees 'n' beg mother to keep 'em
away. I think she did, an' allus shall."

Much more in connection with the wild, harsh life Chip had led for
eight years was now told by her. Old Tomah's superstition and belief
in hobgoblins were enlarged upon. Life at Tim's Place, with all its
filth, brutality, and nearly animal existence, was described in full;
for Chip's tongue, once loosened, ran on and on, while Ray, spellbound
by this description, was scarce conscious he was wielding a paddle.
Never before had he heard such a tale, so unusual and so pathetic.
Naturally of chivalrous and manly nature, it appealed to him as naught
else could. Then the girl herself, with her big, pleading eyes, her
queer belief in those woodsy, spectral forms she called spites, and her
free and easy confidence in him, and his sympathy also, surprised Ray.
Her speech was coarse and crude--the vernacular of Tim's Place. Now and
then a profane word crept in; yet it was absolute truth, and forceful
from its very simplicity.

But another influence, more potent than her wrongs, was now appealing
to Chip--her sense of joy at her rescue, and with it a positive faith
that the spites had been the means of her escape.

"I know they did it," she said time and again, "an' I know mother was
one on 'em. I wished I cud do suthin' to show 'em how thankful I am
'n' how happy I am now." And Ray, astonished that so keen-witted and
courageous a girl should have such a fantastic belief, made no comment.

A more serious subject was under discussion in the other canoe, meantime,
as to the future disposition of Chip herself.

"I feel it my duty to take care of her," Angie said, after relating
her conversation with Chip and that morning's incident. "She is a
homeless, outcast waif, needing education and everything else to
Christianize her. We must bring her to the settlement, but to turn
her adrift might mean leaving her to a life of vice, even if she
escapes her brutal father and this worse half-breed. Then, again, I am
not sure that her parentage will bear inspection. She has told me
something about her earlier life, and about her mother, who evidently
loved her. One course only seems plain to me,--to take care of and
educate this unfortunate."

"I am willing, my dear," responded Martin, who, like all new husbands,
was ready to concede anything, "only I suggest that you go a little
slow. You can't tell yet what this girl will develop into. She has had
the worst possible parentage, without doubt. Her life at Tim's Place,
and contact with lumbermen or worse, has been no benefit. She is grossly
ignorant, and may be ill-tempered, and once given to understand that
you have practically adopted her, you can't--or won't--have the heart
to turn her off. Now we are to return to the lake and remain a month, as
you know, and in the meantime, what will you do with this girl?"

This was reducing Angie's philanthropic impulses to a focus, as it were,
and it set her thinking. Something more of this discussion followed,
and finally Angie announced her decision.

"We must take the girl back with us," she said, "and begin her
reformation at the camp. If she shows any aptitude and willingness to
obey, we will take her to Greenvale. If not, you must arrange to get
her into some institution."

"And suppose the half-breed finds where she is, what then?" inquired
Martin.

"What do you say, Levi?" he added, turning to his guide, "you know
this fellow; what will he be apt to do?"

"I s'pose you know what a panther'll do, robbed of her cub," Levi
answered, "an' how a bull moose acts in runnin' time, mebbe. Wal,
this Pete is worse'n both on 'em biled into one, I callate. If you're
goin' ter take the gal back, you've got to keep her shady, or some day
you'll find her missin'. Besides, Pete, ez I told ye, don't know the
meanin' o' law and is handy with a gun."

But Martin did not quite share Levi's fears, and so Angie's decision
was agreed to. Levi's advice to "keep shady" was accepted, however,
and all through that summer's somewhat thrilling experiences it was the
rule of conduct.

When noon came, Levi led the way into a lagoon; in a secluded spot at its
head dinner was cooked, and when the sun was well down and a tributary
stream was reached, he turned into it, and halted not for the night camp
until a full half-mile separated them from the river.

A certain vague sense of impending danger began to impress both Martin
and his wife, and the woods seemed to hold a one-eyed, malicious villain
who might appear at any moment. A danger which we know actually exists,
we can avoid or meet squarely; but one merely imaginary becomes irksome
and really more annoying.

No hint of this was dropped by the three older ones, and when the tents
were pitched, long before twilight, and Martin and Ray had captured a
goodly string of trout and the camp-fire was alight, this wildwood life
seemed absolutely perfect, to the young folks at least.

Chip also showed one of the best features of her training. She wanted to
help everybody and do everything, and Levi, who always did the cooking,
was importuned to let her help. Strong as a young Amazon, she fetched
and carried like a man, and the one thing that gladdened her most was
permission to work.

When supper was over came the lounging beside the cheerful fire, and as
the shadows thickened, forth came Ray's banjo once more, and with it the
light of admiration in Chip's eyes.

All that day he had been her charming companion; his open, manly face,
his bright brown eyes, had been ever before her. His well-bred ways, so
unlike all the men at Tim's Place, had impressed her as those of a youth
of eighteen will a maid of sixteen; and now, with his voice appealing
to the best in her, he seemed like Pan of old, once more wooing a nymph
with his pipes.

No knowledge of this was hers, no consciousness of why she was happy came
to her. She knew what spites were; but the god Pan and Apollo with his
harp were unknown forms.

Neither did she realize that born in her soul that day, on the broad
shining river, was a magic impulse woven out of heart throbs, and
destined to mete out to her more sorrow than all else in her life
combined.

She had entered the wondrous vale of love whose paths are flower-strewn,
whose shores are rippled with laughter, and whose borders, alas! are ever
hid in the midst of tears.



CHAPTER IV


  "The wilderness allus seems full o' spectres 'n' creepin'
  crawlin' panthers. Sometimes I think it's God, an' then
  agin, the devil."--Old Cy Walker.

Tim's Place, this refuge in the wilderness, cleared and colonized by
Tim Connor, was neither better nor worse than such pioneer openings in
Nature's domain are apt to be. Tim, a hardy Irishman of sod-hovel and
potato-diet ancestors, had been blacksmith for a lumber camp on this
broad river and at its junction with a tributary called the Fox Hole
years before Chip was born.

When all the adjacent lumber was cut and sent down this river, the camp
was abandoned, and then Tim saw his opening. With his precious winter's
wages he purchased a large tract of this now worthless land, induced a
robust Bridget, his brother Mike, and his consort to join fortunes with
him, brought in cows, horses, pigs, and poultry, and began farming with
the lumber camp as domicile.

Another log cabin was soon added, the first crop of potatoes sold
readily to other lumbermen farther in the wilderness, the pigs in a
sty adjacent to his own throve, the poultry multiplied, children came,
and the red-shirted men coming into the wilderness or going out found
Tim's Place convenient.

With this added business came an enlargement in Tim's ideas, the
outcome of which was a framed house containing a kitchen and dining room
and half a dozen others of closet-like proportions, furnished with
box-on-legs beds. It was not a pretentious hostelry. Paint, shutters,
and carpets were absent, benches served for chairs, the only mirror in
it was eight by twelve inches, and used in common by Bridget and Mary.
The toilet conveniences consisted of a wash-basin in the kitchen sink and
a "last year's" towel, used semi-occasionally. A long table bare of
cloth and set with tinware served in the dining room, warmed in winter by
a round sheet-iron stove; above it usually hung an array of socks and
mittens, and a capacious cook stove half filled the kitchen. It was the
crudest possible backwoods abode, and yet compared to the log cabin
first occupied by Tim, it was a palace, and he was proud of it.

In autumn swarms of lumbermen halted there, content to sleep on the floor
if need be. In spring they came again, log-driving down stream; later
a few sportsmen occasionally tried it, and all fared alike.

There was no sentiment about Tim. If the citified fishermen objected to
what they found, "Be gob, you kin kape away," he readily told them. A
quarter for each meal, or a night's lodging, was the price, whether a
bed or the floor was provided, and from early spring until frost came,
all the occupants went barefoot.

When snow had made the sixty miles of log road to the nearest settlement
passable, Tim invariably journeyed hither with horse and bob-sled for
clothing and supplies.

No knowledge or news from the world reached here, unless brought by
chance visitors. Sundays were an unknown factor, the work of clearing
land and potato-raising became a continuous performance from spring
until autumn; and the change of seasons, the rise and fall of the river,
were the only measure of time.

An addition to Tim's Place, other than babies and pigs, came one fall in
an old Indian who, by ample presents of game, soon won Tim's good-will
and help in the erection of a log wigwam; but this relic of a vanishing
race--reckoned by Tim as partially insane--remained there only winters,
and when spring returned, disappeared into the wilderness.

There were also two other occasional visitors both meriting description.
First, a beetle-browed, keen-eyed, red-haired man garbed as a hunter,
whose speech disclosed something of the Scotch dialect, and who,
presenting Tim with a deer and two bottles of whiskey as a peace-offering
on his first arrival, soon obtained a welcome. He told a plausible
tale of having been pursued for years by enemies seeking his life;
how he had been robbed and driven away from the settlements; and how
two of these enemies had even followed him into the woods. He had
been shot at by them, had killed one in self-defence, a price had been
set upon his capture, dead or alive, and, all in all, he was a sorely
abused man.

How much of this lurid and fantastic tale Tim believed, is not pertinent
to this narrative. The stranger, calling himself McGuire, was evidently
a good fellow, since he brought good whiskey, and Tim made him welcome.

The facts as to McGuire, however, were somewhat at variance with his
assertions. He had originally been a dive-keeper in a focal city for
the lumbering interests of this wilderness, had entertained swarms of
log-drivers just paid off and anxious to spend money, and when the law
interfered, he retreated to a smaller town.

In the interval, strange to say, his moral nature--or rather
immoral--suffered a brief relapse, during which he persuaded an
excellent if confiding young woman to share his name and infamy.

His second business venture came to grief, however, and his wife deserted
him and met with a fatal accident a few years after. In the meantime
he had kept busy, exercising his peculiar talents and tastes in an
individual manner, and evading officers, and his ways of money-getting
were peculiar and diverse.

The Chinese Exclusion Act had just become operative, and the admission
of Celestials into the land of the free, and of good wages, became a
valuable matter. McGuire conceived the brilliant, if grewsome, idea of
passing "Chinks" over the border line concealed in coffins. It worked
admirably, and with accomplices on both sides to obtain certificates
and permits, and take charge of the "corpses," a few dozen almond-eyed
immigrants at two hundred dollars each obtained admission.

In time, this budding industry met an official quietus, and McGuire,
with several warrants out against him, took to the woods. He still
continued business, however, in various ways. He smuggled liquor over
the border by canoe loads, hiding it at convenient points, to exchange
for log-drivers' wages. He killed game out of season, and dynamited
trout and salmon on spawning beds for the same purpose; and, handy
with cards, did not disdain their use in lumbering camps.

In all and through all his various ways of money-getting, one purpose
had governed him--that of money-saving. Trusting no one, as he had reason
to feel no one trusted him, he continually emulated the squirrels and
hid his savings in the woods. A trapper and hunter by instinct, as well
as thief, dive-keeper, smuggler, poacher, and gambler, he had in his
wanderings discovered a cave in a slate ledge upon the shores of a small
lake far into the wilderness. It was while trapping here that he found
this by the aid of a fox which, while dragging a trap, became caught
and held in a crevasse while attempting to enter it.

The fox thus secured, McGuire made further investigation, and by removing
a loose slab of slate, he was enabled to enter a roomy cavern, or rather
two small ones partially separated by slate walls. A little light
entered the larger one, through a seam crossing it lengthwise. They were
free from moisture at this time--early autumn--and so secluded was the
spot that McGuire decided at once to use this place as a hiding-spot
for his money. The entrance could be kept concealed, its location served
his purpose, and, fox-like himself, he decided to occupy what he
would never have found without the aid of a fox, believing no one
else would find it. It could also be used as a domicile for himself as
well. A fireplace of slate could be built in it, an escape for smoke
might be formed through the crack, if enlarged, and so this cave's
possibilities increased.

There were still several other advantages. This lake was surrounded by
precipitous mountains; no lumbermen, even, were likely to operate there;
the stream flowing out of it soon crossed the border line, finding escape
into the St. Lawrence valley at a point some twenty miles distant; a
short carry enabled him to reach the Fox Hole which flowed by Tim's
Place, and so this served as an excellent whip road in case of pursuit.

His transient asylum at Tim's Place also served as a vantage point in
another way.

Here all who entered this portion of the wilderness invariably
halted,--officers and wardens as well,--and as by this time McGuire
had become an outlaw murderer, with a reward offered for his capture,
this outpost was of double advantage.

Caution was a strong point in his make-up, yet he was daring as well.
He still visited the settlements occasionally, to sell furs and obtain
ammunition and whiskey; and when he, as ill luck would have it, happened
there at the time his child was left motherless, some malign impulse led
him to take her to Tim's Place and leave her in servitude there.

There was also another chance caller at this outpost--a half-breed
trapper and hunter named Bolduc, who had established himself in a
lone cabin on the Fox Hole, some ten miles up from Tim's Place. He
was a repulsive minor edition of McGuire. A wildcat, with laudable
intentions, had essayed putting an end to his career, and succeeded to
the extent of one eye and some blood. He had been the accomplice and
partner of McGuire in many a whiskey-smuggling trip. He also dealt in
this pernicious, but valuable, fluid, was a poacher ever ready to
pot-hunt for a lumbering camp in winter, or find a moose yard on
snow-shoes, after slaughtering the helpless inmates of which, he
would sell them to the busy wood-choppers.

He, too, could be classed as brigand of the wilderness, and while no
warrants or charges against him were rife, he felt it wise to avoid
meeting minions of the law. Tim's Place was a convenient point to
obtain information as to location of new lumber camps or possible visits
of officers. An occasional bottle of whiskey secured Tim's favor.
The evenings and meals there impressed Pete with the advantages of
owning a woman's services, and as Chip matured in domestic and other
possibilities, a desire to possess her began to increase his visits.

His wooing met no response, however, and when persisted in always awoke
on her part the same instinct once displayed toward him by a wildcat.

Then recourse to her father's greed for money was taken, with results as
described.

The only thing that saved poor Chip from pursuit and capture, however,
was his wholesome fear of her finger-nails, and the belief that it was
best to let her father earn the balance of her price and fetch her, as
agreed. Acting upon this theory, Pete had departed from Tim's Place at
dawn, to await her arrival at his cabin, quite oblivious of the fact that
his bird had flown.

All that long day he waited in great expectancy. Toward evening he
returned to Tim's Place to learn that Chip had not been seen since
the previous night; that her father had also vanished without comment.
That he was a party to this trick and deception, and, after securing his
three hundred dollars, had taken her away, was Pete's conclusion,
and he vowed a murderous revenge. He returned to his cabin, little
realizing that twenty miles away poor Chip, faint with hunger and the
terror of a vast wilderness, was fighting her way through bush, bramble,
and swamp in a mad attempt to escape.

Neither did Tim, while regretting the loss of his slave, know or care
that one of his occasional visitors was now a mortal enemy of the other,
and that a tragedy, dark and grewsome, would be its outcome.



CHAPTER V


  "The size o' a toad is allus reg'lated by the size o' the
  puddle."--Old Cy Walker.

A week was spent by Martin and his party at the settlement, during which
he acquired the title to township forty-four, range ten, which included
the little lake near the hermit's hut, and made a foursquare-mile tract
about it.

Chip, thanks to Angie, secured a simple outfit of apparel and--surprising
fact--evinced excellent taste in its selection, thereby proving that
eight years of isolation and a gunny-sack and red-shirt garb had not
obliterated the deepest instinct of woman.

To Levi, Martin's woodwise helper, was left the selection of fittings
for the new camp. A couple of husky Canucks were engaged to bring them in
in a bateau, and then the party started on its return.

Only one incident of importance occurred during the wait at this
village known as Grindstone. Angie and Chip had just left the only
store there, in front of which a group of log-drivers had congregated,
when Angie, glancing back, saw that one of the group was following
them. She quickened her pace, and so did he, until just as they turned
into a side street, he passed them, halted, and turned about.

"Wal, I'm damned if 'tain't Chip, an' dressed like a leddy," he
exclaimed, as they drew near.

"Hullo, Chip," he added, as they passed, "when did you strike luck?"

Chip made no response and he muttered again, "Wal, I'm damned, jest
like a leddy!"

It was annoying, especially to Angie, and neither of the two realized
how soon this blunt log-driver's discovery would reach Tim's Place.

And now, leaving the bateau to follow, the party started once more on
their journey into the wilderness. No sight or sign of pursuit from the
half-breed had been thus far observed. A few idle lumbermen in the
village--the only visible connection between the vast forest and a
busy world--were little thought of, as their canoes crept slowly up
the narrowing river and gave no hint of interference from this low
brute to any one except Levi.

He, however, seldom speaking, but ever acting, kept watch and ward
continually. At every bend of the stream his eyes were alert to catch
the first sight of a down-coming canoe in time to conceal Chip, as
he decided must be done. When night camps were made, a site at the
head of the lagoon or up some tributary stream was selected, and while
not even hinting his reason for this, he felt it wise. As they drew
near to Tim's Place, it began to occur to Martin that Chip's presence
had best be concealed until that point was passed. He also desired
to learn the situation there. He had always halted at this clearing in
all his up-river journeys, so far, usually to buy pork and potatoes, and
he now intended to do so again. He also felt it imperative to conceal
Chip in Ray's canoe, before they reached Tim's Place, and let Ray
paddle slowly on while the halt was made. But Levi dissented.

"'Tain't best," he said, "to let Tim know there's two canoes of
us and one not stoppin'. It'll make him s'picious o' suthin, 'n'
what he 'spects, Pete'll find out. I callate we'd best pass thar in
the night, leave the wimmen above, 'n' you 'n' I go back 'n' git
what we want."

"But what about the Canucks following us with the bateau?" returned
Martin. "They'll tell who is with us, won't they?"

"They didn't see us start," answered Levi, "'n' can't swear wimmen
came. We'll say we're alone, 'n' bein' so'll make it plausible,
'n' you might say we're goin' to build a camp 'n' 'nother season
fetch our wimmen in."

"But how about our men, on the return trip, after finding we have women
at the camp?" rejoined Martin. "They will be sure to tell all they know
on the way back."

"We've got to keep the wimmen shady, an' fool 'em," answered Levi.
And so his plan was adopted.

It was in the early hours of morning when the two canoes crept
noiselessly past Tim's Place. The stars barely outlined the river's
course, the frame dwelling, log cabin, and stump-dotted slope back of
them. All the untidiness existent about this dwelling was hid in
darkness, and only the faint sounds and odors betrayed these conditions.
But every eye and ear in the two canoes was alert, paddles were dipped
without sound, and Chip's heart was beating so loudly that it seemed
to her Tim and all his family must be awakened. Her recent escape
from this spot and all the reasons forcing it, the fear that both her
father and the half-breed might even now be there, added dread; and
not until a bend hid even the shadowy view of this plague spot did she
breathe easier.

"I was nigh skeered to death," she whispered to Ray when safety seemed
assured, "an' if ever Pete finds I'm up whar the folks is goin',
I'm a goner."

"Oh, we'll take care of you," returned that boy, with the boundless
confidence of youth; "my uncle can shoot as well as any one, and then
Old Cy is up at the camp, and he's a wonder with a rifle. Why, I've
seen him hit a crow a half-mile off!"

Smoke was ascending from the chimney, and the rising sun was just visible
when Martin and Levi returned to Tim's. Mike was out in an enclosure,
milking; Tim was back of the house, preparing the pigs' breakfast. The
pigs were squealing, and a group of unwashed children were watching
operations, when Martin appeared. A pleasant "Good morning" from him
and a gruff one from Tim was the introduction, and then that stolid
pioneer started for the sty. Not even the unusual event of a caller
could hinder him from the one duty he most enjoyed,--the care of his
beloved swine.

"You have some nice thrifty pigs," began Martin, when the pen was
reached, desiring to placate Tim.

"They are thot," he returned.

"My guide and I are on our way into the woods, to build a camp,"
continued Martin, anxious to have his errand over with, "and we halted
to buy a few potatoes of you and some pork. I have a couple of men
following with a bateau," he continued, after pausing for a reply
which did not come; "they will be along in a day or two with most of
our supplies; but I felt sure I could get some extra good pork of you
and some choice potatoes."

"You kin thot same," replied Tim, his demeanor obviously softening
under this flattery, and so business relations were established.

Martin had intended asking some cautious question regarding Chip or her
father; but Tim's surly face, his unresponsive manner, and a mistrust
of its wisdom prevented. He was blunt of speech, almost to the verge of
insolence, and the arrival of Martin with all his polite words evoked
not a vestige of welcome; and yet back of those keen gray eyes of his a
deal of cunning might lurk, thought Martin.

Two slovenly women peered out of back door and window while the interview
was in progress. Mike came and looked on in silence; two of the
oldest children were down by the canoe where Levi waited; the rest,
open-eyed and astonished, seemed likely to be trodden on by some one
each moment. When the stores were secured and paid for, and Martin
had pushed off with Levi, he realized something of the life Chip must
have led there.

He had intended not only to obtain potatoes, but some information of
value. He obtained the goods, paying a thrifty price, also a good bit
of cold shoulder, and that was all.

But Levi, shrewd woodsman that he was, fared better.

"I larned Chip's gone off with old McGuire," he asserted with a quiet
smile when they were well away, "an' that Pete's swearin' murder agin
him."

"And how?" responded Martin, in astonishment. "I felt that silence
was golden with that surly chap, and didn't ask a question."

"I'm glad," rejoined Levi. "I wanted to tell you not to, and I've
larned all we want. Children are easy to pump, an' I did it 'thout
wakin' a hint o' 'spicion. Tim's folks all believe Chip's gone
with her dad. Pete thinks so, an' is watchin' for him with a gun, I
'spect, an' if so, the sooner they meet, the better."

It was gratifying news to Martin, and when the other canoe was reached,
the two again pushed on, with Martin, at least, feeling that the ways
of Fate might prove acceptable.

Three days more were consumed in reaching the lake now owned by him, for
the river was low, carries had to be made around two rapids, and when at
last the sequestered, forest-bordered sheet of water was being crossed,
Martin wished some titanic hand might raise an impassable barrier about
his possessions.

Old Cy's joy at their return was almost hilarious. To a man long past
the spasmodic exuberance of youth, loving nature and the wild as few do,
the six months here with the misanthropic old hermit, then a month of
more cheerful companionship, followed by the departure of Martin and
Angie, made this forest home-coming doubly welcome.

But Chip's appearance, and the somewhat thrilling episode of her escape
from Tim's Place and her rescue, astonished him. Like all old men
who are childless, a young girl and her troubles touched a responsive
chord in his heart, and on the instant Chip's unfortunate condition
found sympathy. Her bluntly told story, with all its details, held him
spellbound. He laughed over her description of spites, and when she
seemed hurt at this seeming levity, he assured her that spites were a
reality in the woods--he had seen hundreds of them. It was not long ere
he had won her confidence and good-will, as he had Ray's, and then he
took Martin aside.

"That gal's chaser's bin here 'bout a week ago," he said, "an' the
worst-lookin' cuss I ever seen. I know from his description 'twas
him. He kept quizzin' me ez to how long we'd been here, if I knew
McGuire, or had seen him lately, until I got sorter riled 'n' began
to string him. I told him finally that I'd been foolin' all 'long;
that McGuire was a friend o' mine; that he'd been here a day or two
afore, borrowed some money 'n' lit out fer Canada, knowin' there
was a bad man arter him. Then this one-eyed gazoo got mad, real mad,
'n' said things, an' then he cleared out."

When Martin explained the situation, as he now did, Old Cy chuckled.

"'Tain't often one shoots in the dark 'n' makes a bull's eye," he
said.

"I think you and I had better keep mum about this half-breed's call,"
Martin added quietly, "and if Angie mentions it, you needn't say that
you know who he was. It will only make my wife and the girl nervous."

The two tents were now pitched at the head of a cove, some rods away from
the hermit's hut, and well out of sight from the landing, and to these
both Angie and Chip were assured they must flee as soon as the expected
bateau entered the lake, and remain secluded until it had departed.

In a way, it was a ticklish situation. All knowledge that this waif
was with Martin's party must be kept from Tim's Place and this
half-breed, or she wouldn't be safe an hour; and until the Canucks
had come and gone, she must be kept hidden. Another and quite a serious
annoyance to Martin was the fact that he had counted on these two men
as helpers in cutting and hauling logs for this new camp. Only man-power
was available, and to move logs a foot in diameter and twenty feet
long, in midsummer, was no easy task; but Levi, more experienced in
camp-building, made light of it.

"We'll cut the logs we need, clus to the lake," he said, "float 'em
'round, 'n' roll 'em up on skids. It's easy 'nough, 'n' we don't
need them Canuckers round a minit."

It was four days of keen suspense to Chip before they appeared. Neither
she nor Angie left the closed tent while they remained over night, or
until they had been gone many hours, and then every one felt easier.

The ringing sound of axes now began to echo over the rippled lake, logs
were towed across with canoes, a cellar under the new cabin site was
excavated, and home-building in the wilderness went merrily on.

While the men worked, Angie and Chip were not idle. Not only did they
have meals to prepare over a rude outdoor fireplace, but they gathered
grass and moss for beds, wove a hammock and rustic chair seats out of
sedge grass, and countless other useful aids.

Chip was especially helpful and more grateful than a dog for any and all
consideration. Not a step that she could take or a bit of work that she
could do was left to Angie; her interest and do-all-she-could desire
never flagged, and from early morn until the supper dishes were washed
and wiped, Chip was busy.

But Martin, and especially Levi, had other causes for worry than those
which camp-building entailed. The fact that this "Pernicious Pete," as
Angie had once called him, would soon learn of their presence here,
and hating all law-abiding people, as such forest brigands always do,
would naturally seek to injure them, was one cause. Then, there were
so many ways by which he could do harm. A fire started at one corner
of the hut at midnight, the same Indian-like malice applied to their
two tents, the stealing of their canoes or the gashing of them with a
hunting-knife, and countless other methods of venting spite, presented
themselves. In a way, they were helpless against such a night-prowling
enemy. Over one hundred miles separated them from civilization and all
assistance; an impassable wilderness lay between. The stream and their
canoes were the only means of egress. These valuable craft were left
out of sight and sound each night, on the lake shore, and so their
vulnerability on all sides was manifest.

Then, Chip's presence was an added danger. If once this brute found that
she was here, there was no limit to what he would do to secure her and
take revenge. They had smuggled her past Tim's Place, but concealment
here was impossible; if ever this half-breed returned, she would be
discovered, and then what?

And so by day, while Martin and Levi were busy with hut-building, or
beside the evening camp-fire when Ray picked his banjo and Chip watched
him with admiring glances, these two guardians had eyes and ears ever
alert for this expected enemy.



CHAPTER VI


  "It allus makes me coltish to see two young folks a-weavin'
  the thread o' affection."--Old Cy Walker.

There were three people at Birch Camp,--as Angie had christened
it,--namely, herself, Ray, and Chip, who did not share Martin's
suspicion of danger. A firm belief that a woman's aid in such a
complication was of no value, coupled with a desire to save her
anxiety, had kept his lips closed as to the situation.

Life here at all hours soon settled itself into a certain daily
routine of work, amusement, and, on Chip's part, of study. True to
her philanthropic sense of duty toward this waif, Angie had at once
set about her much-needed education. A reading and spelling book
suitable for a child of eight had been secured at the settlement, and
now "lessons" occupied a few hours of each day.

It was only a beginning, of course, and yet with constant reminders
as to pronunciation, this was all that Angie could do. The idioms of
Tim's Place, with all its profanity, still adhered to Chip's speech.
This latter, especially, would now and then crop out in spite of all
admonitions; and so Angie found that her pupil made slow progress.

There was also another reason for this. Chip was afraid of her, and oft
reproved for her lapses in speech, soon ceased all unnecessary talk when
with Angie.

But with Ray it was different. He was near her own age, the companionship
of youth was theirs, and with him Chip's speech was ready enough. This,
of course, answered all the purposes of benefit by assimilation, and
so Angie was well satisfied that they should be together. Beyond that
she had no thought that love might accrue from this association.

Chip, while fair of face and form, and at a sentimental age, was so crude
of speech, so grossly ignorant, and so allied to the ways and manners of
Tim's Place, that, according to Angie's reasoning, Ray's feelings
were safe enough. He was well bred and refined, a happy, natural boy now
verging upon manhood. In Greenvale he had never shown much interest in
girls' society, and while he now showed a playmate enjoyment of Chip's
company, that was all that was likely to happen.

But the winged god wots not of speech or manners. A youth of eighteen and
a maid of sixteen are the same the world over, and so out of sight of
Angie, and unsuspected by her, the by-play of heart-interest went on.

And what a glorious golden summer opportunity these two had!

Back of the camp and tending northwest to southeast was a low ridge of
outcropping slate, bare in spots--a hog-back, in wilderness phrase.
Beyond this lay a mile-long "blow-down," where a tornado had levelled
the tall timber. A fire, sweeping this when dry, left a criss-cross
confusion of charred logs, blueberry bushes had followed fast, and now
those luscious berries were ripening in limitless profusion. Every fair
day Ray and Chip came here to pick, to eat, to hear the birds sing, to
gather flowers and be happy.

They watched the rippled lake with now and then a deer upon its shores,
from this ridge; they climbed up or down it, hand in hand; they fished in
the lake or canoed about it, time and again; and many a summer evening,
when the moon served, Chip handled the paddle, while Ray picked his
banjo and sang his darky songs all around this placid sheet of water.

And what a wondrous charm this combination of moonlight on the lake and
love songs softened and made tender by the still water held for Chip! As
those melodies had done on that first evening beside the camp-fire, so
now they filled her soul with a strange, new-born, and wonderful sense of
joy and gladness.

The black forest enclosing them now was sombre and silent. Spites still
lurked in its depths and doubtless were watching; but a protector was
near, his arm was strong; back at the landing were kind friends, and the
undulating path of silvered light, the round, smiling orb above, the
twinkling stars, and this matchless music became a new wonder-world to
her.

Her eyes glistened and grew tender with pathos. She had no more idea than
a child why she was happy. Each day sped by on wings of wind, each hour,
with her one best companion, the most joyful, and so, day by day, poor
Chip learned the sad lesson of loving.

But never a word or hint of this fell from her lips. Ray was so far above
her and such a young hero, that she, a homeless outcast, tainted by the
filth and service of Tim's Place, could only look to him as she did
to the moon.

They laughed and exchanged histories. Ofttimes he reproved her speech.
They fished, picked berries, and worked together like two big children,
and only her wistful eyes told the other why they were wistful.

Martin, busy at camp-building and watching ever for an enemy's coming,
saw it not. Angie was as obtuse; the old hermit, misanthropic and verging
into dotage, was certainly oblivious, and so no ripples of interest
disturbed these workers.

Such conditions were as sunshine to flowers in aiding the two young
lovers, so this forest idyl matured rapidly. Chip, perhaps more
imaginative than Ray, since most of her education had been the weird
superstition of Old Tomah, felt most of its emotional force, though
unconscious of the reason.

"I dunno why I feel so upset all the time lately," she said one
afternoon to Ray as, returning from the berry field, they halted on
top of the ridge to scan the lake below. "Some o' the time I feel so
happy I want to sing, 'n' then I feel jes' t'other way, 'n'
like cryin'. When the good spell is on, everything looks so purty,
'n' when I come on to a bunch o' posies, then I feel I must go right
down on my knees 'n' kiss 'em. When I was at Tim's Place, I never
thought about anything 'cept to get my work done 'n' keep from
gettin' cussed 'n' licked. I was scart, too, most o' the time,
'n' kept feelin' suthin awful was goin' to happen to me. Now that's
'most gone, but I feel a heartache in place on't. I allus hev a spell
o' feelin' so every mornin' when I wake up 'n' hear the birds
singin'. They 'fect me so that I'm near cryin' 'fore I git up. You
'n' Mis' Frisbie 'n' everybody's been so good to me, I guess it's
made me silly. Then thar's 'nother thing worries me, an' that's
goin' to the settlement whar you folks is from. I feel I kin sorter earn
my keepin' here, but I s'pose I can't thar, 'n' that bothers me.
If only you 'n' all the rest was goin' to stay here all the time
'n' I could work some, same as I do now, an' be with you odd spells
'n' evenin's, I'd be so happy. It 'ud be jest like the spot Old
Tomah said we're goin' to when we die. He used to tell how 'twas
summer thar all the time, with game plenty, berries ripe, flowers
growin', too, all the year 'round, 'n' birds singin'. He believed
thar was two places somewhar: one for white folks and one fer Injuns;
that when we died we turned into spites, stayed 'round till we got
revenge for everything bad done us, or got a chance to pay up what good
we owed for."

"I don't know where we go to when we quit this world, and neither
does anybody else, I believe," Ray answered philosophically, and
scarce understanding Chip's mood. "I believe, as Old Cy does, that
the time to be happy is when we are young and can be; that when we
are ready to leave this world is time enough for another one. As to your
worrying about your going to Greenvale," he added confidently, and
encircling Chip's waist with one arm, "why, you've got me to look
out for you, and then Angie won't begrudge you your keep, so don't
think about that." And then this young optimist, quite content with
what the gods had provided in this maid of sweet lip and appealing eye,
assured her she had everything to make her happy, including himself for
companion; that all her moody spells were merely memories of Tim's
Place, best forgotten, and much more of equally tender and silly import.

Not for one instant did he realize the growing independence and
self-reliance of this wilderness waif, or how the first feeling that
she was a burden upon these kind people would chafe and vex her defiant
nature, until she would scorn even love, to escape it.

Just now the tender impulse of first love was all Ray felt or
considered. This girl of sweet sixteen and utter confidence in him was
so enthralling in spite of her crude speech and lack of education, her
kisses were so much his to take whenever chance offered, and himself
such a young hero in her sight, that he thought of naught else.

In this, or at least so far as his reasoning went, they were like two
grown-up children entering a new world--the enchanted garden of love. Or
like two souls merged into one in impulse, yet in no wise conscious why
or for what all-wise purpose.

For them alone the sun shone, birds sang, leaves rustled, flowers
bloomed, and the blue lake rippled. For them alone was all this charming
chance given, with all that made it entrancing. For them alone was life,
love, and lips that met in ecstasy.

Oh, wondrous beatitude! Oh, heaven-born joy! Oh, divine illusion that
builds the world anew, and building thus, believes its secret safe!

But Old Cy, wise old observer of all things human, from the natural
attraction of two children to the philosophy of content, saw and
understood.

Not for worlds would he hint this to Angie or Martin. Full well he knew
how soon this "weavin' o' the threads o' affection," would be
frowned upon by them; but he loved children as few men do.

This summer-day budding of romance would end in a few weeks, these two
were happy now--let them remain so, and perhaps in Chip's case it might
prove the one best incentive to her own improvement.

And now as he watched them day by day, came another feeling. Homeless all
his life so far, and for many years a wanderer, these two had awakened
the home-building impulse in his. He could not have a home himself, he
could only help them to one in the future, and to that end and purpose
he now bent his thought.

The weeks there with Ray had opened Old Cy's heart to him. Even sooner,
and with greater force, had Chip's helpless condition made the same
appeal, and as he watched her wistful eyes and willing ways, in spite
of her speech and in spite of her origin, he saw in her the making of a
good wife and mother. Her heritage, as he now guessed, was of the worst,
her education was yet to be obtained; but for all that, a girl--no, a
child--of sixteen who would dare sixty miles of wilderness alone to save
herself from a shameful fate, was of the metal and fibre to win, and
more than that, deserved the best that life afforded.

How he could at present aid her, he saw not. A few years of help and time
to study must be given her, and as Old Cy realized how much must be done
for her and how uncertain it was whether Angie would find time, or be
willing to do it, then and there he determined to share that duty with
her.

It was midsummer when Martin and his party returned to the lake with
Chip. In two weeks the new log cabin--a large one, divided into three
compartments--was erected and ready for occupation, and so convenient
and picturesque a wildwood dwelling was it that a brief description may
be tolerated.

All log cabins are much alike--a square enclosure of unhewn logs thatched
with saplings and chinked with mud and moss. A low door of boards or
split poles is the usual entrance, with one small window for light; its
floor may be of small split logs or mother earth, and at best it is a
cramped, cheerless hovel.

But Martin's was a more pretentious creation. Its location, well out on
the birch-clad point, back of which stood the hermit's hut, commanded a
view of the lake. A group of tall-stemmed spruce, amid which it stood,
gave shade, yet allowed observation. It was of oblong shape, with a
wide piazza of white birch poles and roof of same; two four-pane windows
to each room gave ample light; a small Franklin stove had been brought
for the sitting room, and a cook stove occupied the "lean-to" cook
room back of the main cabin. Beds, chairs, and benches were fashioned
from the plentiful white birch stems, and floor and doors were of planed
boards.

It was but a crude structure, compared to even the humblest of civilized
dwellings; and yet with all its fittings conveyed into this wilderness in
one bateau, and with only axes, a saw, and hammer for tools, as was
the case, it was a marvel.

Working as all the men had done from dawn until dark to complete this
cabin, no recreation had been taken by any one except Ray and Chip; and
now Martin, a keen sportsman, felt that his turn had come. The trout were
rising night and morn all over the lake, partridges so tame that they
would scarce fly were as plenty as sparrows, a half-dozen deer could be
seen any time along the lake shore--in fact, one had already furnished
them venison--and so Martin now anticipated some relaxation and sport.

But Fate willed otherwise.

One of Old Cy's first and most far-sighted bits of work, after being
left with the hermit the previous autumn, had been the erection of an
ice-house out of large saplings. It stood at the foot of a high bank
on the north of the knoll and close to the lake, and here, out of the
sunshine, yet handy to fill, stood his creation. Its double walls of
poles were stuffed with moss, its roof chinked with blue clay, a sliding
door gave ingress, and even now, with summer almost gone, an ample supply
of ice remained in it.

In the division of duties among these campers, Levi usually started the
morning fire while Old Cy visited the ice-house for anything needed. One
morning after the new cabin was completed, he came here as usual.

A fine string of trout caught by Martin and Ray the day before were
hanging in this ice-house, and securing what was needed, Old Cy closed
the door and turned away. As usual with him, he glanced up and down
the narrow beach to see if a deer had wandered along there that morning,
and in doing so he now saw, close to the water's edge and distinctly
outlined in the damp sand, the print of a moccasined foot.

It was of extra large size, and as Old Cy bent over it, he saw it had
recently been made. Glancing along toward the head of this cove, he saw
more tracks, and two rods away, the sharp furrow of a canoe prow in the
sand.

"It's that pesky half-breed, sure's a gun," he muttered, stooping
over the track, "fer a good bit o' his legs was turned up to walk on,
and he wore moccasins t'other day."

Curious now, and somewhat startled, he looked along where the narrow
beach curved out and around to the landing, and saw the tracks led that
way. Then picking his way so as not to obscure them, he followed until
not three rods from the new cabin they left the beach and were plainly
visible behind a couple of spruces, in the soft carpet of needles, which
was crushed for a small space, where some one had stood.

Returning to camp, Old Cy motioned to Levi and Martin. All three returned
to the ice-house, looked where the canoe had cut its furrow, took up
the trail to its ending beside the two trees, and then glanced into one
another's eyes with serious, sobered, troubled faces.

And well they might; for the evening previous they had all been grouped
upon the piazza of this new cabin until late, while scarce three rods
away a spying enemy, presumably this half-breed, had stood and watched
them.



CHAPTER VII


  "Blessed be them that 'spects nothin', they won't git
  fooled."--Old Cy Walker.

Christmas Cove was never disturbed by aught except small boats, and few
of them. It was a long, crescent-shaped arm of the sea, parallel to the
ocean, and separated from it by a spruce-clad cliff; its placid surface
scarcely more than rippled or undulated outside, and so shallow was it
that each ebb tide left its sandy bottom bare.

A stream found devious way along this crescent when the outflow left it
bare. Mottled minnows, schools of white and green smelts, crabs of all
sorts and sizes, swam and sported up and down this broad, shallow brook
while the tide was away, and few of human kind ever watched them.

Alongside this cove and inward a dozen or more brown houses and a few
white ones faced its curving shore, a broad street with many elms and
ruts between which the grass grew separated the houses and cove, and a
small white church with a gilt fish for weather-vane on its steeple stood
midway of these dwellings.

A low range of green hills to the northward of this village shut off
the wintry winds, at the upper end of the street a stream from a cleft
in the hills crossed it, and here stood a mill, its roof green with
moss, its clapboards brown and whitened with mill dust, the log dam
above it half obscured by willows. To the right of this a short flume
was entirely hidden by alders, and above the dam lay a pond, entirely
covered with green lily-pads, and dotted by white blossoms all summer.

Beside the mill and nearer the roadway stood an ancient dwelling,
also moss-coated; two giant elms shaded it, and the entire impression
conveyed by the mill's drowsy rumble and splashing wheel on a hot
August afternoon was--find a shady spot and take a nap.

These were the summer conditions existent at Christmas Cove. The winter
ones may be left undescribed.

Just beyond where the mill stream crossed the road the highway divided,
one fork following the trend of these hills to where a railroad crossed
them, ten miles away; the other, running close to the upper and marshy
end of Christmas Cove to where a spile bridge connected the two uplands
and thence over to another village called Bayport. This, the larger
of the two, had once contained a shipyard, now idle, a score of its
dwellings were vacant, and the two hundred or more of its population
existed by farming, fishing, lobster-catching, and a small factory
devoted to the production of sardines duly labelled with a French name.

Christmas Cove, however, was more respectable, with its hundred
residents, mostly retired sea captains with an income, and no litter of
lobster pots or nets to obstruct its one long, narrow wharf which
reached out to deep water at the mouth of the cove. A few small pleasure
craft were tethered to the wharf, and gardens, cows, and poultry were
merely diversions here.

One other income it had, however, which was considered less plebeian than
Bayport's--the money a score of city-bred people left each summer.

Keeping boarders was all right at Christmas Cove. It did not smack of
trade and commerce. No smoke of engines, no dust of coal, no noise of
hammer and saw, were parts of it. No odor from a canning factory, no
wrack of dismantled boats, tarred nets, and broken traps, was connected
with it. The dwellings at Christmas Cove were roomy, few children were
now a part of its population--scarce enough to fill the one schoolhouse
presided over by Mr. Bell, and so each season a few dozen of the uneasy
horde, always anxious to leave home and board somewhere, came here.

A daily stage line--an ancient carryall drawn by one sleepy
horse--connected this village with the railroad. Its church bell called
the faithful to Thursday evening prayer-meeting and Sunday service with
unfailing regularity. Its one general store and post-office combined, was
the evening rendezvous for a score of sea captains--grizzled hulks who
had sailed into safe harbor here at last, and who watched the
weather, discussed the visitors, and swapped yarns year in and year out.

Here also, many years before, when Bayport was more prosperous, the
threads of a romance had been woven, and two brothers, Judson and Cyrus
Walker, born at Bayport, and sailing out of it, had paid court to two
sisters, Abigail and Amanda Grey, here at Christmas Cove.

It was, as such sailors' courtships ever are, intermittent. Six, eight,
and sometimes twelve months marked its interims, until finally only
one brother, Judson, returned to announce a shipwreck in mid-ocean,
a separation of their crew in two boats, and Abbie Grey, whom Cyrus
had smiled upon, was left to wait and watch and hope.

In time, also, Judson and "Mandy" joined fortunes. In time, and after
many voyages, during which he vainly tried to find some tidings of his
brother, Judson, now Captain Walker, gave up the sea, and with wife
and two young sons retired inland, purchased an abandoned farm in a
sequestered valley, and began another life.

Another mating had also occurred at Christmas Cove, for Abbie, the other
sister and the sweetheart of Cyrus, giving him up for lost, finally
consented to share the ancestral home of Captain Bemis--once a sailor and
now the miller, who had exchanged the sea's perils for that peaceful
vocation.

His father had ground grist here for a lifetime, and passed on. His
mother still survived when Abbie Grey, once the belle of the village and
a boarding-school graduate, married Captain Bemis, twice her age, and
her old-time romance became only a memory.

No children came to fill this great, cheerless house with laughter. The
old mother was laid away in due time, Abbie, once a handsome girl, grew
portly and became Aunt Abbie to neighboring children, and finally all
the village; and disappointed as she had cause to be, she turned her
thoughts to good works and religion.

But Cyrus, adrift in an open boat with half the crew, was finally
rescued by a whaler, after starvation had left him almost an imbecile.
A four-year, compulsory voyage to southern seas followed; then
another wreck and a year on an island, and then a chance meeting with
another sailor from Bayport, and from whom he learned two unpleasant
facts,--first that his sweetheart, Abbie Grey, was married; and secondly
that his brother had been lost at sea.

One was true, of course, and somewhat disheartening to Cyrus; the
other, as discomforting, but not true. It was simply a case of mistaken
identity, his own disappearance being confounded with that of his brother.

This story served the purpose of so affecting Cyrus that he resolved
never to set foot in either Christmas Cove or Bayport, and also never
to allow any one there to know that he was alive.

From now on, also, he deserted the sea and became a wanderer. He first
lived in the wilderness, where as trapper and hunter and lumberman he
learned the woodsman's habits; and when mid-life was reached, having
become sceptical of all things, he finally settled down at Greenvale.
Here, loving children and the woods, fields, brooks, and Nature more than
raiment, religion, and respectability, he became a village nondescript,
a social outcast, and--Old Cy Walker.



CHAPTER VIII


  "The poor 'n' pious kin callate the crumbs fallin' from the
  rich man's table'll be few 'n' skimpy."--Old Cy Walker.

An enemy we can meet in the open need not appall us; but an enemy who
creeps up to us by day, or still worse by night, in a vast wilderness,
becomes a panther and an Indian combined.

Such a one had spied upon Martin's camp that night, and all the tales
of this half-breed's cunning and fierce nature, told by Levi, were now
recalled. Like a human brute whose fangs were tobacco-stained, whose one
evil eye glared at them out of darkness, the half-breed had now become a
creeping, crawling beast, impossible to trail, yet certain to bide his
time, seize Chip, or avenge her loss upon her protectors.

Now another complication arose as Martin, Old Cy, and Levi left the
spot where this enemy had watched them--what to do about Angie and the
girl? From the first warning from Levi that they were in danger from
the half-breed, Martin had avoided all hint of it to them. Now they
must be told, and all peace of mind at once destroyed. Concealment was
no longer possible, however, and when Angie was told, her face paled. Her
first intuition, and as the sequel proved, a wise one, was for them
to at once pack up and quit the woods as speedily as possible.

But Martin was of different fibre. To run away like this was cowardly,
and besides he cherished only contempt for a wretch who had played the
rôle of this fellow, and was so vile of instinct. With no desire to
do wrong, he yet felt that if sufficient provocation and the need of
self-defence arose, the earth, and especially this wilderness, would be
well rid of such a despicable creature.

Then Levi's advice carried weight.

"We ain't goin' to 'scape him," he said, "by startin' out o'
the woods now. Most likely he's got his eye on us this minute. He
knows every rod o' the way out whar we'd be likely to camp. He'd
sure follow, an' if he didn't cut our canoes to pieces some night,
he'd watch his chance 'n' grab the gal 'n' make off under cover
o' darkness. We've got a sort o' human panther to figger on, an'
shootin' under such conditions might mean killin' the gal. We've got
to go out sometime, but I don't believe in turnin' tail fust go-off,
'n' we may get a chance to wing the cuss, like ez not," and the
glitter in Levi's eyes showed he would not hesitate to shoot this
half-breed if the chance presented itself.

Old Cy's opinion is also worth quoting:--"My notion is this hyena's a
coward, 'n' like all sich'll never show himself by daylight. He knows
we've got guns 'n' know how to use 'em. The camp's as good as a
fort. One on us kin allus be on guard daytimes, an' when it's time
to go out--wal, I think we ought to hev cunnin' 'nuff 'mongst us to
gin one hyena the slip. Thar's one thing must be done, though, 'n'
that is, keep the gal clus. 'Twon't do to let her go over the hog-back
arter berries, or canoein' round the lake no more."

And now began a state of semi-siege at Birch Camp.

Chip was kept an almost prisoner, hardly ever permitted out of
Angie's sight. One of the men, always with rifle handy, remained on
guard--usually Old Cy, and for a few nights he lay in ambush near the
shore, to see if perchance this enemy would steal up again.

With all these precautions against surprise, came a certain feeling of
defiance in Martin. With Ray for companion he went fishing once more,
and with Levi as pilot he cruised about for game.

Only a few more weeks of his outing remained, and on sober second
thought, he didn't mean to let this sneaking enemy spoil those.

But Old Cy never relaxed his vigil. This waif of the wilderness and her
pitiful position appealed to him even more than to Angie, and true to
the nature that had made all Greenvale's children love him, so now did
Chip find him a kind and protecting father.

With rifle always with him, he took her canoeing and fishing; sometimes
Angie joined them, and so life at Birch Camp became pleasant once more.

A week or more of happiness was passed, with no sight or sign of their
enemy, and then one morning when Old Cy had journeyed over to the
ice-house, he glanced across the lake to a narrow valley through which a
stream known as Beaver Brook reached the lake, and far up this vale,
rising above the dense woods, was a faint column of smoke.

The morning was damp, cloudy, and still--conditions suitable for
smoke-rising, and yet so faint and distant was this that none but
the keen, observant eyes of a woodsman would have noticed it. Yet there
it was, a thin white pillar, clearly outlined against the dark green
of the foliage.

Old Cy hurried back, motioned to Levi, and the two watched it from the
front of the camp. Martin soon joined them, then Angie and Chip, and all
stood and studied this smoke sign. It was almost ludicrous, and yet not;
for at its foot must be a fire, and beside it, doubtless, the half-breed.

"Can you locate it?" queried Martin of his guide, as the delicate
column of white slowly faded.

"It's purty well up the brook," Levi answered; "thar's a sort of
Rocky Dundar thar, 'n' probably a cave. I callate if it's him, he's
s'pected a storm, 'n' so sneaked to cover."

And now, as if to prove this, a few drops of rain began to patter on
the motionless lake; thicker, faster they came, and as the little group
hurried to shelter, a torrent, almost, descended. For weeks not a drop of
rain had fallen here. Each morn the sun had risen in undimmed splendor,
to vanish at night, a ball of glorious red.

But now a change had come. Wind followed the rain, and all that day the
storm raged and roared through the dense forest about. The lake was
white with driving scud, the cabin rocked, trees creaked, and outdoor
life was impossible. When night came, it seemed a thousand demons were
wailing, moaning, and screeching in the forest, and as the little party
now grouped around the open stove in the new cabin watched it, the fire
rose and fell in unison with the blasts.

"It's the spites," whispered Chip to Ray. "They allus act that way
when it's stormin'."

The next day the gale began to lessen, and by night the moon, now half
full, peeped out of the scurrying clouds. At bedtime it was smiling
serenely, well down toward the tree-tops, and Chip's spites had ceased
their wailing.

Fortunately, however, Martin's quest for game had been successful. A
saddle of venison, a dozen or more partridges, and two goodly strings of
trout hung in cold storage.

But utter and almost speechless astonishment awaited Old Cy at the
ice-house when he visited it the next morning, for the venison was
gone, not a bird remained, and one of the two strings of trout had
vanished.

In front, on the sand, was the same tell-tale moccasin tracks.

"Wal, by the Great Horn Spoon! if that cuss hain't swiped the hull
business," Old Cy ejaculated, as he looked in and then at the tracks.
"Crossed over last night," he added, noting where a canoe had cut its
furrow, "an' steered plumb for my ice-house! The varmint!"

But Martin was angry, thoroughly angry, at the audacious insolence of
the theft, and the thought that just now this sneaking half-breed was
doubtless enjoying grilled venison and roast partridge in some secure
shelter. It also opened his eyes to the fact that this chap would hang
about, watching his chance, until they started out of the wilderness, and
then capture the girl if he could. For a little while Martin pondered
over the situation and then announced his plans.

"There's law, and officers to execute it," he said, "if a sufficient
reward be offered; and to-morrow you and I, Levi, will start for the
settlement and fetch a couple in. I'll gladly give five hundred dollars
to land this sneak behind the bars. If he can't be caught, we can at
least have two officers to guard us going out."

All that day he and Levi spent in hunting. Another deer was captured,
more birds secured, and when evening came plans to meet the situation
were discussed.

"You or Ray must remain on guard daytimes near the cabin," Martin said
to Old Cy. "My wife and Chip had better keep in it, or near it most of
the time; and both of you must sleep there nights. One or the other can
fish or hunt, as needed. We must be gone a week or more, even if we have
good luck; but fetching the officers here is the best plan now."

Levi was up early the next morning, and had the best canoe packed for
a hurry trip ere breakfast was ready. No tent was to be taken, only
blankets, a rifle, a bag of the simplest cooking utensils, pork, bread,
and coffee. A modest outfit--barely enough to sustain life, yet all a
woodsman carries when a long canoe journey with many carries must be
taken.

There were sober faces at the landing when Martin was ready to
start,--Chip most sober of all,--for now she realized as never before
how serious a burden she had become.

No time was wasted in good-bys. Martin grasped the bow paddle, and with
"Old Faithful" Levi wielding the stern one, they soon crossed the lake
and vanished at its outlet.

And now, also, for the first time, Angie realized how much the
presence of these two strong and resourceful men meant to her. All
that day she and Chip clung to the cabin, while Old Cy, a long, lanky
Leatherstocking, patrolled the premises, rifle in hand.

"We hain't a mite o' cause to worry," he said, when nightfall drew
near. "That pesky varmint's a coward, 'n' knows guns are plenty
here, an' we folks handy in usin' 'em. I've rigged a fish line to
the ice-house door, so it'll rattle some tinware in the cabin if he
meddles it again. I sleep with one eye 'n' both ears open, an' if he
comes prowlin' round night-times, he'll hear bullets whizzin' an'
think Fourth o' July's opened up arly."

But for all his cheerful assurance, time passed slowly, and a sense of
real danger oppressed Angie and Chip as well. Ray shared it also. He was
not as yet hardened to the wilderness, and like all who are thus tender,
its vast sombre solitude seemed ominous.

Only the hermit, with his moonlike eyes and impassive ways, showed no
sign of trouble. What this half-breed wanted, other than food, he seemed
not to understand; and while he helped about the camp work and followed
Old Cy like a dog, he was of no other aid.

One, two, three days of watchful guard and evenings when even Old Cy's
cheerful philosophy or Ray's banjo failed to dispel the gloom, and then,
just as the sun was setting once again, a canoe with one occupant was
seen to enter the lake and head for the landing.



CHAPTER IX


  "The more I see o' the world, the better I like the
  woods."--Old Cy Walker.

Martin's journey to the settlement was a rushing one. The first day
they wielded paddles without rest, and aided by the current made
rapid progress. Both carries were passed before sunset, a halt made
for a supper of frizzled pork, coffee, and hard tack; then on again
by moonlight, and not until wearied to the limit at almost midnight did
they pause, and hiding themselves in the entrance to an old tote road,
they slept the sleep of weariness.

Tim's Place was sighted the next day, and now, at Levi's suggestion,
Martin lay down in the canoe as they passed it, concealed beneath a
blanket.

"It's best to be keerful," Levi said, when proposing this; "I
wouldn't trust Tim a minute. Most likely he's found out whar the
gal is, an' knows what Pete's up to. The two are cahoots together,
'n' if Tim saw you an' I both leavin', no tellin' what'd happen."

The journey from here on was slower, as no current aided, and yet in
three days and nights of paddling, Martin and Levi covered that
hundred-mile journey and reached the settlement.

A stage and rail journey, consuming one day and night more, enabled
Martin to reach the man he wanted--a well-informed and fearless officer
named Hersey, and then, securing an assistant and a warrant for one Pete
Bolduc, on the charge of theft, the three returned to the settlement
where Levi had waited.

"I'm glad to get track of this half-breed," Hersey said on the way.
"He has been the pal of the notorious McGuire for many years, and
besides has been smuggling whiskey into lumber camps and slaughtering
game out of season all the time. Like McGuire, he is hard to locate.
No guide or lumberman dare betray him, and so it's a fruitless task to
try to catch either. We have been after this McGuire for years. He
killed one deputy and wounded another, as you may have heard. This
Bolduc is a cat of the same color, but less courageous, I fancy, and
yet as hard to catch. I think, for the sake of your guide," he added,
"we'd better not enter the woods together. You two go on, saying
nothing. My mate and I will say we are on a pleasure trip, and follow
and overtake you in a few hours. This will protect your man, and evade
suspicion. Even these people at the settlement are half-hearted in
aiding an officer. Most of them are fearful of house or barn burning if
they give any information to us, a few are in secret league with these
outlaws; and so you see our position."

Martin saw, and marvelled that any of the simple, honest dwellers at this
small settlement, law-abiding as they seemed, would either aid or warn so
red-handed a criminal as McGuire.

That fear of consequences might influence them, was possible, and yet all
the more reason for assisting the law in ridding the forest of two such
criminals.

But Martin, thorough sportsman that he was, and keen to all the world's
affairs, understood but little of the conditions existent in the
wilderness, or about the lives and morals of those who find a living thus.

He knew, as all do, that a few thousand lumbermen entered each autumn,
and, much to his regret, made steady inroads toward its despoilment. He
knew, also, that these men included many of excellent habits--sober,
industrious workers with families which they cheerfully supported, and
that there were also many among them whose sole ambition was to earn a
few hundred dollars in a season of hard work, that they might spend it
in a few weeks, or even days, of drunken debauchery.

He was well aware that a few wandering hunters and trappers plied their
calling here, and many of a mixed occupation, guiding sportsmen like
himself in season, were engaged in lumbering or farming between times.
This mixed and transient population, he knew, were neither better nor
worse than the average of such pioneers--good-natured and good-hearted,
though somewhat lax in speech and morals.

What he did not know, however, was that a few unscrupulous and
disreputable men, half gamblers, half dive-keepers, followed these
lumbermen into camp as ostensible hunters and trappers, but really
gamblers, ready to turn a trick at cards, convoy a keg of whiskey in,
or follow a moose on snow-shoes, kill and sell him, as occasion
offered. Or that, when spring opened the streams, these same itinerant
purveyors of vice spotted their possible victims, as a bunco man does a
rural "good thing" visiting the metropolis, and when they reached town
or city, steered them where harpies waited to share the spoil. A
brief explanation of these facts were furnished to Martin by Warden
Hersey, when, after overhauling him, the parties joined about one
camp-fire.

"We have," Hersey said, "in the case of this McGuire, a fair
sample of the outcome liable to follow or attach to a man who makes a
business of preying upon the vices and follies of the lumbering
class. It is a sort of evolution in law-evasion and opportunity,
encouraged and aided by the animosity which is sure to arise between the
lumberman and us, whose duty it is to enforce the fish and game laws.
These lumbermen, or a majority of them, feel and believe that the forest
and all it contains is theirs by natural right; that no law forbidding
them to obtain all the fish and game they can, is just; that such laws
are enacted and accrue for the sole benefit of city sportsmen who,
like yourself, come here for rest and recreation. It is all a wrong
conclusion, as we know, and yet it exists. Now come these leeches
like McGuire, who prey upon this hard-working class. Such as McGuire
foster the prejudice and antagonism of the lumbermen in all ways
possible, arguing that moose and deer are the natural perquisites of
those who go into the woods for a livelihood, and belong to them as much
as the trees which they have paid stumpage to cut. Also that we who come
in to execute the laws are interlopers, who draw pay for the sole
purpose of robbing them of their rights. Of course, we receive no welcome
at a lumbering camp, and not one iota of information as to what is
going on or where a law-breaker may be found. More than that, they will
protect the leeches who fatten on them in every way possible, even
after, as in McGuire's case, they become murderers and outlaws, with a
price set upon their capture. And here comes in the factor of terrorism.
A few of these lumbermen might give information from a desire to aid the
law, or to obtain a reward, did they not know that to do so would expose
them to the inevitable fate of all betrayers.

"It is a community of interest, a sort of freemasonry that exists
between these lumbermen and all who thrive upon their labors and
hardships. Now this McGuire has preyed upon them for years, a notorious
example of dive-keeper, gambler, smuggler, and pot-hunter. He is now in
hiding somewhere in this wilderness, or, maybe, creeping up some
stream with a canoe load of liquor bought in some Canadian town. He
will meet and be welcomed by any lumber-cutting party just making camp
next fall, sell them liquor at exorbitant prices, shoot and sell them
venison, and when the snow is deep enough, he will follow and find
moose yards, and do a wholesale slaughter act, and not satisfied with
this, will absorb any and all money these lumbermen have left by card
games. And yet the moment I enter the woods to arrest him, their camps
are closed to me, and word of my coming is passed along to others. The
guides even, who are at the beck and call of you sportsmen, are,
many of them, in secret sympathy with such as McGuire; or if not, dare
not give any clews, and many a wild-goose chase has resulted from
following their supposed information. Some of the wisest among them are
beginning to realize that they must cooperate with us in the protection
of fish and game, or their occupation will be gone. But even those
sensible fellows--and they are increasing--hate to become informer,
fearing consequences.

"There is still another side to this game situation," continued Hersey,
filling and lighting his pipe, "and this is our laws, or rather, the
selfishness of our lawmakers. We have plenty of laws--and good ones.
We impose a license tax upon all non-residents for the privilege of
shooting or fishing. We limit the season and number of moose, deer,
or trout which may be taken. This license, which is all right, produces
an annual fund sufficient to employ ten wardens, where the State only
employs one. The result is that this vast wilderness is so poorly
patrolled that a game warden is as much of a rarity as a white deer.
Now and then one may be seen canoeing up or down some main stream,
or loafing a week or two at some backwoods farm and having a good time.
One may certainly be found at all points of egress; but a portion of the
wilderness--the greater way-back region--is rarely visited by wardens.

"There is still one more point, and that is the pay which wardens
receive. It is so small that capable, honest men cannot be obtained
for what the State allows; and considering the large sums raised from
this license tax, it is a mere pittance. The result is, we have to employ
a class of men, many of whom are no respecters of the law themselves,
or who may be bribed."

It was a full and complete explanation of the conditions then existing in
the wilderness, and as Martin glanced at "Old Faithful" Levi lounging
on his elbow, he understood why that astute guide had always avoided all
possible reference to McGuire.

"This half-breed, Bolduc, is another sample of his class," continued
Hersey, "and while we have no criminal charge, we can prove we know he
is a pot-hunter, and I'll be glad to nab him, for an example. I judge
he is lurking about your camp, watching a chance to abduct this girl,
and while it's an unusual case, it may serve our purpose nicely--a sort
of bait, useful in alluring him into our hands. How we can catch him,
however, is not an easy problem. He knows the forest far better than
we do; every stream, lake, defile, or cave is familiar to him, and,
cunning as a fox, all pursuit would be useless. Our only hope is to
patrol the woods about your camp as hunters, or watch for another night
visit, and halt him, at the muzzle of a rifle."

And now Martin turned the conversation to a more interesting
subject--Chip herself.

"I saw the girl at Tim's Place," Hersey said, "and knowing her
ancestry, felt curious to observe her. She appeared bright as a new
dollar and a willing worker for Tim. Of course, it seemed unfortunate
that she should be left to grow up there without education; and while
her natural guardian being an outlaw gave the State an ample right to
interfere, the proper officer has never seen fit to do so. It has been a
case of 'out of sight, out of mind,' I presume, and while we have
a law obliging parents to send their children to public schools so
many months a year until a certain age, this is a case where no one has
seen fit to enforce it."

"But what about her parents?" queried Martin, curious on this point.
"Do you know whether they were legally married?"

"Why, no-o, only by hearsay," Hersey responded. "I've been told
her mother was a Nova Scotia girl, a mill worker in one of our larger
cities, and as no one ever hinted otherwise, I think it safe to assume
that they were married. If not, there would surely have been some one to
spread the sinister fact. It's the way of the world. I presume Tim
knows the girl's history, but he is such a surly Irishman that I never
questioned him. In fact, his surroundings, as you may have noticed, do
not invite long visits."

But no visit or even halt at Tim's Place was now considered advisable.
In fact, as Levi said, it was best to pass that spot at midnight. This
suggestion was carried out, and in five days from leaving the settlement,
Martin and the officers made their last camp at the lake where he had
once seen a spectral canoeist.



CHAPTER X


  "A swelled heart may cost ye money, but a swelled head'll
  cost ye ten times more."--Old Cy Walker.

An unexpected canoe entering a lake so secluded and so seldom visited as
this lake must needs awaken the keenest surprise, and especially in the
case of a party situated as this one was. Ray, who had just returned
from a berry-picking trip over at the "blow down," and Old Cy, carrying
his suggestive rifle, were at the landing some time before this canoe
reached it, while Angie and Chip waited almost breathlessly on the cabin
piazza. A stout, bare-headed Indian, clad in white man's raiment, was
paddling. He glanced at the two awaiting him at the landing, with big
black, emotionless eyes, and then up to the cabin.

As his canoe now grated on the sandy beach close by, he laid aside his
paddle, stepped forward and out, drew his craft well up, and folding
his arms glanced at Old Cy again, as if waiting for a welcome. None was
needed, however, for on the instant, almost, came an exclamation of joy
from Chip, and with a "Hullo, Poppy Tomah," she was down the bank,
with both her hands in his.

A faint smile of welcome spread over his austere face as he looked down
at the girl, but not a word, as yet, came.

Old Cy, quick to see that he was a friend, now advanced.

"We're glad to see ye," he said, "an' as ye seem to be a friend o'
the gal's, we'll make ye welcome."

The Indian bowed low, and a "How do," like a grunt, was his answer. A
calm, slow, motionless type of a now almost extinct race, as he seemed
to be, he would utter no word or move a step farther until invited. But
now, led by Chip, he advanced up the path.

"It's Tomah, old Poppy Tomah," she said with pride, as Angie rose to
meet them, "and he's the only body who was ever good to me."

"I am glad to see you, sir," Angie said, with a gracious bow and smile,
"and you are welcome here."

"I thank the white lady--I not forget," came the Indian's dignified
answer with a stately bow.

Not a word of greeting for Chip or of surprise at finding her here--only
the eagle glance, accustomed to bright sunlight or to following the
flight of a bird far out of white man's vision.

"We shall have supper soon," Angie added, uncertain what to say to this
impassive man, "and some for you."

It was a deft speech, for Angie, accustomed to take in every detail of a
man from the condition of his nails to the cut of his clothing, as all
women will, had ere now absorbed the appearance of this swarthy redskin,
and was not quite sure whether to invite him to share their table or say
nothing.

But the Indian solved his own problem, for spying the outdoor fire to
which Old Cy now retreated, he bowed again and strode away toward it.

"Me cook here?" he said to Old Cy. With an "Of course, an' you're
welcome to," the question was settled.

Chip soon drew near, and now for the first time the Indian's speech
seemed to return, and while Old Cy busied himself about the cooking,
these two began to visit.

Chip, as might be expected, did most of the talking, asked questions as
to Tim's Place, when he was there, and what they said about her running
away, in rapid succession. Her own adventures and how she came here soon
followed, and it was not long before he knew all that was to be known
about her.

His replies were blunt and brief, after the manner of such. Now and then
an expressive nod or grunt filled in the place of an ordinary answer.
He knew but little about the recent happenings at Tim's Place, as he
had stayed there only one night since Chip departed with her father--as
he was told. He had been away in the woods, looking for places to set
traps later, and had no idea Chip was here.

As to Pete's movements, he was equally in the dark, and when Chip told
him what her friends here suspected, he merely grunted. As he seemed to
wish to do his own cooking, Old Cy, having completed his task, offered
him a partridge and a couple of trout fresh from the ice-house, also pork
and potatoes, and left him to care for himself.

He became more sociable later, and when supper was over and the rest had,
as usual, gathered on the piazza of the new cabin, he joined them.

And now came a recital from Ray of far more interest to these people than
they suspected.

"I saw a bear over back of the ridge this afternoon," he said, "or I
don't know but it was a wildcat. I'd just filled my pail with berries,
when way up, close to the rocks, I saw something moving. I crouched down
back of a bush, thinking it might be a bear, and if it was, I'd get
a chance to see it nearer. I could only see the top of its back above
the bushes, and once I saw its head, as if it was standing up. Then I
didn't see it for quite a spell, and then I caught sight of its back
again, a good deal nearer, and then it went into one of the gullies in
the hog-back. I didn't wait to see if it came out, but cut for home."

"Did this critter sorter wobble like a woodchuck runnin'?" put in Old
Cy.

"No, it just crept along evenly," answered Ray, "I'd see it when it
would come out between the bushes."

"'Twa'n't a b'ar," muttered Old Cy, and then, as if the unwisdom of
waking suspicion in Angie's mind occurred, he added hastily, "but mebbe
'twas a doe, walkin' head down 'n' feedin'."

No further notice was taken of Ray's adventure. The sight of deer
everywhere about was a ten-times-daily occurrence, and Old Cy's
dismissal of the matter ended it.

His thoughts, however, were a different matter. Full well he knew it was
no bear thus moving. A deer would never enter a crevasse, nor a wildcat
or lynx ever leave the shelter of woods to wander in open sunlight.

"I'll go over thar in the mornin'," he said to himself; "I may git a
chance to wing that varmint 'n' end our worryin'."

And now Angie, more interested in spites and the weird belief which she
heard that this Indian held than in the sight of a doe, began to ply Old
Tomah with questions, and bit by bit she led him on toward that subject.

It was not an easy task. His speech came slowly. Deeds, not words, are an
Indian's form of expression, and this fair white lady, serene as the
moon and as suave and smiling as culture could make her, was one to awe
him.

With Chip he had been fluent enough. She had been almost a protégée of
his, a big pappoose whom he had taught to manage a canoe, for whom he had
made moccasins, a fur cap and cape, who had listened to all his strange
theories with wide-open, believing eyes, and, best of all, a helpless
waif whom he had learned to love.

But this white lady, awe-inspiring as she was, now failed to induce him
to talk.

Chip, however, keen to catch the drift of Angie's wishes and anxious
to have her own faith defended, soon came to the rescue and induced Old
Tomah to speak--not fluently at first, the "me" in place of "I"
always occurring, adjectives following nouns, prepositions left out in
many cases; and yet, as he warmed up to his subject, his coal-black eyes
were fierce or tender, and the inborn eloquence of his race glowed in
face and speech.

And what a wild tale he told! Some of it was the history of his own
race, beginning long before white men came. He related the contests of
his people with wild animals, their deeds of valor, their torturing
of prisoners, their own scorn of death and stoical endurance of pain.
His own ancestors had been mighty chieftains. They had led the tribe
through many battles, swept down upon their white enemies, an avenging
horde, and were now roaming the happy hunting-grounds where he would soon
join them. Mingled with this tale of warfare and conquest, and always
an unseen force for good or evil, were the spites--the souls of all
brute creation. How they followed or led the hunter! How they warned
their own kind of his coming! How they lured him into unseen danger,
and how they continually sought to avenge their own deaths! There were
also two kinds of them,--some evil and the others good. The evil ones
predominated, the good ones feared them, yet sought to interfere in all
evil effort. These two hosts also had their own warfares. They fought
oftenest when storms raged in the forest. Then they swept the tree-tops
and scurried over the hills in vast numbers, shrieking and screaming
defiance.

Another apparition was oft referred to in this weird talk. A great
white spectre and chieftain of all spites, who sprang from his abode
in the north, whose breath was a blast of snow, howling as it swept
over the wilderness--this ghost, so vast that it covered miles and
miles of wilderness, was altogether evil. It spared neither man nor
beast. The hunter trailing his game met death on the instant and was
left rigid and upright in his tracks. Squaws and children huddled in
wigwams shared the same speedy fate. Lynxes and panthers, deer and
moose by the score, were touched by the same mystic and awful wand of
death.

It was all an uncanny, eerie, ghostly recital; yet all real and true
to Chip, whose eyes never once left the Indian's face while he was
speaking. Angie, too, was spellbound. Never had she heard anything
like it; and while believing it was all a mere myth and legend, a
superstitious fancy, maybe, of this strange Indian, its telling was
none the less interesting.

Ray was also enthralled, and he was half convinced that the forest might,
after all, contain spooks and goblins.

But Old Cy was only a curious listener. He, too, had woven many a
fantastic tale of the sea, its storms and monsters leaping from the
crests of waves, and all such figments of the imagination, and this
fable was but the same. The only feature of passing interest to him was
the fact that any Indian had such a vivid imagination and could relate
such a mingled ghost story so coherently.

Old Tomah ceased speaking even more abruptly than he began, then looked
from one to another of the group, perhaps to see if they all believed
him, and then without a word or even "good night," he rose and stalked
out of the cabin.

For a few moments Chip watched Angie and the rest, anxious to see how
this explanation of her own belief affected them, and then Old Cy spoke.

"I'd hate to be campin' with that Injun," he said, "or sharin' a
wigwam with him night-times. It 'ud be worse'n a man I sot up with
once that had the jim-jams, 'n' I'd see spites and spooks for a week
arter."

Angie's sleep was troubled that night, and in her dreams she saw white
spectres and a man with a hideously scarred face and one eye watching her.

Ray also felt the uncanny influence of such a tale and "saw things"
in his sleep. But Old Cy, who had securely barred the doors and then had
rolled himself in a blanket with rifle handy, thought only of what Ray
had seen that day and who it might be.



CHAPTER XI


  "An honest man's the best critter God ever made, an' the
  skeercest."--Old Cy Walker.

Old Cy's suspicions were correct. It was neither bear, deer, nor wildcat
that Ray saw skulking along the ridge, but the half-breed.

Believing Chip's father had taken her out of the wilderness, or more
likely up-stream to find a place with these campers, he had come here
to seek her. To find her here, as he of course did, only convinced him
that his suspicions were true and that her father had thus meant to rob
him.

Two determined impulses now followed this discovery: first, to make the
girl he had bought a prisoner, carry her into the woods, and then, when
the chance came, revenge himself on McGuire. No sense of law, or decency
even, entered his calculation. He was beyond such scruples, and what he
wanted was his only law.

The fear of rifles, which he knew were plenty enough at this camp, was
the only factor to be considered. For days he watched the camp from
across the lake, hoping that the girl he saw canoeing with a boy so
often might come near enough for him to make a capture. Many times,
when darkness served, he paddled close to where the cabin stood, and
once landed and watched it for hours.

Growing bolder, as the days wore on, he hid his canoe below the outlet
of the lake and taking advantage of this outcropping slate ledge with
its many fissures, secreted himself and watched.

But some shelter, at least to cook and eat in, he must have, and this he
found in a distant crevasse of this same ledge, and from this he sneaked
along back of it until he could hide and watch the camp below. From this
vantage-point, he saw that the girl no longer went out upon the lake,
but remained near the cabin; then later, he noticed the two men leave
the lake one morning. This encouraged him, and now he grew still bolder,
even descending the ridge and watching those remaining at the cabin,
from a dense thicket.

From this new post he saw that but one man seemed on guard, and almost
was he tempted to shoot him from ambush and make a dash to capture his
victim. Cautious and cunning, he still waited a chance involving less
risk.

And now he saw that certain duties were performed by these people;
that one man and the boy always started the morning fire; that the girl
invariably went to the landing alone for water, at about the same time.
Here for the moment she was out of sight from either cabin, and now in
this act of hers, he saw his opportunity to land from his canoe near
this spot before daylight, and hide in the bushes fringing the shore here
and below the bank, watch his chance and seize and gag her before an
outcry could be made. To tie her hands and feet and to push the other
canoe out into the lake, thus avoiding pursuit until they could get a
good start, was an easy matter.

It was risky, of course. She might hear or see him in time to give one
scream. The old man who had said foolish things to him, and now seemed
to be on guard, would surely send bullets after him as he sped away; but
once out of the lake, he would be safe. It was a dangerous act; yet the
other two men might return any day, and with this in prospect, this wily
half-breed now resolved to act.

Old Cy was up early that fatal morning. Somehow a sense of impending
danger haunted him, and calling Ray, he unlocked the cabin door and began
starting the morning fire. He wanted to get breakfast out of the way as
speedily as possible, and then visit this ridge, feeling almost sure
that he would find where this half-breed had been watching them.

When Ray came out, and before the hermit or Chip appeared, Old Cy hurried
over to the ice-house, and now Chip came forth as usual, and without a
word to any one, she took the two pails and started for the landing. It
was, perhaps, ten rods to this, down a narrow path winding through the
scrub spruce. The morning was fair, the lake without a ripple.

Above the ridge, and peeping through its topping of stunted fir, came
the first glance of the sun, and Chip was happy.

Old Tomah, her one and only friend for many years, was here. A something
Ray had whispered the night before, now returned like a sweet note of
music vibrating in her heart, and as if to add their cheer, the birds
were piping all about.

For weeks the cheerful words of one of Ray's songs had haunted her with
its catchy rhythm:--

    "Dar was an old nigger and his name was Uncle Ned,
    He died long 'go, long 'go."

They now rose to her lips, as she neared the lake. Here she halted,
filled a pail, and set it on the log landing.

[Illustration: Nearer and nearer that unconscious girl it crept!]

From behind a low spruce one evil, sinister eye watched her.

And now Chip, still humming this ditty, glanced up at the rising sun and
out over the lake.

A crouching form with hideous face now emerged from behind the bush;
step by step, this human panther advanced. A slow, cautious, catlike
movement, without sound, as each moccasined foot touched the sand. Nearer
and nearer that unconscious girl it crept! Now twenty feet away, now
ten, now five!

And now came a swift rush, two fierce hands enclosed the girl's face
and drew her backward on to the sand.

Ray and the hermit were beside the fire, and the Indian just emerging
from the hut where he had slept, when Old Cy returned from the ice-house.

"Where's Chip?" he questioned.

"Gone after water," answered Ray. And the two glanced down the path.

One, two, five minutes elapsed, and then a sudden suspicion of something
wrong came to Old Cy, and, followed by Ray, he hurried to the landing.

One pail of water stood on the float, both their canoes were adrift on
the lake, and as Old Cy looked out, there, heading for the outlet, was
a canoe!

One swift glance and, "My God, he's got Chip!" told the story,
and with face fierce in anger, he darted back, grasped his rifle, and
returned.

The canoe, its paddler bending low as he forced it into almost leaps,
was scarce two lengths from the outlet.

Old Cy raised his rifle, then lowered it.

Chip was in that canoe!

His avenging shot was stayed.

And now Old Tomah leaped down the path, rifle in hand.

One look at the vanishing canoe, and his own, floating out upon the lake,
told him the tale, and without a word he turned and, plunging into the
undergrowth, leaping like a deer over rock and chasm, vanished at the
top of the ridge.



CHAPTER XII


  "The man that won't bear watchin' needs it."
  --Old Cy Walker.

While Chip, bound, gagged, and helpless in the half-breed's canoe,
was just entering the alder-choked outlet of this lake, twenty miles
below and close to where the stream entered another lake, four men were
launching their canoes.

"It was here," Martin was saying to Hersey, "one moonlight night a
year ago, that a friend of mine and myself saw a spectral man astride
a log, just entering that bed of reeds, as I told you. Who or what it
was, we could not guess; but as that spook canoeman went up this stream,
we followed and discovered our hermit's home."

"Night-time and moonshine play queer pranks with our imagination,"
Hersey responded. "I'm not a whit superstitious, and yet I've many
a time seen what I thought to be a hunter creeping along the lake shore
at night, and I once came near plugging a fat man in a shadowy glen. I
was up on a cliff watching down into it, the day was cloudy, and 'way
below I saw what I was sure was a bear crawling along the bank of the
stream. I had my rifle raised and was only waiting for a better sight,
when up rose the bear and I saw a human face. For a moment it made me
faint, and since then I make doubly sure before shooting at any object
in the woods."

And now these four men, Levi wielding the stern paddle of Martin's
canoe, and Hersey's deputy that of his, entered the broad, winding
stream. The tall spruce-tops meeting darkened its currentless course,
long filaments of white moss depended from every limb, and as they
twisted and turned up this sombre highway, the air grew stifling. Not
a breeze, not a sound, disturbed the solemn silence, and except for the
swish of paddles and faint thud as they touched gunwales, the fall of a
leaf might have been heard. So dense was this dark, silent forest,
and so forbidding its effect, that for an hour no one scarce spoke,
and even when the two canoes finally drew together, converse came in
whispers. Another hour of steady progress, and then the banks began to
outline themselves ahead, the trees opened more, a sign of current was
met, and the sun lit up their pathway.

By now the spectral beard had vanished from the trees, white clouds were
reflected from the still waters, and the gleam of sandy bottom was seen
below. The birds, inspired perhaps by the absence of gloom, also added
their cheering notes, Nature was smiling once more, and not a hint or
even intuition of the fast-nearing tragedy met those men.

And then, as a broad, eddying bend in the stream held their canoes, by
tacit consent a halt was made.

Martin, his paddle crossed on the thwarts in front, dipped a cup of
the cool, sweet water and drank. Levi wiped the sweat from his face, and
Hersey also quenched his thirst. The day was hot. They had paddled ten
miles. There was no hurry, and as pipes were drawn forth and filled,
conversation began. But just at this moment Levi's ears, ever alert,
caught the faint sound of a paddle striking a canoe gunwale. Not as
usual, in an intermittent fashion, as would be the case with a skilled
canoeist, but a steady, rhythmic thud.

"Hist," he said, and silence fell upon the group.

In the wilderness all sounds are noticed and noted, by night especially,
because then they may mean a bear crawling softly through the
undergrowth, or a wildcat, yellow-eyed and vicious, creeping near. But by
day as well they are always heeded, and the crackle of a twig, or the
sound of a deer's foot striking a stone, or any slight noise, becomes
of keen interest.

And now, from far ahead, came the steady tap, tap, tap. It soon
increased, and then it assured those waiting, listening men that some
canoe was being urged down-stream.

Without a word they glanced at one another, and then, as if an intuition
came to both at the same time, Martin and Hersey reached for their rifles.

On and on came the steady thump, thump.

Just ahead the stream narrowed and curved out of sight. A few foam flecks
from an unseen rill above floated down. The white sandy bottom showed
in the clear water.

And then, as those stern-faced, watching, listening men, rifles in hand,
almost side by side, waited there, out from behind this bend shot a canoe.

"My God, it's Pete Bolduc! Look out!" almost yelled Levi, and "Halt!
Surrender!" from Hersey, as two rifles were levelled at the oncomer.
Then one instant's sight of a red and scarred face, a quick reach for
a rifle, a splash of water, an overturned canoe, and with a curse the
astonished half-breed dived into the undergrowth.

Two rifles spoke almost at the same instant from the waiting canoes, one
answered from out the thicket. A thrashing, struggling something in the
filled canoe next caught all eyes, and Levi, leaping into the waist-deep
stream, grasped and lifted a dripping form.

It was Chip!

A brief yet bloodless tragedy, all over in less time than the telling;
yet a lifetime of horror had been endured by that waif, for as Levi bore
her to the bank, cut the thongs that bound her, and freed her mouth from
a pad of deerskin, she grasped his hand and kissed it.

And then came another surprise; for down a sloping, thick-grown hillside,
something was heard thrashing, and soon Old Tomah, his clothing in
shreds, his face bleeding, appeared to view.

Calculating to a nicety where he could best intercept and head off the
escaping half-breed, he had crossed four miles of pathless undergrowth
in less than an hour, and reached the stream at the nearest point after
it left the lake.

How Chip, still sobbing from the awful agony of mind, and dripping
water as well, greeted Old Tomah; how Hersey, chagrined at the escape of
the half-breed, gave vent to muttered curses; how Martin joined them
in thought; and how they all gathered around Chip and listened to her
tale of horror, are but minor features of the episode, and not worth
the telling.

When all was said and done, Old Tomah, grim and silent as ever, although
he had done what no white man could do or would try to do, washed his
bloody face in the stream, drank his fill of the cool water, and lifting
Pete's half-filled canoe as easily as if it were a shingle, tipped
it, turned the water out, and set it on the sloping bank.

"Me take you back and watch you now," he said to Chip. "You no get
caught again."

And thus convoyed, poor Chip, willing to clasp and caress the feet or
legs of any or all of those men, and more grateful than any dog ever was
for a caress, was escorted back to the lake.

All those waiting at the cabin were at the landing when the rescuers
arrived. Angie, her eyes brimming, first embraced and then kissed the
girl. Ray would have felt it a proud privilege to have carried her to the
cabin, and Old Cy's wrinkled face showed more joy than ever gladdened
it in all his life before.

Somehow this hapless waif had grown dearer to them all than she or they
understood.

There was also feasting and rejoicing that night at Martin's wildwood
home, and mingled with it all an oft-repeated tale.

Old Cy told one end of it in his droll way, Martin related the other,
and Chip filled up the interim. Levi had his say, and Hersey supplied
more or less--mostly more--of this half-breed's history.

Old Tomah, however, said nothing. To him, who lived in the past of a
bygone race which looked upon lumbermen as devastating vandals ever
eating into its kingdom, and whose thoughts were upon the happy
hunting-grounds soon to be entered, this half-breed's lust and
cunning were as the fall of the leaf. Were it needful he would, as he
had, plunge through bramble and brier and leap over rock and chasm to
rescue his big pappoose, but now that she was safe again, he lapsed into
his stoical reserve once more. Shadowy forms and the mysticism of the
wilderness were more to his taste than all the pathos of human life;
and while his eyes kindled at Chip's smile, his thoughts were following
some storm or tempest sweeping over a vast wilderness, or the rush and
roar of the great white spectre.

"Chip is good girl," he said to Angie the next morning, "and white
lady love her. Tomah's heart is like squaw heart, too; but he go away
and forget. White lady must not forget," and with that mixture of
tenderness and stoicism he strode away, and the last seen of him was
when he entered the outlet without once looking back at the cabin where
his "big pappoose" was kept.

More serious, however, were the facts Martin and Hersey now had to
consider, and a council of war, as it were, was now held with Levi, Old
Cy, and the deputy as advisers.

What the half-breed would now do, and in what way they could now capture
him were, of course, discussed, and as usual in such cases, it was of
no avail, because they were dealing with absolutely unknown quantities.
The facts were these: Bolduc, a cunning criminal, fearless of all
law, had set his heart upon the possession of this girl. Her story,
unquestionably true, that he had paid a large sum for this right and
title, must inevitably make him feel that he would have what was his at
any cost. His first attempt at securing her had been thwarted. He had
been shot at by minions of the law,--an act sure to make him more
vengeful,--his canoe had been taken, and what with the loss of the
girl, money, and canoe also, one of his stamp would surely be driven to
extreme revenge.

He was now at large in this wilderness, knew where the girl and his
enemies were, and as Hersey said, "He had the drop on them."

"I believe in standing by our guns," that officer continued, after all
these conclusions had been admitted. "We are here to rid the woods of
this scoundrel. We have five good rifles and know how to use them. The
law is on our side, for he refused to surrender, and returned our shots;
and if I catch sight of him, I shall shoot to cripple, anyway."

Old Cy's advice, however, was more pacific.

"My notion is this feller's a cowardly cuss," he said, "a sort o'
human hyena. He'll never show himself in the open, but come prowlin'
'round nights, stealin' anything he can. He may take a pop at some on
us from a-top o' the ridge; but I callate he'll never venture within
gunshot daytimes. His sort is allus more skeered o' us'n we need be
o' him."

In spite of Old Cy's conclusions, however, the camp remained in a state
of siege that day and many days following.

Angie and Chip seldom strayed far from the cabin. Ray assumed the
water-bringing, night and morning. Old Cy and Levi patrolled the
premises, while Martin, Hersey, and his deputy hunted a little for game
and a good deal for moccasined footprints or a sight or a sign of this
half-breed.

Hersey, more especially, made him his object of pursuit. He had come
here for that purpose, his pride and reputation were at stake, and
the thousand dollars Martin had agreed to pay was a minor factor. He
and his mate passed hours in the mornings and late in the afternoon
watching from wide apart outlooks on the ridge. They made long jaunts
up the brook valley to where the smoke sign had been seen, they found
where this half-breed had built a fire here, and later another lair,
a mile from the cabins and in this ridge. Long detours they made in
other directions. Old Tomah's trail through the forest was crossed;
but neither in forest nor on lake shore were any recent footprints of
the half-breed found. Old ones were discovered in plenty. An almost
beaten trail led from his lair in the ridge to a crevasse back of the
cabins, but to one well versed in wood tracks, it was easy to tell how
old these tracks were.

A freshly made trail in the forest bears unmistakable evidence of its
date, and no woodwise man ever confounds a two or three days' old one
with it. One footprint may not determine this occult fact; but followed
to where the moss is spongy or the earth moist, a matter of hours, even,
can be decided.

A week of this watchfulness, with no sign of their enemy's return, not
even to within the circuit patrolled time and again, began to relieve
suspense and awaken curiosity. They had been so sure, especially Martin,
that he would come back for revenge, that now it was hard to account for
his not doing so.

"My idee is he got so skeered at them two shots," Old Cy asserted,
"he hain't stopped runnin' yit." And then the old man chuckled at
the ludicrous picture of this pernicious "varmint" scampering through
a wilderness from fright.

But Old Cy was wrong. It was not fear that saved them from a prompt
visitation from this half-breed, but lack of means of defence. The one
shot remaining in his rifle at the moment of meeting had been sent on
its vengeful errand, all the rest of his ammunition was in his canoe, and
now on the bottom of the stream. Being thus crippled for means to act,
the only course left to him was a return to his cabin seventy-five miles
away, with only a hunting-knife to sustain life with.

Even to a skilled hunter and trapper like him, this was no easy task. It
meant at least a week's journey through almost impassable swamps and
undergrowth, with frogs, raw fish, roots, and berries for food.

How that half-breed, unconscious that the mills of God had ground him
the grist he deserved, fought his way through this pathless wilderness;
how he ate mice and frogs to sustain his worthless life; how he cursed
McGuire as the original cause of his wretched plight and Martin's party
as aids; and how many times he swore he would kill every one of them,
needs no description.

He lived to reach his hut on the Fox Hole, and from that moment on, this
wilderness held an implacable enemy of McGuire's, sworn to kill him,
first of all.



CHAPTER XIII


  "The biggest fool is the man that thinks he knows it all."
  --Old Cy Walker.

For two weeks the little party at Birch Camp first watched and then
began to enjoy themselves once more. September had come, the first
tint of autumn colored every patch of hardwood, a mellow haze softened
the outline of each green-clad hill and mountain, the sun rose red and
sailed an unclouded course each day, and gentle breezes rippled the
lake. The forest, the sky, the air and earth, all seemed in harmonious
mood, and the one discordant note, fear of this half-breed, slowly
vanished.

Chip resumed her hour of study each day; a little fishing and hunting
was indulged in by Martin and the two officers; wild ducks, partridges,
deer, and trout supplied their table; each evening all gathered about
the open fire in Martin's new cabin, and while the older people chatted,
Ray took his banjo or whispered with Chip.

These two, quite unguessed by Angie, had become almost lovers, and as it
was understood Chip was to be taken to Greenvale, all that wonder-world,
to her, had been described by Ray many times. He also outlined many
little plans for sleigh-rides, skating on the mill-pond, and dances
which he and she were to enjoy together.

His own future and livelihood were a little hazy to him. These matters do
not impress a youth of eighteen; but of one thing he felt sure,--that
Chip with her rosy face and black eyes, always tender to him, was to
be his future companion in all pleasures. It was love among the spruce
trees, a summer idyl made tender by the dangers interrupting it, and
hidden from all eyes except Old Cy's, who was these young friends'
favorite.

How many times he had taken these two over the ridge during the first
two weeks, and picked berries while they played at it, or crossed the
lake in his canoe to leave them on the shore while he cast for trout,
no one but himself knew, and he wasn't telling.

Even now, with these two strangers about, Old Cy, Chip, and Ray somehow
seemed to "flock by themselves." Old Cy took them canoeing. They
paddled up streams entering the lake. He showed them where muskrats
were house-building, where mink had runways, and otter had sliding
spots; and to forestall a plan of his own, he enlarged upon the fun
and profit of trapping here when the time came. If these two young
doves cooed a little meantime, he never heard it; if they held hands
unduly long, he never saw it; and if they exchanged kisses behind his
back--well, it was their own loss if they didn't.

But these days of mingled romance and tragic happenings, of shooting,
fishing, story-telling, and wildwood life, were nearing their end, and
one evening Martin announced that on the morrow they would pack their
belongings and, escorted by the officers, leave the wilderness.

The next morning Old Cy took Ray aside.

"I want a good square talk with ye, my boy," he said, "an' I'm
goin' to do ye a good turn if I kin. Now to begin, I s'pose ye know
yer aunt's goin' to take Chip to Greenvale 'n' gin her a chance at
the schoolin' she sartinly needs. Now you're callatin' to go 'long
'n' have a heap o' fun this winter. I'm goin' to stay here 'n'
keer for Amzi. This is the situation 'bout as it is. Now you hev got yer
eddication, 'n' the next move is to make yer way in the world 'n'
arn suthin', an' ez a starter, I want ye to stay here this winter
with me 'n' trap. The woods round here is jist bristlin' with spruce
gum that is worth a dollar-fifty a pound, easy. We've got two months
now, 'fore snow gits deep. We kin live on the top shelf in the way
o' fish 'n' game. We'll ketch a b'ar and pickle his meat 'n'
smoke his hams, and when spring comes, I'll take ye out with mebbe
five hundred dollars' worth of furs 'n' gum ez a beginnin'.

"Thar's also 'nother side to consider. Chip wants schoolin', 'n'
she's got to study night 'n' day fer the next eight months. If you
go back with 'em, an' go gallivantin' 'round with her, ez you're
sure to, it won't be no help to her. I've given you two all the chances
fer weavin' the threads o' 'fect-shun I could this summer, an' now
let's you 'n' I turn to and make some money. I've asked your uncle
'n' aunt. They're willin', 'n' now, what do ye say?"

Few country boys with a love for trapping, such as Ray had, ever had a
more alluring prospect spread before them. He knew Old Cy was right in
all his conclusions, and almost without hesitation he agreed to the plan.

It was far-sighted wisdom on Old Cy's part, however, in not giving
Ray time to reflect, else the magnet of Chip's eyes on the one hand,
and eight months of separation on the other, would have proved too
strong, and trap-setting and gum-gathering, with five hundred dollars as
reward, would have failed.

As it was, he came near weakening at the last moment when the canoes were
packed and Angie and Chip came to take their seats in them.

He and his crude, rude, yet winsome little sweetheart had suffered a
brief preliminary parting the evening previous. A good many sweet and
silly nothings had been exchanged, also promises, and now the boy's
heart was very sore.

Chip was more stoical. Her life at Tim's Place and contact with Old
Tomah had taught her reserve, and yet when she turned for the last
possible look at Old Cy and Ray, waving good-bye at the landing, a mist
of tears hid them.

Old Cy's face was also a study. To him these parting clouds were as the
white ones hiding the sun; yet he felt their chill. His own life shadow
was lengthening. He had now but a brief renewal of youth in the lives
of these two, and then forgetfulness, as he knew full well, and yet he
pitied them.

More than that, he had set his hand to guiding the bark of their young
lives into the safe harbor of a home, and all feelings of his own
subserved to that.

"Come, come, my boy," he said to Ray as the two turned away, and he
noted the lad's sad face, "she's gone now, an' ye'd best ferget her
fer a spell. Ye won't, I know, 'n' she won't; but ye'd best make
believe ye do. This ain't no spot fer love-sick spells. We've got work
to do, 'n' money to arn; ye've got the chance o' yer life now, an'
me to help ye to it, so brace up 'n' look cheerful.

"Think o' what we got to do to git ready fer winter 'n' six foot
o' snow. Think o' the traps we're goin' to set, an' the fun o'
tendin' 'em. Why, girls ain't in it a minnit with ketchin' mink,
marten, otter, an' now 'n' then a lynx or bobcat. Then when ye go
back with a new suit 'n' money in yer pocket, ye'll feel prouder'n a
peacock, 'n' Chip a-smilin' at ye sweeter'n new maple syrup."

Verily Old Cy had the wisdom of age and the cheerfulness of morning
sunshine.

All that day these wilderness-marooned friends worked hard. An ample
stock of birch wood must be cut and split, a shed of poles to cover it
must be erected alongside of the cabin, the hermit's log hut was to
be divested of its fittings, which were to be removed to the new cabin
which all were now to occupy.

Realizing how vital to their existence the canoes were, Old Cy had also
planned a shelter of small logs for them on one side of the log cabin,
that could be locked. Here the canoes not in use must be stored at once
to guard against a night call from the malignant half-breed. His canoe
had been taken along by Martin's party, to be left at Tim's Place, for
even Hersey would have scorned to appropriate it.

There were dozens of other needs to prepare for during the next two
months, all of which were important. An ample supply of deer meat must be
secured, to be pickled and smoked. All the partridges they could shoot
would be needed, and later, when south-bound ducks halted at the lake, a
few of these would add to their larder.

In this connection, also, another need occurred to Old Cy. Trout could be
caught all winter in the lake, but live bait must be had, and so a
slat car to be sunk in some swift-running stream, which would hold
them, must be constructed, also a scoop of mosquito net to catch them.
These minnows were to be found now by the million in every brook, and
forethought was Old Cy's watchword.

All these duties and details he discussed that first day with Ray, while
they worked, for a purpose.

But the first evening here, with its open fire, yet empty seats, was the
hardest to pass. In vain Old Cy enlarged upon the joys of trap-setting
once more, and how and where they were to secure gum. In vain he
described how deadfalls were built and where they must be placed,
how many signs of lynx and wildcat he had seen that summer, and how
sure they were to secure some of these valuable furs.

Ray's heart was not here. Far away in some night camp, Chip was thinking
of him. He knew each day would bear her farther away. No word of her
safe arrival could reach them now. Long months must elapse ere he and she
could meet again, and in prospect they seemed an eternity.

"Come, git yer banjo, my boy," Old Cy ejaculated at last, seeing Ray's
face grow gloomy. "Tune 'er up, an' play us suthin' lively. None
o' them goody-goody weepin' sort o' tunes; but give us 'Money Musk'
'n' a few jigs. I'm feelin' our prospects are so cheerful, I'd
like to cut a few pigeon-wings out o' compliment."

But Old Cy's hilarity was nearly all put on. He, too, felt the effect
of the empty seats and missed every one that had gone, and Ray's jig
tunes lacked their spirit. He essayed a few, and then quite unconsciously
his fingers strayed to "My Old Kentucky Home," and Old Cy's feelings
responded.



CHAPTER XIV


  "I jist nachly hate a person that talks as tho' he'd bin
  measured fer a harp."--Old Cy Walker.

Chip's arrival in Greenvale produced astonishment and gossip galore. It
began when the stage that "Uncle Joe" Barnes had driven for twenty
years started for that village. There were other passengers besides
Martin, his wife, and Chip. The seats inside were soon filled, and Chip,
seeing a coveted chance, climbed nimbly to a position beside the driver.

"Gee Whittaker," observed one bystander to another, as Chip's
black-stockinged legs flashed into view, "but that gal's nimbler'n
a squirrel 'n' don't mind showin' underpinnin'. I wished I was
drivin' that stage. I'll bet she's a circus."

Uncle Joe soon found her a live companion at least, for he had scarce
left the village ere she began.

"Your hosses are fatter'n Tim's hosses used to be," she said. "Do
ye feed 'em on hay and taters?"

Uncle Joe gave her a sideways glance.

"Hay and taters," he exclaimed; "we don't feed hosses on taters down
here. Where'd you come from?"

"I used to live at Tim's Place, up in the woods, 'n' we fed our
hosses on taters, 'n' they had backs sharp 'nuff to split ye."

This time Uncle Joe faced squarely around.

"I know all about hosses," she continued glibly, "I used to take keer
on 'em 'n' ride one ploughin', an' I've been throwed more'n a
hundred times when we struck roots, an' ye ought to 'a' heerd Tim
cuss. I used to cuss just the same, but Mrs. Frisbie says I mustn't."

"Wal, I swow," ejaculated Uncle Joe, realizing that he had a "case."
"What's your name, 'n' whar's Tim's Place?"

"My name's Chip, Chip McGuire, only 'tain't, it's Vera; but they
allus called me Chip, an' Tim's Place is ever so far up in the woods.
I runned away 'cause dad sold me, an' fetched up at Mrs. Frisbie's
camp, 'n' she's goin' to eddicate me. My mother got killed when I
was a kid, 'n' my dad killed 'nother one, too; he's a bad 'un."

Uncle Joe gasped at this gory tale of double murder, not being quite sure
that the girl was sane.

"Hain't they ketched yer dad yit?" he queried.

"No, nor they won't," Chip rattled on, as if such killing were a daily
occurrence in the woods. "He's a slick 'un, they say, an' now he's
got Pete's money, he'll lay low."

"Worse and worse, and more of it," Uncle Joe thought.

"You must 'a' had middlin' lively times up in the woods," he said.
"Did yer dad kill anybody else 'sides yer mother 'n' this man?"

"He didn't kill mother," Chip returned promptly; "he used to lick
her, though, but she got killed in a mill, 'n' I wisht it 'ud bin him.
I wouldn't 'a' bin an orfin then. Say," she added, as they entered
a woods-bordered stretch of road, "did ye ever see spites here?"

"Spites," he responded, now more than ever in doubt as to her sanity,
"what's them?"

"Why, they's just spites--things ye can't see much of 'ceptin' it's
dark. Then they come crawlin' round. They's souls o' animals mostly,
Old Tomah says. I've seen thousands on 'em."

Uncle Joe shifted his quid, turned and eyed the girl once more. First,
a wild and wofully mixed tale of murder, and then spookish things! Beyond
question she had wheels, and he resolved to humor her.

"Oh, yes, we see them things here now 'n' then," he said, "but it
takes considerable licker to do it. We hain't had a murder, though, for
quite a spell. This is a sorter peaceful neck o' woods ye're comin'
to."

But Chip failed to grasp his quiet humor, and all through that
twenty-mile autumn day stage ride she chattered on like a magpie.

He soon concluded she was sane enough, however, but the most voluble
talker who ever shared his seat.

"I never seen the beat o' her," he said that night at Phinney's
store,--the village news agency,--"she clacked every minit from the
time we started till we fetched in, an' I never callated sich goin's
on ez she told about cud ever happen. Thar was murder 'n' runnin'
away, 'n' she got ketched 'n' carried off 'n' fetched back, 'n'
a whole lot o' resky business. She believes in ghosts, too, sorter
Injun sperits, 'n' she kin swear jist ez easy ez I kin. It seems
the Frisbies hev kinder 'dopted her, 'n' I guess they'll hev their
hands full. She's a bright 'un, though, but sich a talker!"

At Aunt Comfort's spacious, old-fashioned home, where Chip was now
installed, she soon began to create the same impression. This had been
Angie's former home, and her Aunt Comfort Day had been her foster-mother.

This family, in addition to the new arrival, consisted of Aunt Comfort,
rotund and warm-hearted; Hannah Pettibone, a well-along spinster of
angular form and temper, thin to an almost painful degree, with a
well-defined mustache; and a general helper on the farm, and a chore
boy about Chip's age named Nezer, completed the list.

Once included in this somewhat diverse group, Chip became an immediate
bone of contention.

Aunt Comfort, of course, opened her heart to her at once; but Hannah
closed hers, almost from the first day, and in addition she began to
nurse malice as well. There was some reason for this, mainly due to
Chip's startling freshness of speech.

"I thought ye must be a man wearin' wimmin's clothes, the first time I
see ye," she said to Hannah the next day after her arrival, and without
meaning offence. "It was all on account o' yer little whiskers, I
guess. I never see a woman with 'em afore. Why don't ye shave?"

This was enough; for if there was any one thing more mortifying than
all else to Hannah, it was her facial blemish, and a mention of it she
considered an intentional insult.

From this moment onward she hated Chip.

Nezer, however, took to her as a duck to water, and her story, which
he soon heard, became a real dime novel to him, and not content with
one telling, he insisted on repetition. This was also unfortunate
for--blessed with a vivid imagination and sure to enlarge upon all
facts--he soon spread the story with many blood-curdling additions.

These stories, with Uncle Joe's corroboration, resulted in a direful
tale believed by all. Neighbors flocked in to see this heroine of many
escapades, villagers halted in front of Aunt Comfort's to catch a sight
of this marvel, and so the wonder spread.

Angie was, of course, to blame. More impressed with the seriousness of
the task she had undertaken than the need of caution, she had failed to
tell Chip she must not talk about herself, and so a wofully distorted
history became current gossip.

When Sunday came, the village church was packed, and Parson Jones
marvelled much at the unexpected increase of religious interest. He
had heard of this new arrival, but when the Frisbie family with Chip,
in suitable clothing, entered their pew, the cynosure of all eyes,
this unusual attendance was accounted for.

And what a staring-at Chip received!

On the church steps a group of both young and old men had awaited her
arrival and gazed at her in open-eyed astonishment. All through service
she was watched, and not content with this, a dozen or so, men and women,
formed a double line outside, awaiting the Frisbies' exit.

Angie also failed to understand the principal cause of this interest. Her
last appearance at this church had been as a bride. Naturally that fact
would produce some staring, and so the curious and almost rude scrutiny
the family received, was less noticed by her.

But Chip's eyes were observant.

"I don't like goin' to meetin'," she said, "an' bein' stared at
like I was a wildcat. I seen 'em grinnin', too, some on 'em, when we
went in, an' one feller winked to another. What ailed 'em?"

Her vexations, however, had only just begun, for Angie had seen and made
arrangements with Miss Phinney, one of the village school-teachers, and
the next morning Chip was sent to school. And now real trouble commenced.

Not knowing more than how to read and spell short words, and unable to
write, she, a fairly well-developed young lady, presented a problem
which was hard for a teacher to solve. To put her in the class where she
belonged was absurd. She must sit with older girls, or look ridiculous.
If she recited with the eight-year-old children, the result would be
the same, and so a species of private tuition with recitations at noon or
after school became the only possible course and the one her teacher
adopted.

This also carried its vexations, for Chip was as tall as Miss Phinney
and a little larger. Not one of that band of pupils was over twelve.
To join in their games was no sport for Chip, while they, having heard
about her thrilling experiences, with a hint that she wasn't quite right
in her head, felt afraid of her.

"I feel so sorry for her," Miss Phinney explained to Angie, a week
later, "and yet, I don't know what to do. She is so big the children
won't play with her, or she with them. I am the only one with whom she
will talk, and she seems so humble and so grateful for every word. I
can't be as stern with her or govern her as I should, on account of her
temper and size.

"Only yesterday I heard screaming at recess, and going out, I found
that Chip had one of the girls by the hair and was cuffing her. It
transpired that this girl had called her an Indian and asked if she had
ever scalped anybody. I can't punish such a pupil, and I can't help
loving her, so you see she is a sore trial."

She also became a trial to Angie in countless ways.

Of a deep religious conviction, and believing this waif needed to be
brought into the fold, Angie set about that task at once. But Chip was
impervious to such instruction. By no argument or persuasion could
Angie force her protégée to renounce her belief in the heathenism of
Old Tomah, or convince her that God and the angels were any different
from his collection of spirit forms, or that heaven was anything more
than another name for his happy hunting-grounds. Old Tomah had been her
wise and only friend, so far. She had seen all the ghostly forms he had
described, had felt all the occult influences which he said existed,
and neither coaxing nor derision served to make her disown them.

Of course, Angie took her to church regularly. She sat through services
and bowed as all did. Sabbath-school instruction would have been forced
upon her but for the reason that made her a class of one under Miss
Phinney, and Parson Jones's attention was finally enlisted.

He spent an hour in pointing out her heathenish sins, assured her that
Old Tomah was a wicked reprobate and an ignorant savage combined, that
all influences so far surrounding her had been the worst possible,--a
self-evident fact,--and unless she confessed a change of heart, and
soon, too, all her friends here would desert her and the devil would
overtake her by and by, and then closed this well-intended effort with a
prayer.

Chip sat through it all, mute and cowering. The parson's white hair,
sharp eyes, and solemn voice awed her, and when he had departed, she
began to cry.

"I don't see the need o' makin' me say I don't believe suthin' when
I do," she said. "I've seen spites 'n' I know I've seen 'em, an'
nobody can make me believe Old Tomah a bad man, if he is an Injun. He
runned after me when I got ketched, 'n' near got his eyes scratched
out"--a logic it was useless to contend with.

"You're jest a little spunky devil," Hannah said to her later on with
a vicious accent, "an' if I was Mrs. Frisbie I'd larrup ye till ye
confessed penitence, I would. The idee o' you settin' thar a-mullin'
all the time the minister was tryin' to save ye! It's scand'lus!"

And that night Chip was back in the wilderness with Old Cy and Ray in
thought, and so homesick for them that she cried herself to sleep.



CHAPTER XV


  "While yer argufyin' with a fool, jes' figger thar's two on
  'em."--Old Cy Walker.

The streams and swamps contiguous to this lake were well adapted for the
habitat of mink, muskrat, otter, fisher, and those large fur-bearing
animals, the lynx and lucivee, and here a brief description of where
such animals exist, and how they are caught, may be of interest.

The habits of the muskrat, the least cunning of these, are so well
known that they merit only a few words. They are amphibious animals,
their food is succulent roots, bulbs, and bark, and they frequent small,
marshy ponds, sluggish streams, and swamps. In summer they conceal
themselves by burrowing into soft banks; in winter they erect houses
of sedge-grass, roots, and mud, and are caught in small steel traps
set in shallow water at the entrance of their paths out of lake or stream.

Mink, marten, otter, and fisher are much alike in shape and habit. All
belong to the same family, but vary in size, also slightly in the matter
of food. Mink and marten live on fish, frogs, birds, mice, etc.; otter on
fish and roots; and fishers, as their name implies, subsist largely on
fish. All these are more valuable fur-bearing animals than muskrats.
Their abiding places are swamps and shallow streams, in the banks of
which they burrow, and they are usually caught in steel traps baited
with fish or meat.

The lucivee, or lynx, and bobcat, more ferocious and cunning than their
smaller cousins, roam the woods and swamps, live on smaller animals,
hide in caves, crevices, and hollow trees, and they as well as otter
occasionally are caught in deadfalls.

Old Cy, familiar as he was with the homes, habits, and the manner of
catching these cunning animals, soon began his trap-setting campaign.
A few dozen steel traps were first set along the stream and lagoons
entering the lake, and then he and Ray pushed up Beaver Brook, and
leaving their canoe, followed its narrow valley in search of suitable
spots to set the more elaborated deadfalls, which also merit description.

A deadfall is made by placing one end of a suitably sized log--one
perhaps fifteen feet long and a foot in diameter--on a figure four trap,
so adjusted that its spindle end, to which the bait is secured, shall
be poised beneath the upraised end of the log. Alongside of this log
a double row of stakes is driven to form a pen with entrance leading
to the bait. When this deadly contrivance is properly adjusted, the
log and its pen of stakes is concealed with green boughs piled lightly
over it, and all the hungry lynx sees is a narrow opening under green
boughs, and in it a tempting morsel awaiting him. As those creatures,
as well as now and then an otter, are sure to roam up and down all
small streams, a spot where one emerges from a narrow defile, or joins a
larger one, is usually selected for a deadfall.

It is also quite a task to clear a suitable space, fell a right-sized
tree, and construct one of these penlike traps; and although Old Cy and
Ray started early, it was mid-afternoon that day ere they had the third
one ready and awaiting its possible victim.

As gum-gathering was also a part of their season's plan, they now left
the swamp valley, and, ascending the spruce-clad upland, began this work,
which is also worthy of description.

The chewing gum of commerce, so delightful to schoolgirls and small boys,
is the refined, diluted, and sweetened product of gum nuts, or the small
excrescences of spruce sap that exudes and hardens around knot-holes and
cracks in the bark of those trees. These form into hardened nuts or
knobs of gum, from the size of a hazelnut to that of butternut, and
are worth from a dollar to a dollar and fifty cents a pound. A long pole
with a sharpened knife or chisel fastened to its tip is used by gum
seekers. It can be gathered from the time frost first hardens it until
spring, and to gather three to five pounds is considered a good day's
work.

Ray's first attempt at this labor seemed like nut-gathering at home,
only more romantic, and when they were well into the vast spruce growth
bordering one side of the Beaver Brook valley, he became so interested in
hunting for the brown knobs, loosening them, and picking them up that
he would have soon lost all points of the compass, except for Old Cy.

There is also a spice of danger seasoning this pursuit. A wildcat might
at any moment be seen watching from the crotch of a tree, or a bear might
suddenly emerge from the thicket. It was hard work also, for while some
parts of a spruce forest may be free from undergrowth, not all portions
are, and this tangle is one not easy to move about in.

There was also another element that entered into the trapping and
gum-gathering life,--the possible return of the half-breed.

"He hain't nothin' agin us," Old Cy asserted, when the question came
up. "We didn't chase him the day he stole Chip, 'n' yet I s'pose
he'll show up some day, 'n' mebbe do us harm."

It was this fear that had led Old Cy to leave one of their canoes in a
log locker, securely barred, and also to caution the hermit to remain
on guard at the cabin while he and Ray were away.

A canoe is the one most vital need of a wildwood life, for the reason
that the streams are the only avenues of escape and afford the only
opportunities for travel.

The wilderness, of course, can be traversed, but not easily. Swamps
will be met and must be avoided, for a wilderness swamp is practically
impassable. Streams can be forded, but lakes must be encompassed,
and even an upland forest is but a tangled jungle of fallen trees and
undergrowth.

Old Cy knew, or at least he felt almost sure, that the half-breed would
return in good time. He had also reasoned out his failure to do so at
once, and knew that left canoeless, as he had been that tragic day, his
only course must be the one he actually followed. A month had elapsed
since then, with no sign of this "varmint's" return, and now Old Cy
was on the watch for it.

Each morning, when he traversed the lake shore from ice-house to landing,
he looked for tell-tale footprints. He watched for them wherever he went,
and the distant report of a rifle would have been accepted as a sure
harbinger of this enemy.

It became their custom now each day, first to visit all small traps
in the near-by streams, then pushing their canoe as far as possible
up the Beaver Brook, to leave it, continue up the valley, and after
inspecting their deadfalls, turn to the right out of this swale, and
begin the gathering of gum.

And now, one day, in carrying out this programme, a discovery was made.

They had first visited the small traps near the lake, securing a couple
of mink and three muskrats, which were left in the canoe. An otter was
found in one of the deadfalls, and taking this with them, they entered
the spruce timber and hung it on a conspicuous limb. Then the search for
gum began.

As usual, they worked hard. The days were short, the best of sunlight
was needful to see the brown nuts in the sombre forest, and so they
paid no heed to aught except what was overhead. When time to return
arrived, Old Cy picked up his rifle and led the way back to where the
otter had been left, but it had vanished. Glancing about to make sure
that he was right, he advanced to the tree, looked down, and saw two
footprints. Stooping over to examine them better in the uncertain light,
he noted also that they were not his own, but larger, and made by some
one wearing boots.

"Tain't the half-breed," he muttered, with an accent of relief, and
looking about, he saw a well-defined trail leading down the slope and
thence onward toward the swamp.

Some one had crossed this broad, oval, spruce-covered upland while they
were not two hundred rods away from this tree, had stolen their otter,
and gone on into the swamp.

Any freshly made human footprint found in a vast wilderness awakens
curiosity; these seemed ominous.

"He must 'a' seen us 'fore he did the otter," Old Cy ejaculated,
"an' it's curis he didn't make himself known. Neighbors ain't over
plenty, hereabout."

But the sun was nearing the tree-tops, the canoe was a mile away, and
after one more look around, Old Cy started for it. There was no use in
following this trail now, for it led into the tangled swamp, and so,
skirting this until a point opposite the canoe was reached, Old Cy and
Ray then plunged into it.

Twilight had begun to shadow this vale ere the canoe was reached. And
here was another surprise, for the canoe was found turned half over, and
on its broad oval bottom was a curious outline of black mud. The light
was not good here. A fir-grown ledge shadowed the spot; but as Old Cy
stooped to examine this mud-made emblem, it gradually took shape, and
he saw--a skull and cross bones!

"Wal, by the Great Horn Spoon!" he exclaimed, "I never s'posed a
pirate 'ud fetch in here! An' he's swiped our muskrats and mink," he
added, as he looked under the canoe, "durn him!"

Then the bold bravado of it all occurred to Old Cy. The theft was
doubtless made by whosoever had taken their otter, and not content
with robbing them, he had added insult.

"I s'pose we'd orter be grateful he left the paddles 'n' didn't
smash the canoe," Old Cy continued, turning it over. "I wonder who't
can be?"

One hasty look around revealed the same boot-marks in the soft earth near
the stream, and then he and Ray launched their craft and started for home.

"I'm goin' to foller them tracks to-morrer," Old Cy said, when they
were entering the lake and a light in the cabin just across reassured
him. "It may be a little resky, but I'm goin' to find out what sorter
a neighbor we've got."



CHAPTER XVI


  "When a man begins talkin' 'bout himself, it seems as tho'
  he'd never run down."--Old Cy Walker.

All fellow-sojourners in the wilderness awaken keen interest, and the
unbroken silence and solitude of a boundless forest make a fellow human
being one we are glad to accost.

A party of lumbermen wielding axes causes one to turn aside and call on
them. A sportsman's camp seen on a lake shore or near a stream's bank
always invites a landing to interview whoever may be there.

All this interest was now felt by Old Cy and Ray, and with it an added
sense of danger. No friendly hunter or trapper would thus ignore them
in the woods. This piratically minded thief must have seen them, for
the spruce-clad oval, perhaps half a mile in width, was comparatively
free from undergrowth where they had been working. He had crossed it
within fairly open sight of them, had found the otter hanging from a
limb, had taken it, and thence on to rob their canoe, daub it with that
hideous emblem, world-wide in meaning, and then had gone on his way.
Almost could Old Cy see him watching them from behind trees, skulking
along when their backs were turned, a low, contemptible thief.

Old Cy knew that bordering this oval ridge on its farther side was a
swamp, that a stream flowed through it, and surmising that this fellow
might have come up or down this stream, he left their cabin prepared
for a two or three days' sojourn away from it, which meant that food,
blankets, and simple cooking utensils must be taken along.

No halt was made to visit traps. Old Cy was trailing bigger game now;
and when the point where they had left the canoe the day previous was
reached, the canoe was pulled out on the stream's bank, the rifles only
taken, and the trailing began. He followed up the brook valley a little
way, to find that only one track came down; he then circled about the
canoe, until, like a hound, he found where the clearly defined trail left
the swamp again.

Here in the soft carpet under the spruce trees one could follow this
trail on the run, and here also Old Cy found where this enemy had halted
beside trees evidently while watching them, as the tracks indicated.
When the bordering swamp was reached, the trail turned in a westerly
direction, skirting thus for half a mile, and here, also, evidences of
skulking along were visible.

Another trail was now come upon, but leading directly over the ridge,
and just beyond this juncture both the trails now joined, entered the
swamp, and ended at a lagoon opening out from the stream. Here, also,
evidences of a canoe having been hauled up into the bog were visible.

"That sneakin' pirate come up this stream," Old Cy observed to Ray, as
the two stood looking at these unmistakable signs. "He left his canoe
here 'n' crossed the ridge above us 'n' down to whar we left the
otter 'n' on to our canoe. Then he come back the way we follered,
'n' my idee is he had his eye on us most o' the time. I callate he
has been laughin' ever since at what we'd say when we found that mud
daub on our canoe, durn him!"

But their canoe was now a half-mile away, and for a little time Old Cy
looked at the black, currentless stream and considered. Then he glanced
up at the sun.

"I've a notion we'd best fetch our canoe over here," he said at last,
"an' follow this thief a spell farther. We may come on to suthin'."

"Won't he shoot at us?" returned Ray, more impressed by this possible
danger than was Old Cy.

"Wal, mebbe and mebbe not," answered the old man. "Shootin's a game
two kin play at, an' we've jist ez good a right to foller the stream
ez he has."

But when their canoe had been carried over and launched in this lagoon,
Ray's spirits rose. It was an expedition into new waters, somewhat
venturesome, and for that reason it appealed to him.

Then they had two rifles, Old Cy had taught him to shoot, he had already
killed one deer and some smaller game, and the go-west-and-kill-Indian
impulse latent in all boys was a part of Ray's nature. Besides, he had
an unbounded faith in Old Cy's skill with the rifle.

And now began a canoe journey into and through a vast swamp, the upland
border of which could scarce be seen. The stream they followed was black,
and so absolutely motionless that it was a guess which way they were
going. The mingled hack-matack and alder growth along each bank was so
dense that no view ahead could be seen, and they must merely follow the
winding pathway of dark waters and hope to come out somewhere.

For two hours they paddled along this serpentine highway, and then the
vastness of this morass began to impress them. No sign of current had
been met. All view of the spruce-grown upland they had left was obscured
by distance. Now and then a dead tree, bleached and spectral, marked a
turn in the stream, and hundreds of them, rising all about above the low
green tangle, added a ghostly haze. It was as if they were venturing into
a new world--a boundless morass, covered by an impenetrable tangle, and
made grewsome by the bleaching trunks of dead trees.

"I'm goin' to find which way we're goin'," Old Cy exclaimed at
last, as they neared a small dead cedar that pointed out over the stream,
and seizing a projecting limb of this, he broke off bits of dry twigs,
and tossed them into the stream. For a long moment not one stirred, and
then at last a movement backward could be discovered.

"We're goin' up-stream, anyhow," he added, glancing at the sun, now
marking mid-afternoon; "but we've got to git out o' this 'fore dark,
or we'll be in a bad fix, an' hev to sleep in the canoe."

No halt for dinner had yet been made. They were both faint from need of
food, and so Old Cy reached for a small wooden pail containing their sole
supply of provisions. Neither was it a luxurious repast which was now
eaten. A couple of hard-tacks munched by each and moistened with a cup
of this swamp water and a bit of dried deer meat was all, and then Old
Cy lit his pipe, dipped his paddle handle in the stream, and once more
they pushed on. Soon a low mound of hard soil rose out of the tangle
just ahead, an oasis in this unvarying mud swamp, and gaping at them
from amid its cover of scrub birch and cedar stood a deadfall. It faced
them as they neared this small island, and with log upraised between
a pen of stakes it much resembled the open mouth of a huge alligator.

"Hain't been built long," Old Cy exclaimed, after they had landed to
examine it. "I've a notion it's the doin's of our pirate friend,
an' he's trappin' round about this swamp. He's had good luck lately,
anyhow, for he's got six o' our pelts to add to his string."

From here onward signs of human presence in this swamp became more
visible. Now and then an opening cut through the limbs of a lopped-over
spruce was met; a spot where drift had been pushed aside to clear the
stream was found at one place; signs of a canoe having been nosed into
the bog grass were seen; and here were also the same footprints they
had followed.

Another bit of hard bottom was reached, and here again was another
deadfall. Tracks evidently made within a few days were about here,
and tied to its figure-four spindle was a freshly caught brook sucker.

"The scent's gettin' warm," Old Cy muttered, as he examined these
signs of a trapper's presence, and then, mindful of the sun, he paddled
on again.

And now an upland growth of tall spruce was seen ahead, the banks became
in evidence, and a slight current was met. One more long bend in the
stream was followed, then came curving banks and large-bodied spruce.
They were out of the swamp.

Soon a more distinctive current opposed them, a low murmur of running
water came from ahead, and then a pass between two abutting ledges was
entered. Here the stream eddied over sunken rocks, and pushing on, the
forest seemed suddenly to vanish as they emerged from the gloom of this
short cañon, and the next moment they caught sight of a long, narrow
lakelet.

The sun, now almost to the tree-tops, cast a reddish glow upon its placid
surface, and so welcome a change was it from the ghostly, forbidding
swamp just left, that Old Cy halted their canoe at once to look out upon
it. It was seemingly a mile long, but quite a narrow lake. A bold, rocky
shore rising in ledges faced them just across, and extended along
that side, back of these a low, green-clad mountain, to the right,
and at the end of this lanelike lake a bolder, bare-topped cliff was
outlined clear and distinct.

This strip of water, for it was not much more, seemingly filled an oblong
gorge in these mountains, only one break in them, to the left of this
bare peak; and as Old Cy urged their canoe out of the alder-choked
stream, now currentless once more, a margin line of rushes and reeds
was seen to form that shore. Back of these, also, rose the low ledge
they had passed.

"Looks like a good hidin' spot fer a pirate," he exclaimed, glancing
up and down the smiling lakelet. "Thar ain't many folks likely to
tackle that swamp--it took us 'most all day to cross it. I'll bet
no lumberman ever tried it twice, 'n' if I wanted to git absolutely
'way from bein' molested, I'd locate here. I dunno whether we'd
best cross 'n' make camp 'mong them ledges, or go back into the woods.
Guess we'd best go back 'n' take a sneak round behind the ledge. I
noticed a loggin[1] leadin' up that way 'fore we left the swamp."

But now something was discovered that proved Old Cy's wisdom, for as
they, charmed somewhat by the spot, yet feeling it forbidding, still
glanced up and down the bold shore just across, suddenly a thin column
of smoke rose from away to the right, amid the bare ledges.

First a faint haze, rising in the still air, then a burst of white,
until the fleecy pillar was plainly outlined as it ascended and drifted
backward into the green forest.

------

[Footnote 1: Lagoon.]



CHAPTER XVII


  "Licker allus lets the cat out."--Old Cy Walker.

When the half-breed, Pete Bolduc, reached Tim's Place, he was more
dead than alive. A week of crawling through swamps, wading or swimming
streams, sleeping under fallen trees, while sustaining life on frogs,
raw fish, and one muskrat, had eliminated about all desire to obtain
Chip, and left a murderous hate instead. And McGuire was its object.

Pete reasoned that he had bought the girl and paid for her. Her father,
never intending to keep faith, had connived at her escape, and knowing
of these campers, had hired her for a serving maid, and they would
inevitably take her out when they left. It was all a part of McGuire's
plot and plan, and no doubt this stranger had also paid him for her
possession.

Two other facts also seemed proof positive that these conclusions were
correct. First, McGuire had never been seen at Tim's Place since the
girl's escape; second, it would have been impossible for her to reach
these campers without aid. But she was lost to him for all time, as Pete
now realized. The stern faces and ready rifles of her protectors had
convinced him of that, and all that remained was to find McGuire, force
him to give back the money, then obtain revenge.

Neither was this an easy task, for McGuire was a dangerous man, as Pete
well knew, and the more he considered the matter, sojourning at Tim's
Place and nursing his hate meanwhile, the more he realized that the
killing of McGuire must precede the obtaining of his money. And now,
where to find McGuire became a question.

Pete knew that at this season he usually devoted a month or more to a
trapping trip, that in starting out he always ascended the Fox Hole, and
that his location for this purpose was the head waters of another stream,
reached by a carry from the Fox Hole.

For a week Pete remained at Tim's Place, and then, obtaining a canoe,
returned to his hut on this stream.

And now, in the seclusion of his own domicile, certain other facts and
conclusions bearing upon the present whereabouts of McGuire occurred to
him.

For many years they had been friends in a way, or at least as much so
as two such scamps ever are. Together they had made many canoe trips
to the Provinces to obtain liquor. In these expeditions, McGuire had
furnished the means; but outlawed as he was, had remained in hiding while
Pete transacted the business and later shared the profits. Pete's hut
had also been used as headquarters, and near by it the smuggled liquor
had been secreted.

On rare occasions, also, McGuire had broken away from his usual
abstemiousness, and here, with Pete for companion, had indulged in an
orgie. At these times he invariably boasted how cunning he had been
in eluding all hated officers of the law, how much money he was worth,
and how securely he had it hidden. The one most pertinent fact, the
location of this hiding spot, he never betrayed. But now Pete--almost as
shrewd as he--reasoned that it would most likely be somewhere in this
region annually visited by him.

To find this was a hard problem; to find McGuire's hiding spot for
his money more so. It meant trailing a human being of greater cunning
than any animal that roamed this wilderness; and yet with the double
incentive of robbing and revenge now decided upon by this half-breed,
he set about solving it.

A day's journey up the Fox Hole brought him to the carry over into
another stream, and here a probably month-old trail, crossing and
recrossing it, was found. Whoever left the tell-tale footprints wore
boots, and as McGuire was the only hunter or trapper in this region
known to wear them, this seemed evidence that it was he. Then as two
trails led over, with only one returning, that proved he had made two
trips across to carry his canoe and belongings and had not returned.
This was plain enough, but when once over, the question of whether he
went up or down stream was another matter. It was an even chance,
however, and Pete decided to go up, and keep sharp watch for any signs
which would indicate that he was on the right track. To trail any animal
in this wilderness was child's play to Pete; but to follow another
trapper journeying by canoe was not so easy. Halts for night camps he
must of course make, collections of drift in some narrow part of the
stream he would inevitably disturb, and where a carry around a rapid
came, a trail would be left. These were the only signs possible to
discover, and for these Pete now watched.

The slow-running waterway he ascended the first day wound through a
stately forest of spruce. Its banks were low and well defined, yet
always covered by undergrowth. No breaks in them, no openings where a
night halt would naturally be made; but ever of the same unvarying
character, and shadowed by the overhang of interlaced boughs. With one
eye keen to any even the slightest signs of human progress up this
stream, and ears ever alert, Pete paddled on. Wildwood sights and
sounds, however, were met in plenty. Once a lordly moose, seeing or
smelling him, snorted and plunged away, crashing through the undergrowth.
Deer were seen or heard at every turn of the stream, and dozens of
muskrats were noticed swimming or diving off the bank, with now and then
an otter or a mink, to vary this monotony.

But these were of no interest to Pete. He was trailing other game,
and like an avenging Nemesis, slowly crept through this vast, sombre,
and forbidding forest. When nightfall neared, he hauled his canoe out
where a stretch of hard bank favored, and camped for the night, and
when daylight came again, he pushed on. For three days this watchful,
up-stream journey was continued, and then a range of low mountains began
to close in, short rapids needing the use of a setting-pole were met,
and at last a series of stair-like falls was sighted ahead. The sun was
well down when these were reached. How long the necessary carry might
be, he could not tell, and hauling out below the rapids, Pete took
his rifle and crept up along the bank. So far not a sign indicating
whether or not McGuire had gone up this stream had been found, but here,
if anywhere, they must be met, and Pete watched eagerly for them.

Every rock where a human foot might scrape away the moss was scanned.
Each bending bough and bush was observed, and when, perforce, he had to
leave the rock-lined bank and make a detour, he still watched for signs.

At the top of this long pitch, the tall trees also ended, and here the
stream issued from a vast bush-grown swamp devoid of timber. A few dead
trees rose from it, and climbing a low spruce, Pete saw this whitened
expanse of spectral cones extended for miles. It was a forbidding
prospect. The stream's course appeared visible only a few rods. It
seemed hardly probable the man he was trailing would cross this swamp. No
signs of his ascending this waterway had so far been met, and Pete,
now discouraged, was about to return to his canoe and on the morn go
back, when, glancing across the stream, he saw a tiny opening in the
bushes, as if they had been pushed aside.

To cross, leaping from rock to rock in the rapids below, was his next
move, and returning to where the fall began, there, just back from this
point, and beside a ledge, were the charred embers of a camp-fire.

Weeks old, without doubt, for rain had fallen on them, and all about were
the footprints of some one wearing boots.



CHAPTER XVIII


  "'Tain't allus the bell cow that gives the most milk."
  --Old Cy Walker.

Old Cy was, above all, a peaceable man, and while curiosity had led him
to follow the trail of this robber and to cross this vast swamp, now that
he saw the suggestive smoke sign, he hesitated about venturing nearer.

"I guess we'd best be keerful," he whispered to Ray, "or we may
wish we had been. I callate our pirate friend's got a hidin' spot
over thar, 'n' most likely don't want callers. He may be only a queer
old trapper a little short o' scruples ag'in' takin' what he finds,
'n' then ag'in he may be worse'n that. His campin' spot's ag'in'
him, anyhow."

But the sun was now very low; a camp site must soon be found, and scarce
two minutes from the time he saw this rising column of smoke, Old Cy
dipped his paddle and slowly drew back into the protecting forest. Once
well out of sight, the canoe was turned and they sped back down-stream
and into the swamp once more. Here he turned aside into a lagoon they
had passed, and at its head they pulled their canoe out into the bog.

The two gathered up their belongings, and picking their way out of
the morass, reached the belt of hard bottom skirting the ridge. They
were now out of sight from the lake, but still too near the stream
to risk a camp-fire, and so Old Cy led the way along this belt until
a more secluded niche in the ridge was reached, and here they began
camp-making. It was a simple process. A level spot was cleared from
brush, two convenient saplings denuded of their lower limbs, a cross
pole was placed in suitable crotches, near-by spruces were attacked with
the axe, and a bark wigwam soon resulted, and just as the darkness began
to gather, a fire was started.

Both Old Cy and Ray had worked with a will, and none too soon was so much
accomplished, for night was upon them, and only by the firelight could
they see to complete the needful preparations.

A peculiar effect of the time, place, and their position was also
noticeable; for although at least a mile away from where this smoke
sign had warned them, and screened from it by a high ridge, both spoke
only in whispers. More than that, the camp-fire was kept low, barely
enough to cook a modest meal, and when the flame chanced to flare up,
Old Cy glanced aloft into the tree-tops to see if they were illumed.
Not much was said, for Old Cy's thoughts were far away, and when
supper was eaten he lit his pipe and sat watching the embers while Ray
studied him. Ray, too, spoke scarcely a word. All that day he had felt
much the same, and while he had the most implicit confidence in Old
Cy's wisdom, now that he had advised retreat, the reasons for it
became ten times more ominous to Ray.

Then again, the sombre nook in which they had camped and the vast swamp
that lay between them and the protecting cabin, all had an effect. This
weird feeling was also added to by the occasional cry of some night
prowler far away in the forest or out in the swamp. Chip's spites,
those uncanny creatures of the imagination, also began to gather, and
Ray fancied he could hear them crawling cautiously about.

"I don't like this," he whispered at last, "and I wish we hadn't
come. Don't you think we had better go back soon as it's daylight?"

"Wal, mebbe," answered Old Cy, smiling at Ray's nervousness. "I've
kinder figgered we might watch out from a-top o' the ridge when mornin'
came 'n' see what we kin see. We might ketch sight o' the pirate
chap 'cross the lake."

"But suppose he catches sight of us," returned Ray, "what then?"

"I don't mean he shall," answered Old Cy, "so don't git skeered.
I'll take keer on ye."

That night, however, was the longest ever passed by Ray, for not until
near morning did he fall into a fitful slumber, and scarcely had he lost
himself before Old Cy was up and watching for the dawn.

Its first faint glow was visible when Ray's eyes opened, and without
waiting for fire or breakfast, they started for the top of the ridge.
From here a curious sight met their eyes, for the lake and also the
ridges out of which the smoke had risen were hidden beneath a white pall
of fog. Back of them also, and completely coating the immense swamp, was
the same sea of vapor. It soon vanished with the rising sun, and just as
the ledges across the lake outlined themselves, once more that smoke
sign rose aloft.

And now the two watchers could better see whence it came. Old Cy had
expected to obtain sight of some hut or bark shack nestling among these
rocks; but none was visible. Instead, the smoke rose out of a jagged
rock, and there was not a cabin roof or sign of one anywhere.

"That feller's in a cave," he whispered to Ray, "an' the smoke's
comin' out o' a crack, sure's a gun!"

It seemed so, and for a half-hour the two watched it in silent amazement.

Then came another surprise, for suddenly Old Cy caught sight of a man
just emerging from behind a rock fully ten rods from the rising smoke; he
stooped, lifted a canoe into view, advanced to the shore, slid it halfway
into the water, returned to the rock, picked up a rifle, then pushed
the canoe off, and, crossing the lake, vanished into the outlet.

The two watchers on the ridge exchanged glances.

"He's goin' to tend his traps, an' mebbe ourn," Old Cy said at
last, and then led the way back to their bark shack. Here he halted,
and placing one hand scoop-fashion over his ear, listened intently until
he caught the faint sound of a paddle touching a canoe gunwale. First
slightly, then a more distinctive thud, and then less and less until the
sound ceased.

"The coast's clear," he added, now in an exultant whisper, "an'
while the old cat's away we'll take a peek at his den."

A hurried gathering of their few belongings was made, the canoe was
shoved into the lagoon, and no time was lost until the lake was crossed
and they drew alongside of where the smoke was still rising in a thin
film. No landing was possible here, for the shore was a sheer face of
upright slate, and only where this lone trapper had launched his canoe
could they make one.

From here a series of outcropping slate ledges rose one above another,
and between them and parallel to the shore, narrow, irregular passages
partially closed by broken rock. It was all of slaty formation, jagged,
serrated, and gray with moss.

Following one of these passages, Old Cy and Ray came to the ledge out
of which the smoke was rising from a crevasse. It was a little lower
than one in front, perhaps forty feet in breadth, double that in length,
and of a more even surface. At each end was a short transverse passage
hardly wide enough to walk in, and a few feet deep.

And now, after a more careful examination of the crevasse out of which
the thin film of smoke rose, Old Cy began a search. Up and down each
narrow passway he peeped and peered, but nowhere was a crack or cranny
to be found in their walls. In places they were as high as his head,
sheer faces of slate, then broken, serrated, moss-coated, or of yellow,
rusty color. Here and there a stunted spruce had taken root in some
crack, and over, back from the topmost ledge, this green enclosure began
and continued up the low mountain. Here, also, in a sunny nook below
this belting tangle of scrub spruce, were ample signs of a trapper's
occupation in the way of pelts stretched upon forked sticks and hanging
from a cord crossing this niche. They were of the usual species found
in this wilderness,--a dozen muskrat, with a few mink and otter skins
and one lynx.

Another sign of human presence was also noted, for here a log showing
axe-marks, with split wood and chips all about, was seen.

"Some o' them pelts is ourn," Old Cy ejaculated, glancing at the
array, "an' I've a notion we'd best hook on to 'em. Mebbe not,
though," he added a moment later, "it might git us into more trouble."

But Ray was getting more and more uneasy each moment since they had
landed there. It seemed to him a most dangerous exploit, and while Old Cy
had hunted over this curious confusion of slate ledges and stared at
the rising film of smoke, Ray had covertly watched the lake's outlet.

"I don't think we'd better stay here much longer," he said at last.
"We can't tell how soon that man may come back and catch us."

"Guess you're right," Old Cy asserted tersely, and after one more look
at the inch-wide crack out of which the smoke rose, he led the way to
their canoe.

"Thar's a cave thar, sure's a gun," he muttered, as they skirted the
bold shore once more, "an' that smoke's comin' out on't. I wish I
dared stay here a little longer 'n' hunt fer it."

Old Cy was right, there was a cave there beneath the slate ledge--in
fact, two caves; and in one, safe and secure, as its owner the notorious
McGuire believed, were concealed the savings of his lifetime.

More than that, so near do we often come to an important discovery and
miss it, Old Cy had twice leaned against a slab of slate closing the
entrance to this cave and access to a fortune, the heritage of Chip
McGuire.

Ray's fears, while well founded, were needless, however. McGuire--for it
was this outlaw whom they had ample reason to avoid--was many miles away.
And yet so potent was the sense of danger, that neither Old Cy nor Ray
thought of food, or ceased paddling one moment, until they had crossed
the vast swamp and once more pulled their canoe out at the point where
they had entered it the day before.

Here a brief halt for food and rest was taken; then they shouldered their
light craft and started for Birch Camp.

In the meantime another canoe was ascending this winding stream, and long
before nightfall, Pete Bolduc, sure that he was on the trail of McGuire,
entered the ledge-bordered lake.



CHAPTER XIX


  "If most on us cud see ourselves as the rest see us, we'd
  want to be hermits."--Old Cy Walker.

To trail an enemy who is never without a rifle and the will to use it,
requires courage and Indian cunning as well. Pete Bolduc had both, and
after observing the many signs of a trapper's presence in the swamp,
he knew, after he crossed it and reached this lake, that somewhere on
its shores, his enemy, McGuire, had his lair.

He paused at the outlet, as did Old Cy, to scan every rod of its rocky
shores, not once, but a dozen times.

The sun was now halfway down. A mellow autumn haze softened the
encircling mountains and the broad, frowning peak to the right. A
gentle breeze rippled the upper end of the lake, and here, in the
wild rice growing along its borders, stood a deer, belly-deep in the
green growth.

No thought of the blessed harmony of lake, sky, and forest, or the
sequestered beauty of this spot, came to the half-breed. Revenge and
murder--twin demons of his nature--were in his heart, and the Indian
cunning that made him hide while he watched for signs of his enemy. The
bare peak overlooking the lake soon impressed him as a vantage point, and
after a half-hour of watchful listening he laid his rifle across the
thwart, handy to grasp on the instant, and, seizing his paddle once
more, crossed the lake to the foot of the peak.

To hide his canoe here, ascend this with pack and rifle, was the next
move of this human panther, and here in a sheltering crevasse he lay and
watched for his enemy.

Two hours later, and just at sunset, McGuire returned to the lake.

As usual, he, too, paused at the outlet to scan its shores. He believed
himself utterly secure here, and thought no human being was likely to
find this lakelet. But for all that, he was watchful. Some exploring
lumberman or some pioneer trapper might cross this vast swamp and find
this lake during his absence.

A brief scrutiny assured him that he was still safe from human eyes, and
he crossed the lake.

From the bare cliff a single keen and vengeful eye watched him.

As usual, also, McGuire made his landing at a convenient point, some
fifty rods from his cave, and carried his canoe up and turned it over,
back of a low-jutting ridge of slate. He skinned the half-dozen prizes
his traps had secured that day and followed a shallow defile to his
lair. Here his pelts were stretched, a slab of slate was lifted from
its position in a deep, wide crevasse between two of these ledges, and
McGuire crawled into his den.

Most of these movements were observed by the half-breed, who, watching
ever while he plotted and planned how best to catch his enemy unawares,
saw him emerge from amid the ledges again, go down to the lake, return
with a pail of water, and vanish once more.

All this was a curious proceeding, for he, like Old Cy, had expected to
find McGuire occupying some bark shelter, and even now he supposed there
was one among this confusion of bare rocks.

Another surprise soon came to this distant watcher, for he now saw a thin
column of smoke rise from a ledge and continue in varying volume until
hidden by twilight.

And now, secure in his cave and quite unconscious of the watcher with
murderous intent who had observed his actions, McGuire was enjoying
himself. He had built a little slate fireplace within his cave. A funnel
of the same easily fitted material carried the smoke up to a long,
inch-wide fissure in the roof. He had a table of slate to eat from,
handy by a bed filled with moss and dry grass, also pine knots for
needed light.

Opening into this small cave was a lesser one, always cool and dry, for
no rain nor melting snow could enter it, and here was McGuire's pantry,
and here also a half-dozen tin cans, safely hidden under a slab of slate,
stuffed with gold and banknotes.

To still further protect this inner cave, he had fitted a section of
slate to entirely fill its entrance.

When the last vestige of sunset had vanished and twinkling stars were
reflected from the placid lake, the half-breed descended from his lookout
point, and, launching his canoe, followed close to the shadowed shore
and landed just above where McGuire disembarked. Indian that he was, he
chose the hours of night and darkness to crawl up to the bark shelter
which he expected to find, his intention being to thrust a rifle muzzle
close to his enemy's head and then pull the trigger.

But to do this required a long wait and extreme caution. His enemy
surely had a camp-fire behind a ledge, and shelter as well. The smoke
had seemed to rise out of a ledge, but certainly could not, and so--still
unaware of McGuire's position, yet sure that he was amid these ledges,
and near a shelter--Pete grasped his rifle and crept ashore.

It was too early to surprise his enemy--time to fall asleep must be
allowed. Yet so eager was the half-breed to deal death to him, that he
must needs come here to wait. No chances must be taken when he did crawl
up to his victim, for a false step or the rattle of a loose stone, or
his form outlined against the starlit sky as he crawled over a ledge,
might mean death to him instead of McGuire. And so, crouching safely
in a dark nook above the landing, Pete waited, watched, and listened.

One hour passed--it seemed two--and then the half-breed crept stealthily
up to where the smoke had been seen. Not by strides, or even steps, but
as a panther would, lifting one foot and feeling where it would rest and
then another, and all the while listening and advancing again.

It was McGuire's habit, while staying here, to look at the weather
prospects each night, and also to obtain a drink of cool lake water
before going to sleep.

Often when the evenings were not too cold, he would sit by the lake shore
for a half-hour, smoking and watching its starlit or moon-glittering
surface, and listening to the calls of night prowlers.

In spite of being an outlaw, devoid of moral nature, and one who preyed
upon his fellow-man, he was not without sentiment, and the wild grandeur
of these enclosing mountains, and the sense of security they gave, were
pleasant to him. His life had been a harsh and brutal one. He had dealt
in man's lust and love of liquor. He measured all humankind by his own
standard of right and wrong, and believed that he must rob others or
they would rob him. He had followed that belief implicitly from the
start, and would so long as he lived. He felt that every man's hand
was against him, and no reproaches of conscience had resulted from his
cold-blooded killing of an officer. Never once did the thought return
of the few years when a woman's hand sought his in tenderness, nor any
sense of the unspeakable horror he had decreed for his own child.

So vile a wretch seemed unfit for God's green earth; and yet the silence
of night beside this lake, and the stars mirrored on its motionless
surface, soothed and satisfied him.

[Illustration: He grasped and struck at this enemy in a blind instinct of
self-preservation.]

He had now and then another impulse--to some day take his savings of many
years, secreted here, and go to some other country, assume another name,
and lead a different life.

And now, while an unsuspected enemy was waiting for him to enter a sleep
that should know no waking, he left his cave and seated himself on a
shelf-like projection close to the lake, which was deep here, and the
ledge shore a sheer face rising some ten feet above the water.

One hour or more this strange compound of brute and man sat there
contemplating the stars, and then he suddenly detected a sound--only
a faint one, the mere click of one pebble striking another.

He arose and listened.

Soon another soft, crushing sound reached him. Some animal creeping along
in the passage between the ledges, he thought.

He stepped quickly to the end of the shelf. On that instant a crouching
form rose upward and confronted him.

He had one moment only, but enough to see a tall man a step below him,
the next a flash of spitting fire, a stinging pain in one shoulder, and
this human panther leaped upon McGuire!

But life was sweet, even to McGuire, and as he grasped and struck at
this enemy in a blind instinct of self-preservation as both closed in
a death-grapple, one instant of awful agony came to him as a knife
entered his heart--a yell of mingled hate and deadly fear, as two
bodies writhed on the narrow shelf, a plunging sound, as both struck
the water below--and then silence.

Death and vengeance were clasped in one eternal embrace.



CHAPTER XX


  "Thar's two things it don't pay to worry 'bout,--those ye
  can help 'n' and those ye can't."--Old Cy Walker.

When Old Cy and Ray once more made their way up the Beaver Brook valley,
it was with the feeling that this lone and sinister trapper might be
met at any moment. They dared not leave their canoe where it might be
easily found, but adopting Indian tactics, Old Cy cunningly hid it in a
rank growth of swamp grass, and oft doubling on their own tracks and
wading the shallow stream, left only a confusing trail.

When the deadfalls had been visited and they began gum-gathering again,
they watched constantly for an enemy.

A dense forest of tall spruces is at best a weird and ill-omened spot.
Its vastness appalls, its shadows seem spectral, and every natural object
becomes grotesque and distorted. An overturned stump with bleaching
roots appears like a hideous devilfish with arms ready to entwine and
crush. A twisted tree trunk, prone, rotting, and coated with moss, looks
like a huge green serpent, and even a knot in the side of a big spruce
will resemble a grinning gnome. Even the sunlight flitting through the
dense canopy plays fantastic tricks, and every breath of wind becomes
the moan of troubled spirits.

Something of this weird impress now assailed Old Cy and more especially
Ray, and after two days of unpleasant work in this part of the
wilderness, they gave it up.

"I don't like feelin' I'm bein' watched," Old Cy observed when
they once more started for home, "an' to-morrer I guess we'd best
go 'nother way. Thar's a good spruce growth over beyond the hog-back,
'n' I'd feel safer leavin' the canoe whar Amzi kin keep an eye on't.
We kin come up now once a week 'n' tend the deadfalls 'n' not leave
the canoe more'n an hour."

Little did Old Cy realize how groundless his fears now were, or that
fathoms deep, in a cold, mountain-hid lake, the thieving McGuire and
the implacable half-breed were now locked in the clasp of death.

A change of location, however, banished somewhat of this spectral
presence, and although Old Cy was ever alert and watchful, he showed
no sign of it.

Ray, more volatile and with implicit faith in his protector, soon
returned to normal condition of mind and once more entered into the
spirit of their work and sport with a keen zest.

The traps gave increased returns, the little bin where they stored their
gum was filling slowly but surely, and their life at this wildwood home
became enjoyable.

Neither was it all labor, for the ducks now migrating southward were
alighting in the lake by thousands, a few hours' shooting at them from
ambush made glorious sport, and what with all the partridges they had
secured and these additions, their ice-house was soon unable to hold
another bird.

But the halcyon days of autumn were fast passing and signs of nearing
winter were now visible. Ice began to form in little coves, the ducks
ceased coming, soon the last of them had departed, the leaves of all
hardwood trees were now joining in a hurry-scurry dance with every
passing breeze, the days were of a suggestive shortness, and soon the
grim and merciless snow--the White Spirit of Old Tomah--would be sweeping
over the wilderness.

And then one night the Frost King silently touched that rippled lake
with his wand and the next morning Old Cy and Ray looked out upon its
motionless expanse of black ice. The sky was also leaden, an ominous
stillness brooded over forest, lake, and mountain, and midway of that
day, the first snowfall came.

Old Cy and Ray were a mile away from the cabin, busy at gum-gathering,
when the first flakes sifted down through the canopied spruce tops. Soon
the carpet of needles began to whiten, and by mid-afternoon they had to
abandon work and return.

"I guess we come pretty clus to bein' prisoners now," Old Cy
ejaculated when he shook himself free from the white coating on the
cabin porch, "but we've got to make the best on't. We'll git warm
fust 'n' then go 'n' fetch our canoe up 'n' stow it in the
shed. We ain't like to want it ag'in 'fore spring. One thing is
sartin," he added, when the fire began to blaze in the open fireplace,
"we are sure o' keepin' warm 'n' 'nuff to eat this winter, 'n'
that's all we really need in life, anyway. The rest on't is mostly
imagination."

But in spite of his serene philosophy, Old Cy had dreaded the coming
of winter more than Ray could guess, and all on account of that lad. He
himself knew what a winter meant in this wilderness cabin, while Ray did
not. Separated as they were from civilization by a full hundred miles,
and from Tim's place by forty, they were, as he stated, practically
prisoners for the next five months.

To escape on snow-shoes was possible, of course, if the need arose, and
yet it would be a pretty serious venture, after all.

They were in no particular danger, however. With plenty of food and
fuel, they need not suffer. If the cabin burned, they could erect another
shelter or use the old one. Something of diversion could be obtained
from ice-fishing or gum-gathering on warm days; but not enough, as Old
Cy feared, to keep Ray content and free from the megrims.

None of these fears escaped Old Cy, however. He was too wise for that;
and moreover, in order to inspire Ray, he now began to affect an almost
boyish interest in the snow coming and its enjoyments.

"We can't do much more trappin'," he said that first winter evening
beside the fire while the snow beat against the windows, "but we kin
hev some fun keepin' warm an' cookin', 'n' when the snow hardens a
bit we kin go fer gum again, or set tip-ups. We've got more'n a million
shiners in the cage up the brook, 'n' 'fore it gits too cold, we'll
ketch a lot o' trout."

It was this faculty for adaptation to the situation, this making the
best of all circumstances and seizing all opportunities for pleasure
or profit, that was Old Cy's woodwise characteristic. No matter if
it stormed, he knew that the sun shone behind the clouds. No matter
if they were utterly isolated in this wilderness, he still saw ways
of enjoyment, and even when snowbound, or shut in by zero weather, he
would still find interest in cooking, keeping warm, or getting ready
to fish, or in gathering gum, when the chance came.

But winter had now come upon them with a sudden swoop. The next day snow
fell incessantly, and when the sun shone again, a two-foot level of it
hid the lake.

Then, as if to test Ray's spirits, the temperature kept well below
freezing for the next week, the wind blew continuously, sweeping the
snow into drifts, and all the three could do, as Old Cy said, was to
"cook vittles and keep warm."

And now for the first time, Ray began to show homesickness. From the day
Chip had left, not once had he mentioned her or his aunt or uncle in any
way. He had kept step, as it were, with Old Cy in all things adventurous
as well as labor and sport.

The possible, even certain gain in the money value of the furs and gum
which they had secured, coupled with their adventurous life, had occupied
his every thought; but now that he could only help Old Cy indoors, he
began to mope.

"I wonder what they are doing now down in Greenvale," he said one
evening after they had gathered about the fire. "I wish we could hear
from 'em."

It was the first sign of homesickness which Old Cy had so long dreaded
to see in him.

"Oh, they ain't havin' half the fun we are," Old Cy answered
cheerfully. "Jest now I callate Chip's studyin' 'longside o' Aunt
Comfort's fire; mebbe Angie 'n' Martin's over to Dr. Sol's,
swappin' yarns. To-morrer Chip'll go ter school, ez usual, 'n' when
Sunday comes they'll all dress up 'n' go ter meetin'. One thing
is sartin, they ain't takin' any more comfort'n we are, or gittin'
better things to eat. If the weather warms up, ez I callate it will in a
day or two, we'll pull some trout out o' the lake that 'ud make
all Greenvale stare. They allus bite sharp arter a cold spell. Ez fer
Chip," he continued, eying Ray's sober face, "she ain't goin'
to fergit ye, never fear, an' when I take ye out o' the woods in the
spring 'n' start ye fer Greenvale with five hundred dollars in yer
inside pocket, ez I callate, ye'll feel's though ye owned the hull
town when ye git thar, an' Chip'll feel ez tho' she owned ye."

"I wish I could hear how they are once in a while," Ray rejoined.
"They may be sick."

That "they" meant Chip was self-evident.

Once a mood comes upon a person, it is hard to change it, and of all
the moods that torture poor human beings, the love mood is the most
implacable. While the zest of trapping was upon Ray, he was himself and a
cheerful enough lad. There had also been the spice of danger from this
unknown, thieving trapper; but when both had vanished, and all that was
left for excitement was the monotony of indoor life, with occasional
half-days when fishing through the ice was permissible, his spirits
fell to low tide.

Old Cy had feared this from the outset, but believing that the
experience here was the best possible for the boy, to say nothing of the
financial side, he had brought it about. And now he had his hands full.

But he was equal to it. Next to sport, work, he knew, was the best
panacea for any mental disorder, and work a-plenty he now found for
Ray. First, it had been the making of tip-ups for use on the lake, then
snow-shoes for both of them, and then cutting and splitting more wood.
They had an ample supply already, piled high in a lean-to alongside the
big cabin, but Old Cy asserted that it was not enough, and so more was
added.

The paths, one to the lake to obtain water and one to the ice-house, were
allotted to Ray to keep open.

A few days were consumed in filling the ice-house once more, and when
a warm day came, Old Cy led the way to the sheltered side of the lake,
as enthusiastic as a boy, to begin cutting holes and setting lines for
fishing.

This especially interested Ray, and one good day with a fine catch of
trout would revive his spirits for some time.

Each and every evening, also, when the social side came, Old Cy, always a
prolific story-teller, would engage in his favorite pastime for a purpose.

And what a marvellous fund he had to draw from! All the years when he,
a sailor boy, had sailed afar, all the strange countries and people he
had visited, and all the mishaps he had met were now levied upon.

When these failed--and it was not soon--his wilderness wanderings before
he settled down at Greenvale furnished tales, and when facts became
scarce, his fancies came into play, and many a thrilling shipwreck and
hair-breadth escape that never happened, held Ray's attention for a
long evening.

The banjo also helped out for many an hour. The old hermit with his
jews'-harp joined in, and although Ray's fingers were prone to stray
to "solemn" tunes, Old Cy persisted in his calls for livelier songs,
even to the extent of adding his voice; and so the first few weeks of
winter wore away.

When Christmas neared, however, Ray had a "spell." It had been a
calendar day in his memory, and he had been one of the crowd of young
folks who made merry in the usual ways; but now no cheer was possible,
he believed, and once more he began to look glum.

It may seem rank foolishness and doubtless was, yet Ray, like all
humanity, must be measured by his years and judged by his surroundings.

In Greenvale he had been one of fifty schoolmates whose lives and moods
were akin, and whose enjoyments must be much the same. Here he was, in a
way, utterly alone so far as age means companionship, and worse than
that, one of his two companions was morose and misanthropic. True, he
twanged his jews'-harp in tune with Ray's plantation melodies, but
when that bond of feeling ceased, he lapsed into chill silence once more.

But Old Cy, wise philosopher that he was, saw and felt every mood and
tense that came to Ray, and, seeing thus, forestalled each and every one.

"Christmas is 'most here," he said to Ray, a few days before, "an'
I've been figgerin' we three ought to celebrate it 'cordin' to
the best o' our means. We can't do much in the way o' gifts, but we
kin bust ourselves with vittles 'n' have some fun, just the same.
I've kinder mapped out the day sorter this way, if it's pleasant.
Fust, we'll hev an arly breakfast, then pack a lot o' things on the
hand-sled, go 'cross the lake 'n' round to the cove facin' the south.
Here we'll cut a few holes, set some lines, 'n' while you're tendin'
'em, Amzi 'n' me'll clear a spot under the bank, build a bough
lean-to facin' the sun, spread blankets in it, 'n' when noon comes,
cook a meal fit fer the gods. We kin hev briled venison, fried trout
jist out o' the water, boiled taters, hot coffee, 'n' an appetite
that'll make ye lick yer fingers 'n' holler fer more. If only the
sun shines, we kin hev a heap o' fun."

It was all a boyish diversion as planned by Old Cy, and the sole object
was to tide Ray over a day that might add to his homesickness. The
weather favored this kindly interest.

Christmas morn opened warm, and but for the deep snow it might have
been an October day. Old Cy's romantic plan also materialized to the
fullest, and when his green bough shed, with carpet of the same, was
completed, the fire in front blazing cheerfully and dinner cooking, it
was all a picture well worth a study.

Then as if to prove that good luck trots in double harness, about this
time the trout began to bite, and the line of tip-ups across the cove
were flagging exciting signals that kept Ray and the old hermit on the
jump. Even when their picturesque Christmas dinner was spread upon an
improvised table in front of the bough shelter, Ray could hardly leave
the sport to eat, and Old Cy had to interfere.

"We ain't ketchin' fish to sell," he said to Ray, "but jist fer fun.
You've got more'n we kin eat in two weeks, so give 'em a rest."

When dinner was over there came a lazy lounging hour on the fir boughs in
the warm sun, while Old Cy smoked his pipe of content.

Ray, however, could not resist the signal flags any longer, and as soon
as the meal was eaten he was out tending them again.

When the sun was halfway down, again the happy trio broke camp and
returned to the cabin, carrying fish enough to feed a multitude. That
evening Old Cy told stories as usual, Ray picked his banjo and sang
lively songs, and so ended Christmas in the wilderness.

Our lives are but a succession of moods, varying ever as our surroundings
change; and so it was with Ray, isolated as he was with two old men for
companions. With work or sport to interest him, he was cheerful and
content. But when, as now happened, another long and heavy snowfall
succeeded that mellow Christmas Day, he grew morose. It was selfish,
perhaps, and thoughtless, as youth ever is, and yet not surprising; for
when the sun shone again, they were practically buried under snow. It
took an entire day, with all three working, to shovel paths to the lake
and ice-house, and when that was done there was naught else except to
cook and keep the fire going. A few days of this bore heavily on
Ray's spirits, and he became so glum that Old Cy took him to task.

"You've got to brace up, my boy," he said one evening, "an' likewise
count yer blessin's. We are shut up fer a spell, but think how much
worse off ye might be. We've got plenty to eat 'n' keep warm with,
thar's a good three hundred pounds o' gum we got, an' it's worth over
four hundred dollars, say nothin' o' the furs, 'n' all yourn. Then,
'nother thing, ye mustn't keep broodin' over yer own lonesomeness
so much. I'll 'low ye're kind o' anxious to see the little gal
ag'in, as is nat'ral; but s'pose it was two years ye hed to look
forrard to, a-waitin', an' then on top o' that, arter waitin' so
long, ye hed to face three more, with never a chance to larn whether
she was dead or alive!"

And now Old Cy paused, and watched the low-burning fire as if living once
more in bygone days.

"It seems a long time, these months," he continued at last, glancing
at Ray, "an' so 'tis; but I had a longer spell on't once, an' it
ended the way I hope your waitin' won't. It all happened more'n forty
years ago, 'n' I've never told nobody 'bout it since.

"I was born in Bayport, that's a seaport town, an' me 'n' my only
brother took to the sea at an arly age. We had sweethearts, too, and,
curislike, they was sisters. Mine was Abbie Grey--sweet Abbie Grey they
used to call her, an' she well desarved it.

"Wal, I used to see her 'tween viages, mebbe a week or two, onct in
six or twelve months o' waitin', an' them was spells I've lived over
hundreds o' times, I kin tell ye. We 'greed to hitch up finally arter
I made one more viage, 'n' I went off, feelin' life ahead was all
apple orchards 'n' sunshine."

He paused, looked long at the dying embers once more, and then continued:
"Life is all a mix-up o' hopes 'n' disapp'intments, tho', an' the
brighter the hopes the more sartin they are to be upset. I started on
that viage feelin' heaven was waitin' fer me at shore, 'n' I seemed
to 'a' sailed right into the other place, fer our ship sprung a
leak 'n' foundered. We took to the boats, ez I told ye onct. Most
o' my crew died afore I was picked up, 'n' then the whaler that
took me aboard was bound on a four years' viage. That was bad enough,
but worse was possible, fer she fetched up on a coral island one
night toward the last on't, and 'twas plumb six years 'fore I heard
from home 'n' Abbie. Things had happened thar in that time, too, an' I
was told my brother had been given up ez lost, 'n' Abbie, believin'
we both was dead, had married 'nother man. I was so upsot I never let
her know I was alive, 'n' she don't know it to-day, if she's
still livin', which I hope she is."

For a long time now Old Cy remained silent, his head bowed, his eyes
closed, as that long-ago page of memories returned, while Ray watched him.

"Life is a curis puzzle," he added at last, "an' we all live in
to-morrers. Fust we are like boys chasin' Jack-lanterns, rushin' on all
the time, 'spectin' most o' the trouble is past 'n' the future
is all rosy. We don't figger much on to-day, but callate next week, next
month, next year, is goin' to be more sunshiny, till we get old 'n'
gray 'n' grumpy, 'n' nobody wants us 'round."

Once more he ceased speaking, and once more his eyes closed. Five, ten,
twenty minutes passed while Ray watched Old Age in repose and the fire
quite died away.

"It's gittin' chilly," Old Cy said at last, suddenly rousing himself
from his dream of the long ago and sweet Abbie Grey, "an' we'd best
turn in."



CHAPTER XXI


  "The biggest fool thing--an' we all do it--is shakin'
  hands with trouble 'fore ye meet it."--Old Cy Walker.

For two months life at Birch Camp much resembled that of a woodchuck or
a squirrel. Now and then a day came when the crusted snow permitted a
gum-gathering trip into the forest, or a few midday hours at ice-fishing;
and never were the first signs of spring more welcome than to those
winter-bound prisoners. The wise counsel and patient example of Old Cy
had not been lost upon Ray, either; and that winter's experience had
changed him to an almost marvellous degree. He was no longer a moody and
selfish boy, thinking only of his own privations, but more of a man, who
realized that he had duties and obligations toward others, as well as
himself.

With the returning sun and vanishing snow, animal life was once more
astir, and a short season of trapping was again entered upon, and
mingled with that a few days more of gum-gathering. It was brief and at a
disadvantage, for ice still covered the lake, and until that disappeared
no use of the canoes could be made.

Once well under way, however, spring returned with speed, the brooks
began to overflow, the lake to rise, and one morning, instead of a white
expanse of watery ice, it was a blue and rippled lake once more.

And now plans for Ray's return to Greenvale were in order, and the sole
topic of discussion. He was as eager as a boy anxious for the close of
school, and for a double reason, which is self-evident.

It was agreed that Old Cy and himself should make the trip out together
in two canoes, and convey their stores of gum and firs. At the settlement
these were to be packed, to await later sale and shipment. Old Cy would
then return to camp, and Ray would go on to Greenvale.

A change in this plan came in an unexpected manner, however, for a few
days before the one set for departure, Old Cy, always on watch, saw a
canoe enter the lake, and who should appear but Levi, Martin's old guide.

"I've been cookin' up at a lumber camp on the Moosehorn," he
explained, after greetings had been exchanged, "an' I thought I
would make a trip up here an' call on ye 'fore I went out."

How welcome he was, and how all, even Amzi, of those winter-bound
prisoners vied with each other in making him the guest of honor, need not
be asserted. He had been a part of their life here the previous summer,
with all its joys and dangers, and now seemed one of them.

When mutual experiences and their winter's history had been exchanged,
of course Chip's rescue, the half-breed's escape, and the whereabouts
of her father came up for discussion that evening.

"I've heard from Tim's Place two or three times this winter," said
Levi, "an' neither Pete nor old McGuire has been seen or heard on
since early last fall. Pete got thar all safe, but vowed revenge on
McGuire, as Martin and I found, when we went out. He stayed round a week
or so, I heard later, and then started for his cabin on the Fox Hole,
'n' since then hain't never been seen or heard of by nobody. Tim
an' Mike went over to his cabin 'long in the winter, but no signs of
him was found, or even of his bein' thar since snow came. McGuire also
seems to hev dropped out o' business and ain't been heard on since
in the summer. We've expected him all winter at the lumber camp, but
he didn't show up."

"We've seen him," put in Old Cy, flashing a smile at Ray, "leastwise
I callated 'twas him, though I never let on to that effect. He was
trappin' over beyond a big swamp last fall, 'n' he paid us a visit,
stole a half-dozen o' our catches 'n' left his trade-mark on our
canoe." And then Old Cy told the story of their adventure, omitting,
however, any reference to the supposed cave.

"It's curis what has become o' him," Levi said, when the tale was
told, "and our camp crowd all believe that thar's been foul play,
with Pete at the bottom on't. Nobody's shed any tears, though, an'
I'm thinkin' the woods is well rid o' him. He's been a terror to
everybody long enough."

Much more of this backwoods gossip and change of experience filled in
the evening, and next morning Old Cy gave Ray a word of caution.

"I kept whist 'bout our findin' what we callated was a cave," he
said, "an' I want you to. This matter o' McGuire and the half-breed
ain't blowed over yit, an' we don't want to git mixed up in it. Ez
fer the cave, if we 'lowed we found one, the folks at Tim's Place 'ud
go huntin' fer it, sure, 'n' I've my reasons for not wantin' they
should go. So mum's the word to Levi 'bout it."

Levi's arrival, however, changed their plans, for he at once offered to
convoy Ray out of the woods, thus relieving Old Cy, and three days later
these two, with well-laden canoes, started on the out-going journey.

It was not without incident, for when the main stream was reached, it was
dotted with floating logs and the red-shirted drivers with the bateaux
and spike shoes were in evidence. A monster jam was met at the first
rapid, the bags of gum nuts, bundles of firs, and canoes had to be
carried around it, and when Tim's Place was reached, a score of the
good-natured woodsmen were in possession.

Levi discreetly avoided all questions as to what Tim knew of Chip,
her father, or the half-breed. Ray's lips were also sealed, and so
both escaped much questioning. Here, also, they learned what both had
guessed--that McGuire and Pete had either left the wilderness or had
perished that winter. Where and how, if such was the case, no one seemed
to know or care, and a close observer would have said that every one at
Tim's Place hoped that these two outlaws had met their fate.

Old Tomah was also found at Tim's Place, and he was undeniably glad to
see both Ray and Levi, and to learn that Chip was likely to be well cared
for.

When these two voyagers were ready to start, he joined and kept with
them until the settlement was reached. Knowing full well the value of
gum and furs, he soon found a purchaser for Ray's store and stock at
its full value; and when that youth, now elated as never before, was
ready to start for Greenvale, this fine old Indian showed almost a white
man's emotion.

"Take this to little girl," he said, handing Ray a package, "and tell
her Old Tomah not forget. He hope she come back to see him soon."

"Tell Mr. Frisbie I shall be here, waitin' to meet him, when he sends
word," Levi said; and shaking hands with both of his good friends, Ray
now bade them good-by with many thanks for all they had done.

Of his homeward trip and all the charming anticipations now his, no
mention need be made. They are but the flowers wisely strewn in the
pathway of youth, and Ray--now more a man than when he entered the
woods--full well deserved all that lay before him.

But Old Tomah's heart was sad, and far away beside a rippled lake was
another who felt the same.



CHAPTER XXII


  "When ye see two hearts tryin' to beat ez one, gin 'em the
  chance."--Old Cy Walker.

Chip's success and popularity in Greenvale was practically nullified
by Hannah, who from wounded vanity and petty jealousy became her enemy
from the outset.

Aunt Comfort did not know it. Angie was not conscious of the facts, or,
busy with her own social duties and home-making, gave them no thought.
And yet, inspired by Hannah's malicious tongue, Greenvale looked upon
poor Chip as one it was best to avoid.

With Angie as sponsor, she had been made one of the Christmas church
decorators, and had been twice invited to parties, only to exasperate
Hannah all the more and cause an increase of sneers.

"She's nobody an' an upstart," Hannah said at the first meeting of
the village sewing circle after Chip's advent, "an' I've my doubts
about her father an' mother ever bein' married. Then she's an infiddle
an' believes in Injun sperrits an' hobgoblin things she calls spites,
an' is a reg'lar heathen. I don't trust her a minit, an' never leave
the house 'thout I lock up my things."

Much more of this sort fell from Hannah's lips whenever occasion
offered, though never within hearing of Aunt Comfort or Angie. Neither
did the townspeople enlighten them, and so the undercurrent of innuendo
and gossip, once started by Hannah, spread until all Greenvale looked
askance at Chip.

There was also some color for this ill repute, for Angie had concealed
nothing, and Chip, foolishly perhaps, had asserted her belief when it
would have been better to conceal it.

The parson also, chagrined at his failure to make a convert of the girl,
referred to her as "rebellious, obstinate in her ideas, and one who
needed chastening."

Her teacher, however, was her stanch friend. Aunt Comfort beamed upon her
morning and night, while Angie, having provided her with home, raiment,
opportunity for schooling, escort to church, and much good advice, felt
that she had fulfilled her duty. And in a way, she had.

But social recognition in a country village can be made or marred by
such a person as Hannah, and quite unknown to those most interested,
Chip's popularity was not decreed. Neither was she conscious of this
undercurrent. Each day she went to and returned from school in a sturdy
sort of way. A most devoted pupil, she never failed to thank her teacher
for every word of help, and if--thanks to Hannah--she failed to make
friends about the village, she won a place near to Aunt Comfort's heart.

But somehow Aunt Comfort, who loved everybody alike, good or bad, or
at least spoke no ill of the bad ones, didn't count. That she must
inevitably take Chip under her motherly wing, all recognized. She had
taken Hannah, then Angie and Nezer, and now this waif who, as Hannah
insisted, was all bad; and according to Greenvale's belief, Aunt Comfort
would keep on "taking in" homeless waifs and outcast mortals as long
as she lived, or house room held out. And it was true.

By midwinter Martin's new house was all furnished, and social
obligations began to interest Angie, which made matters all the worse for
Chip, for now Hannah could persecute her with less danger of exposure.

But Chip was hard to persecute. She had known adversity in its worst
form. Her life at Tim's Place had been practical slavery, and the worst
that Hannah could do was as pin pricks compared to it.

It is certain, also, if Chip had "spunked up," as Hannah would call
it, now and then, it would have been better for her; but it wasn't
Chip's way. To work and suffer in silence had been her lot at Tim's
Place. Angie had said, "You must obey everybody and make friends," and
impelled by experience, and this somewhat broad order, Chip was doing
her best.

One hope cheered her all that long, hard winter of monotonous study--the
return of Ray, and possibly Old Cy, when summer came. Somehow these two
had knit themselves into her life as no one else had or could. Then
she wondered how Ray would seem to and feel toward her when he came,
and if the little bond--a wondrous strong one, as far as her feelings
went--would still call him to her side.

Of love and its real meaning she was scarce conscious as yet. She simply
felt that this youth with his sunny face and brown eyes was the one
being on earth she wished to please. All the romance and pathos of
that summer idyl, all the moonlight and canoeing, all the songs he had
charmed her with, and every word and act of his from that first evening
when, ragged and starving, she had stumbled into the camp, until she had
parted from him with misty eyes, had been lived over by her countless
times.

It had all been a beacon of hope to her in the uphill road toward the
temple of learning; and how hard she had studied, and how patiently she
had tried to correct her own speech, not even her teacher guessed.

Few of us can see ourselves as others see us, and yet Chip, mature
of mind as one just entering womanhood, realized somewhat her own
condition. Perhaps, also, she was conscious in some degree as to why
she was not more popular, but that was a matter of scant interest to
her. All she wished and all she strove for was to learn what others knew,
speak as others spoke, and act as they acted; and all for one end and
purpose--to win favor in the eyes of Ray.

And so no one, not even Hannah, whose prying eyes saw all things, guessed
her secret.

A little of gall and bitterness was now and then meted out to Hannah
in return for all her sneers, for Chip's teacher occasionally spent an
evening at Aunt Comfort's, and every word of praise she let fall for
her pupil was a thorn to Hannah. But she revenged herself, as might be
expected.

"I think that Injun gal's a witch," she said once to her bosom friend
after one of these unpleasant evenings, "the way she pulls wool over
Miss Phinney's eyes by pretending she's so anxious to learn. You'd
think to hear her go on that learnin' was all she was livin' for, and
her teacher almost an angel. I think Angie must 'a' ben spellbound
the same way when she fetched her here to crowd out her betters."

But Chip, fortunately, was still unconscious of the extent and injury
of Hannah's malice.

With the coming of springtime and green grass, life for Chip assumed
a more smiling face, for now she could fly to the hillsides, and for
the time being imagine herself at the lake once more. Somehow Greenvale
as a whole had impressed her as cold and unloving, and to escape it was
a relief. Her teacher was dear to her, Aunt Comfort a kindly mother,
Angie a good friend; but none were kin to her and never could be, as
she more and more realized.

Then, too, poor Chip, in spite of Tim's Place, was growing homesick for
the wilderness again; or, to be more accurate, for the little lake where
her heart had been touched by the wand of love.

With some insight into books and a developing mind came a keener
sensitiveness, and what people thought of her and how they felt toward
her became of more consequence. Her life was simple. She rose early,
assisted as a housemaid in Aunt Comfort's home, departed at a set time
for school with its six hours of almost unbroken study, and, most prized
of all, a few moments' companionship with her teacher. To her Chip
had confided all her joys and sorrows and most of her history as well.
And be it said to Miss Phinney's credit, she had discretion and honor
enough not to betray Chip's confidence.

It is also possible, in fact almost certain, that that unfortunate
waif's somewhat pitiful tale had won her teacher's interest and
affection as naught else could. Only one reservation was made by
Chip--her own feelings toward Ray. All else became an open book to
Miss Phinney.

When school was out, the two walked homeward together as far as their
ways permitted, and then Chip obtained the one hour of the day which she
felt was quite her own. At first, during the autumn days, she had used it
for a scamper through the nutbrown woods. When winter came and it was
not too cold, she occasionally visited the mill pond above the village,
where, if the conditions were right, all the skating and sliding youth
were gathered; and when blessed spring returned, it was away to the
hills and fields once more.

On Saturdays she seldom left the house, unless sent on an errand, and
Sunday became a day of penance.

"I don't know why folks watch me so much when I go to meetin'," Chip
complained once to her teacher, "but they do, and I don't like it. I
can see now why they did when I first came. I guess they thought I was
an Injun, maybe; but what do I do now to make 'em so curious?"

"Oh, I wouldn't mind them," Miss Phinney answered soothingly, "no
one intends to annoy you; but it takes a long time for people here to
become accustomed to a stranger."

Miss Phinney dared not tell her pupil that her somewhat wild belief
and unquestionably rude origin and early life formed the basis of this
curiosity.

And now, when the flowers and birds had once more returned to Greenvale,
and Ray might return any day, a little plan that Chip had had in mind
for many weeks took shape. She knew Ray must come on the stage, and eager
for a sight of his face as only love can make one, she meant to be the
first to meet and greet him.

A mile down the village street and beyond the last house was a sharp
hilltop. The stage usually reached here about an hour after the close of
school, and to this vantage point, where she could hide behind a stone
wall, Chip now betook herself each day.

Her plans for meeting her young hero were well considered. She was sure
he would, like herself, prefer a seat with Uncle Joe. That important
person, whose heart she had won by her admiration of his horses on her
arrival, would surely invite her to ride into the village, if he saw her.
If he was alone, she would remain hid; but if _some one_ was with him,
she would then disclose herself and the coveted invitation and meeting
with Ray would follow.

It was a vague, uncertain plan. No one in Greenvale had the remotest idea
when Ray would return. Chip only knew that he was expected in the spring.
The day, or even week, was a long-range guess. But even that slim chance
poor, lonesome, heart-longing Chip would not miss, and so each day at
close of school she hurried to her lookout point to watch and wait.

It was a silly, almost hopeless sentinelship, as she knew well enough;
but with the dog's heart that was hers, she would keep her vigil, and
like one of those dumb brutes, wait weeks, months, ay, years even, for a
master coming.

It was mid-April when Chip began her daily watch, and missed no day
unless a pelting rain prevented. It was June ere she won her reward, and
then one balmy afternoon when she saw the stage afar, there, perched
beside Uncle Joe, was--a companion!

How sure that weary, waiting waif was that her heart was not mistaken!
How her pulses leaped and thrilled as the slow-moving stage crept up
the hill; and how Ray, eager to catch the first glimpse of his native
village, saw a winsome, smiling face shaded by a flower-decked hat,
peeping at him over a wall, was but a minor episode in the lives of
these two; yet one to be recalled many, many times afterward and always
with a heartache.

None came to them now, for on the instant Ray saw who was waiting for him
he halted the stage, and the next moment he was beside his sweetheart.
And Uncle Joe, with the wisdom and sympathy of old age, discreetly
averted his face, and said "Go-lang" to his horses, and drove on alone.



CHAPTER XXIII


  "There ain't but few folks smell woollen quite quick enough."
  --Old Cy Walker.

During all the long weeks while Chip had awaited her lover's coming,
one hope had been hers--that his return would end all her loneliness and
begin a season of the happy, care-free days like those by the lake once
more.

And there were many reasons for it.

In this quiet, strictly religious, gossip-loving village, a dependant
upon charity, as it were, and with Hannah's sneers, Chip had slowly but
surely learned how little akin she was to them all, and how distrustful
they all were of her. This knowledge had come by degrees: first, from
the way in which the older pupils at school regarded her, having
always kept aloof; then the insistent staring she received each Sunday
at church; the somewhat chilly reception she had met in a social
way; and lastly, a seeming indifference on Angie's part. There was no
reason for it all, so far as Chip could understand. She walked in
the straight and narrow path laid out for her each day, made herself
useful between school hours at Aunt Comfort's, studied hard, thanked
Angie for every trifle, and after her first unfortunate experience in
defending her belief in spites and Old Tomah's hobgoblins, she had
never referred to them again. But the seeming fact that she was disliked
and unwelcome here had slowly forced itself upon her and added to her
loneliness.

It was all to end, however, when Ray came. In him or from him she would
find a welcome. He knew her as she was, and what she was. He had not been
distrustful, but tender and loving, and all clouds and sorrow and all
humiliations would fade away when he came.

She had pictured to herself, also, how much they would be together
and where; how he would come to Aunt Comfort's the first evening and
tell all about his winter in the wilderness and Old Cy,--all about
the trap-setting, gum-gathering, and the deep snows she knew so much
about. Maybe he would bring his banjo now and then and play and sing the
darky songs she had hummed so many times. Possibly he might come and
meet her occasionally on the way home from school; and when vacation
came, how many long rambles they would take in the dear old woods, with
no such ogre as the half-breed to spoil them. It had all been a rosy-hued
dream with her, while she waited his coming. And now he was here!

For the first few moments after he kissed her upraised lips, she could
not speak for very joy; and then, as hand in hand they started toward
the village, her speech came.

"I've been so lonesome," she said simply, "I've counted the days,
and come down here to meet you daily, for over a month. I don't like
it here, and nobody likes me, I guess. I'm so glad you've come, though.
Now I shan't be lonesome no more. I've studied hard, too," she added,
with an accent of pride. "I can read and spell words of six syllables.
I've ciphered up to decimal fractions, an' begun grammar."

"I'm glad to get home, too," answered Ray, as simply. "It was
lonesome in the woods all winter, when we couldn't tend the traps. But
I've made a lot of money--'most five hundred dollars--all mine, too.
How is everybody?" And so they dropped from sentiment into commonplace.

At the tavern he secured his belongings. At the corner where their ways
parted, he bade Chip a light good-by, and with an "I'll see you soon,"
left her.

Her hero had arrived. They had met, kissed as lovers should, and the
lonely waiting and watching days were at an end and a new life was to
begin for Chip.

Little did she realize what it would mean for her, or how utterly her
hopes were to fail.

"He will come to-night," her heart assured her, and that evening,
without a word to Aunt Comfort or Hannah as to whom she expected, she
arrayed herself in her one best dress and awaited his expected visit.

And what a propitious and all-favoring evening it was! The June night
was balmy. Blooming lilacs and syringas half hid, as well as adorned, the
porch of Aunt Comfort's home. Aunt Comfort had just departed to make
a call, Hannah was away at prayer meeting, and "no one nigh to hinder."

But Chip waited in vain!

The drowsy hum of the Mizzy Falls, up the village street, came to her;
the fireflies twinkled amid the dense-growing maples and over the broad
meadows; whippoorwills called across the valley; but no lover came to
Chip. One, two, almost three hours she waited and watched. Then came
Aunt Comfort and Hannah, and heavy-hearted and lonesome once more, poor
Chip retired.

At school next day her mind and heart were at war. The parts of speech
and rules of subtraction and division seemed complete chaos, and when
homeward bound, she loitered slowly along, hoping Ray would make amends
and meet her on the way. But again he failed to appear.

And that night, when alone with Hannah, a worse blow came.

"I heerd young Stetson got back yesterday," she said, fixing her
steely blue eyes on Chip, "an' you went down the road to meet him. I
should think you'd be 'shamed o' yourself. If you're callatin'
on settin' your cap for him, 'twon't do a mite o' good. His aunt
wouldn't think o' havin' sich an outcast ez you for him--that I can
tell ye."

But not a word of reply came from poor Chip. Such speeches were not new
to her, and she had long before ceased to answer them. But this one, from
its very truth, hurt more than all others had, and, crushed by it, she
stole away out of the house.

No thought that Ray might call came to her. She only wished to escape
somewhere, that she might cry away her misery and shame in solitude.

The evening was but a repetition of the previous one. The same sweet
influence and silvered light was all about, but no heed of its beauty
came to Chip. Instead, she felt herself a shameful thing of no account.
Her lover had failed her--now she knew why, and as she sped along the
lonely way to the schoolhouse, scarce conscious of her steps, all hope
and all joy left her. Why or for what purpose she was hurrying toward
this deserted little building, she knew not. Hot tears filled her eyes.
Shame surged in her heart. She was a nobody in the eyes of all her
world, and once she had reached the worn sill, so often crossed by
her, she threw herself upon it and sobbed in utter despair.

For a long hour she sat there while the tide of feeling ebbed and tears
came unchecked, and then the reaction came. With it, also, came something
of the old courage and defiance that had once led her to face night,
danger, and sixty miles of wilderness alone.

"I have made a mistake," she said, sitting up, "and Hannah was right.
I am a nobody here, and Ray has been told so and has kept away."

And now with returning calm, and soothed, maybe, by the still, ethereal
night, she saw herself, her past and present, as it all was. Back in
an instant she sped in thought to the moment when, kneeling to these
people, she begged for food; back to that first prayer she ever heard
in the tent, and the offer of rescue that followed.

And then her life here, with all its hopes and humiliation, rose before
her.

"It was all wrong, my coming here," she said, looking away to the
village where lights twinkled; "I am not their sort, nor they mine.
I'd better go away."

Then, lifted a wee bit by this new resolve, she rose and returned to the
house.

The tall clock in the sitting room was just chiming ten when she entered,
and Aunt Comfort was there alone.

"Raymond was here this evening," she said kindly, "and waited quite
a spell. Where have you been?"

"Oh, nowhere," answered Chip, pleasantly, "only I was lonesome and
went out for a walk."

Little did good Aunt Comfort realize what a volcano of hope, despair,
shame, and tender love was concealed beneath that calm answer, or the
new resolve budding in Chip's heart.

No more did Ray suspect it when he met her coming home from school the
next afternoon.

For during those two wretched hours when she was alone on the worn
schoolhouse step, poor Chip McGuire, the low-born, pitiful waif, had
become a woman and put away girlish impulses.

"I couldn't come to see you that first evening," he said at once,
"for uncle and aunty kept me talking till bedtime. Where were you last
night?"

"Oh, I didn't much think you would come," answered Chip, calmly,
smiling at him in a far-off way. "I am a nobody here, as you will soon
find out, and I don't expect--anything. I got lonesome last night and
went off for a walk."

Ray looked at her in wide-eyed astonishment. And well he might, for only
two short days since she had met him, an eager, simple girl, and now she
spoke like a woman. No word, no hint of his neglect, escaped her; but
a cool indifference was apparent.

"Tell me about the woods and Old Cy," she said, not waiting for him
to speak again, "and how is the hermit? I want to know all about them."

"Oh, I left 'em all right," answered Ray, sullenly, for like a boy
he wanted to be coaxed. And then, urged a little by Chip, he told his
winter's experience.

One episode interested her most of all--the strange trapper's doings,
his theft of their game, their pursuit of him and discovery of his hiding
spot.

"I know who that was," she said, when it was all described. "It was
my father, and if he had caught you spying upon him, I guess he'd shot
you both. He always used to go somewhere trapping every fall; but nobody
could ever find where."

This return to the memories of the wilderness wore away something of
Chip's cool reserve, and when the house was reached her eyes had grown
tender.

"I shall be glad to see you often--as--as your folks will let you
come," she said, somewhat timidly when they parted; and scarce
understanding this speech, Ray left her.

"Chip has changed a whole lot," he said to his aunt a little later,
"and I wish she hadn't; she don't seem the same any more."

"I'm glad of it if she has," answered Angie, smiling at him. "There
was need enough of it."



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 protégée 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 protégée 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 résumé 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 débris, 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.

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, _blasé_ to all the purities of life and refined
society, a roué 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 naïvely.

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 protégée, 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
_dénouement_.

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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and tenderness. It is an epic of the life of the lumbermen of the great
forest of the Northwest, permeated by out of door freshness, and the
glory of the struggle with nature.

THE SILENT PLACES

A powerful story of strenuous endeavor and fateful privation in the
frozen North, embodying also a detective story of much strength and
skill. The author brings out with sure touch and deep understanding the
mystery and poetry of the still, frost-bound forest.

THE CLAIM JUMPERS

A tale of a Western mining camp and the making of a man, with which a
charming young lady has much to do. The tenderfoot has a hard time of
it, but meets the situation, shows the stuff he is made of, and "wins
out."

THE WESTERNERS

A tale of the mining camp and the Indian country, full of color and
thrilling incident.

THE MAGIC FOREST: A Modern Fairy Story.

"No better book could be put in a young boy's hands," says the New
York _Sun_. It is a happy blend of knowledge of wood life with an
understanding of Indian character, as well as that of small boys.

Each volume handsomely bound in cloth. Price, seventy-five cents per
volume, postpaid.

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_THE GROSSET & DUNLAP EDITIONS OF STANDARD WORKS_

A FULL AND COMPLETE EDITION OF TENNYSON'S POEMS.

Containing all the Poems issued under the protection of copyright. Cloth
bound, small 8 vo. 882 pages, with index to first lines. Price, postpaid,
seventy-five cents. The same, bound in three-quarter morocco, gilt top,
$2.50, postpaid.

THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON AND HER TIMES, by Mrs. Roger A. Pryor.

The brilliant social life of the time passes before the reader, packed
full of curious and delightful information. More kinds of interest
enter into it than into any other volume on Colonial Virginia. Sixty
illustrations. Price, seventy-five cents, postpaid.

SHAKESPEARE'S ENGLAND, by William Winter.

A record of rambles in England, relating largely to Warwickshire and
depicting not so much the England of fact, as the England created and
hallowed by the spirit of her poetry, of which Shakespeare is the soul.
Profusely illustrated. Price, seventy-five cents, postpaid.

THEODORE ROOSEVELT THE CITIZEN, by Jacob A. Riis.

Should be read by every man and boy in America. Because it sets forth
an ideal of American Citizenship. An Inspired Biography by one who knows
him best. A large, handsomely illustrated cloth bound book. Price,
postpaid, seventy-five cents.

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THE GROSSET AND DUNLAP SPECIAL EDITIONS OF
POPULAR NOVELS THAT HAVE BEEN DRAMATIZED.

BREWSTER'S MILLIONS: By George Barr McCutcheon.

A clever, fascinating tale, with a striking and unusual plot. With
illustrations from the original New York production of the play.

THE LITTLE MINISTER: By J. M. Barrie.

With illustrations from the play as presented by Maude Adams, and a
vignette in gold of Miss Adams on the cover.

CHECKERS: By Henry M. Blossom, Jr.

A story of the Race Track. Illustrated with scenes from the play as
originally presented in New York by Thomas W. Ross who created the stage
character.

THE CHRISTIAN: By Hall Caine.

THE ETERNAL CITY: By Hall Caine.

Each has been elaborately and successfully staged.

IN THE PALACE OF THE KING: By F. Marion Crawford.

A love story of Old Madrid, with full page illustrations. Originally
played with great success by Viola Allen.

JANICE MEREDITH: By Paul Leicester Ford.

New edition with an especially attractive cover, a really handsome book.
Originally played by Mary Mannering, who created the title role.

These books are handsomely bound in cloth, are well-made in every
respect, and aside from their unusual merit as stories, are particularly
interesting to those who like things theatrical. Price, postpaid,
seventy-five cents each.

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THE GROSSET AND DUNLAP SPECIAL EDITIONS OF
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MISTRESS NELL, A Merry Tale of a Merry Time. (Twixt Fact and Fancy.) By
George Hazelton.

A dainty, handsome volume, beautifully printed on fine laid paper and
bound in extra vellum cloth. A charming story, the dramatic version of
which, as produced by Henrietta Crosman, was one of the conspicuous stage
successes of recent years. With a rare portrait of Nell Gwyn in duotone,
from an engraving of the painting by Sir Peter Lely, as a frontispiece.

BY RIGHT OF SWORD, By Arthur W. Marchmont.

With full page illustrations, by Powell Chase. This clever and
fascinating tale has had a large sale and seems as popular to-day as
when first published. It is full of action and incident and will
arouse the keen interest of the reader at the very start. The dramatic
version was very successfully produced during several seasons by Ralph
Stuart.

These books are handsomely bound in cloth, are well made in every
respect, and aside from their unusual merit as stories, are particularly
interesting to those who like things theatrical. Price, postpaid,
seventy-five cents each.

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THE GROSSET AND DUNLAP SPECIAL EDITIONS OF
POPULAR NOVELS THAT HAVE BEEN DRAMATIZED.

CAPE COD FOLKS: By Sarah P. McLean Greene.

Illustrated with scenes from the play, as originally produced at the
Boston Theatre.

IF I WERE KING: By Justin Huntly McCarthy.

Illustrations from the play, as produced by E. H. Sothern.

DOROTHY VERNON OF HADDON HALL: By Charles Major.

The Bertha Galland Edition, with illustrations from the play.

WHEN KNIGHTHOOD WAS IN FLOWER: By Charles Major.

Illustrated with scenes from the remarkably successful play, as presented
by Julia Marlowe.

THE VIRGINIAN: By Owen Wister.

With full page illustrations by A. I. Keller. Dustin Farnum has made the
play famous by his creation of the title role.

THE MAN ON THE BOX: By Harold MacGrath.

Illustrated with scenes from the play, as originally produced in New
York, by Henry E. Dixey. A piquant, charming story, and the author's
greatest success.

These books are handsomely bound in cloth, are well-made in every
respect, and aside from their unusual merit as stories, are particularly
interesting to those who like things theatrical. Price, postpaid,
seventy-five cents each.

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HERETOFORE PUBLISHED AT $1.50

BOOKS BY JACK LONDON

12 mo., Cloth, 75 Cents Each, Postpaid

THE CALL OF THE WILD:

With illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and Charles Livingston Bull.
Decorated by Charles Edward Hooper.

"A big story in sober English, and with thorough art in the construction
... a wonderfully perfect bit of work. The dog adventures are as exciting
as any man's exploits could be, and Mr. London's workmanship is
wholly satisfying."--_The New York Sun._

THE SEA WOLF: Illustrated by W. J. Aylward.

"This story surely has the pure Stevenson ring, the adventurous
glamour, the vertebrate stoicism. 'Tis surely the story of the
making of a man, the sculptor being Captain Larsen, and the clay, the
ease-loving, well-to-do, half-drowned man, to all appearances his
helpless prey."--_Critic._

THE PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS:

A vivid and intensely interesting picture of life, as the author found
it, in the slums of London. Not a survey of impressions formed on a
slumming tour, but a most graphic account of real life from one who
succeeded in getting on the "inside." More absorbing than a novel. A
great and vital book. Profusely illustrated from photographs.

THE SON OF THE WOLF:

"Even the most listless reader will be stirred by the virile force, the
strong, sweeping strokes with which the pictures of the northern wilds
and the life therein are painted, and the insight given into the soul of
the primitive of nature."--_Plain, Dealer, Cleveland._

A DAUGHTER OF THE SNOWS:

It is a book about a woman, whose personality and plan in the story
are likely to win for her a host of admirers. The story has the rapid
movement, incident and romantic flavor which have interested so many in
his tales. The illustrations are by F. C. Yohn.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers

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JUNGLE, By Upton Sinclair:

A book that startled the world and caused two hemispheres to sit up and
think. Intense in interest, the dramatic situations portrayed enthrall
the reader, while its evident realism and truth to life and conditions
have gained for it the title of "The 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' of the
Twentieth Century."

"I should be afraid to trust myself to tell how it affects me. It is
a great work; so simple, so true, so tragic, so human."--_ David Graham
Phillips._

Cloth, 12 mo. Price, seventy-five cents, postpaid.

NEW POPULAR PRICED EDITIONS OF IMPORTANT
BOOKS ON SOCIAL AND POLITICAL ECONOMY.

BENJAMIN KIDD,

SOCIAL EVOLUTION,

PRINCIPLES OF WESTERN CIVILISATION.

Two volumes of special interest and importance, view of the social unrest
of the present time.

HENRY GEORGE, Jr.

THE MENACE OF PRIVILEGE.

A study of the dangers to the Republic from the existence of a favored
class.

ROBERT HUNTER,

POVERTY.

An exhaustive study of present day conditions among the poorer classes.

JAMES BRYCE,

SOCIAL INSTITUTIONS OF THE UNITED STATES.

The author's recent appointment as the representative of the British
Empire at Washington will lend additional interest to this timely and
important work.

RICHARD T. ELY,

MONOPOLIES AND TRUSTS.

A masterly presentation of the Trust Problem, by a most eminent authority.

Price, seventy-five cents each, postpaid.

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THE GROSSET & DUNLAP EDITIONS OF GARDEN BOOKS.

Each volume in cloth binding. Price, postpaid, 75c. each.

GARDEN MAKING, by Professor L. H. Bailey, Professor of Horticulture,
Cornell University.

Suggestions for the Utilizing of Home Grounds. 12 mo., cloth, 350
illustrations.

Here is a book literally "for the million" who in broad America have
some love for growing things. It is useful alike to the owner of a
suburban garden plot and to the owner of a "little place" in the
country. Written by the Professor of Horticulture at Cornell University
it tells of ornamental gardening of any range, treats of fruits and
vegetables for home use, and cannot fail to instruct, inspire and
educate the reader.

THE PRACTICAL GARDEN BOOK, by C. E. Hunn and L. H. Bailey.

Containing the simplest directions for growing the commonest things
about the house and garden. Profusely illustrated. 12 mo., cloth. Just
the book for the busy man or woman who wants the most direct practical
information as to just how to plant, prune, train and to care for all
the common fruits, flowers, vegetables, or ornamental bushes and trees.
Arranged alphabetically, like a minature encyclopedia, it has articles
on the making of lawns, borders, hot-beds, window gardening, lists of
plants for particular purposes, etc.

A WOMAN'S HARDY GARDEN, by Helena Rutherfurd Ely. With forty-nine
illustrations from photographs taken in the author's garden by Prof.
C. F. Chandler. 12 mo., cloth.

A superbly illustrated volume, appealing especially to the many men
and women whose love of flowers and all things green is a passion so
strong that it often seems to be a sort of primal instinct, coming down
through generation after generation from the first man who was put into
a garden "to dress it and keep it." The instructions as to planting,
maintenance, etc., are clear and comprehensive, and can be read and
practiced with profit by both amateur and professional.

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PRINCESS MARITZA

A NOVEL OF RAPID ROMANCE.

BY PERCY BREBNER

With Harrison Fisher Illustrations in Color.

Offers more real entertainment and keen enjoyment than any book since
"Graustark." Full of picturesque life and color and a delightful
love-story. The scene of the story is Wallaria, one of those mythical
kingdoms in Southern Europe. Maritza is the rightful heir to the throne,
but is kept away from her own country. The hero is a young Englishman of
noble family. It is a pleasing book of fiction. Large 12 mo. size.
Handsomely bound in cloth. White coated wrapper, with, Harrison Fisher
portrait in colors. Price 75 cents, postpaid.

BOOKS BY GEORGE BARR MCCUTCHEON

BREWSTER'S MILLIONS

Mr. Montgomery Brewster is required to spend a million dollars in one
year in order to inherit seven millions. He must be absolutely penniless
at that time, and yet have spent the million in a way that will commend
him as fit to inherit the larger sum. How he does it forms the basis
for one of the most crisp and breezy romances of recent years.

CASTLE CRANEYCROW

The story revolves around the abduction of a young American woman and
the adventures created through her rescue. The title is taken from the
name of an old castle on the Continent, the scene of her imprisonment.

GRAUSTARK: A Story of a Love Behind a Throne.

This work has been and is to-day one of the most popular works of fiction
of this decade. The meeting of the Princess of Graustark with the hero,
while travelling incognito in this country, his efforts to find her, his
success, the defeat of conspiracies to dethrone her, and their happy
marriage, provide entertainment which every type of reader will enjoy.

THE SHERRODS. With illustrations by C. D. Williams

A novel quite unlike Mr. McCutcheon's previous works in the field of
romantic fiction and yet possessing the charm inseparable from anything
he writes. The scene is laid in Indiana and the theme is best described
in the words, "Whom God hath joined, let no man put asunder."

Each volume handsomely bound in cloth. Large 12 mo. size.

Price 75 cents per volume, postpaid.

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THE GROSSET & DUNLAP ILLUSTRATED EDITIONS OF FAMOUS BOOKS

The following books are large 12mo volumes 5¾ x 8¼ inches in size, are
printed on laid paper of the highest grade, and bound in cloth, with
elaborate decorative covers. They are in every respect beautiful books.

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN--By Harriet Beecher Stowe.

A new edition, printed from entirely new plates, on fine laid paper of
extra quality, with half-tone illustrations by Louis Betts.

PILGRIM'S PROGRESS--By John Bunyan.

A new edition of Bunyan's immortal allegory, printed from new plates
on fine laid paper, with illustrations by H. M. Brock.

THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD--By Susan Warner.

Printed from entirely new plates, on fine laid paper of superior quality,
and illustrated with numerous drawings by Fred Pegram.

THE LITTLE MINISTER (Maude Adams Edition)--By J. M. Barrie.

Printed on fine laid paper, large 12mo in size, with new cover design in
gold, and eight full-page half tone illustrations from the play.

PROSE TALES--By Edgar Allan Poe.

A large 12mo volume, bound in cloth, with decorative cover. Containing
eleven striking drawings by Alice B. Woodward, a biography of the author,
a bibliography of the Tales, and comprehensive notes. The best edition
ever published in a single volume.

ISHMAEL and SELF-RAISED--By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.

The two vols. in a flat box, or boxed separately.

Handsome new editions of these two old favorites, with illustrations by
Clare Angell.

THE FIRST VIOLIN--By Jessie Fothergill.

A fine edition of this popular musical novel, with illustrations by Clare
Angell.

EACH VOLUME IN A BOX. PRICE ONE DOLLAR EACH

GROSSET & DUNLAP :: New York



A BEAUTIFUL BOOK

LORNA DOONE

EXMOOR EDITION.--By R. D. BLACKMORE

A large 12mo volume, about 5 3/4 x 8 1/4 inches in size, bound in
cloth, with decorative cover of floral design, and colored tops. Printed
on fine smooth wove paper of excellent quality, and embellished with
over two hundred and fifty drawings, initial letters, head and tail
pieces, etc., by some of the best American Artists, among whom are
Henry Sandham, George Wharton Edwards, W. H. Drake, Harry Fenn, and
Wm. Hamilton Gibson. Undoubtedly the most elaborate and expensively
printed edition of this greatest novel of modern times yet offered at a
moderate price.

Price, Boxed, One Dollar.

THE SAME, in three quarter Crushed Morocco, gold tops and silk head bands.

Price, Boxed, Two dollars and fifty cents.

THE SAME, Two Volume Edition, beautifully bound in crimson cloth, with
colored tops, and a fac-simile of John Ridd's coat of arms in ink and
gold on the covers. Enclosed in a flat box.

Price Two Dollars Per Set.

THE SAME, Two Volume Edition, in three-quarter Crushed Morocco, with gold
tops and silk head bands. Encased in a flat box.

Price Five Dollars Per Set.

Sent postpaid, on receipt of price by the Publishers.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers

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The Popular Novels Of

A. W. MARCHMONT

NOW OFFERED IN HANDSOMELY MADE CLOTH BOUND EDITIONS AT LOW PRICES

Few writers of recent years have achieved such a wide popularity in this
particular field as has Mr. Marchmont. For rattling good stcries of
love, intrigue, adventure, plots and counter-plots, we know of nothing
better, and to the reader who has become surfeited with the analytical
and so-called historical novels of the day, we heartily commend them.
There is life, movement, animation, on every page, and for a tedious
railway journey or a dull rainy afternoon, nothing could be better. They
will make you forget your troubles.

The following five volumes are now ready in our popular copyright series:

BY RIGHT OF SWORD
    With illustrations by Powell Chase.

A DASH FOR A THRONE
    With illustrations by D. Murray Smith.

MISER HOADLEY'S SECRET
    With illustrations by Clare Angell.

THE PRICE OF FREEDOM
    With illustrations by Clare Angell.

THE HERITAGE OF PERIL
    With illustrations by Edith Leslie Lang.

Large 12mo in size, handsomely bound in cloth, uniform in style.
Price 75 cents per volume, postpaid.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers

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No Field Collection is Complete Without this Book

A LITTLE BOOK of TRIBUNE VERSE

By EUGENE FIELD

Compiled and edited by Joseph G. Brown, formerly city editor of the
Denver Tribune, and an intimate friend and associate of the poet during
the several years in which he was on the staff of that paper.

This volume resurrects a literary treasure which has been buried for
many years in the forgotten files of a newspaper, and it is, as nearly
as it has been possible to make, an absolutely complete collection of
the hitherto unpublished poems of the gifted author.

These poems are the early product of Field's genius. They breathe the
spirit of Western life of twenty years ago. The reckless cowhoy, the
bucking broncho, the hardy miner, the English tenderfoot, the coquettish
belle, and all the foibles and extravagance of Western social life, are
depicted with a naivete and satire, tempered with sympathy and pathos,
which no other writer could imitate.

The book contains nearly three hundred pages, including an interesting
and valuable introduction by the editor, and is printed from new type on
fine deckle edge paper, and hand omely bound in cloth, with gilt tops.

Retail price, 75 cents

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers

52 DUANE STREET :: :: NEW YORK



NEW EDITIONS IN UNIFORM BINDING

Works of

F. MARION CRAWFORD

12mo, Cloth, each 75 cents, postpaid

VIA CRUCIS: A Romance of the Second Crusade. Illustrated by Louis Loeb.

Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities as a student
of history, and his finest resources as a master of an original and
picturesque style, to bear upon this story.

MR. ISAACS: A Tale of Modern India.

Under an unpretentious title we have here one of the most brilliant
novels that has been given to the world.

THE HEART OF ROME.

The legend of a buried treasure under the walls of the palace of Conti,
known to but few, provides the framework for many exciting incidents.

SARACINESCA

A graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope's
temporal power.

SANT' ILARIO; A Sequel to Saracinesca.

A singularly powerful and beautiful story, fulfilling every requirement
of artistic fiction.

IN THE PALACE OF THE KING: A Love Story of Old Madrid. Illustrated.

The imaginative richness, the marvellous ingenuity of plot, and the charm
of romantic environment, rank this novel among the great creations.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, NEW YORK



POPULAR PRICED EDITIONS OF BOOKS BY LOUIS TRACY

12mo, cloth, 75 cents each, postpaid

Books that make the nerves tingle--romance and adventure of the best
type--wholesome for family reading

THE PILLAR OF LIGHT

"Breathless interest" is a hackneyed phrase, but every reader of
"The Pillar of Light" who has red blood in his or her veins, will
agree that the trite saying applies to the attention which this story
commands.--_New York Sun._

THE WINGS OF THE MORNING

"Here is a story filled with the swing of adventure. There are no
dragging intervals in this volume: from the moment of their landing
on the island until the rescuing crew find them there, there is not a
dull moment for the young people--nor for the reader either."--_ New
York Times._

THE KING OF DIAMONDS

Verily, Mr. Tracy is a prince of story-tellers. His charm it a little
hard to describe, but it is as definite as that of a rainbow. The reader
is carried along by the robust imagination of the author.--_San Francisco
Examiner._

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers

52 DUANE STREET :: :: NEW YORK





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