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.