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.

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.