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.