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