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.”