Christmas Cove had entered its autumn lethargy when Aunt Abby Bemis and her new protÉgÉe reached it. Captain Bemis, who “never had no say ’bout nothin’,” but who had cooked his own meals uncomplainingly for three weeks, emerged, white-dusted, from the mill, to greet the arrivals, and Chip was soon installed in a somewhat bare room overlooking the cove. Everything seemed slightly chilly to her here. This room, with its four-poster bed, blue-painted chairs, light blue shades, and dark blue straw matting, the leafless elms in front, the breeze that swept in from the sea, and even her reception, seemed cool. Her heart was not in it. Try as she would, she could not yet feel one spark of affection for this “book-larned” Aunt Abby, who had already begun to reprove her for lapses of speech. It was all so different from the home life she had just left; and as Chip had now begun to notice and feel trifles, the relations of the people seemed as chilly as the room to which she was consigned.

When Sunday came–a sunless one with leaden sky and cold wind bearing the ocean’s moaning–Chip felt herself back at Greenvale with its Sundays, for now she was stared at the moment she entered the church. The singing was, of course, of the same solemn character, the minister’s prayers even longer, and the preaching as incomprehensible as in Greenvale.

To Chip, doubtless a heretic who needed regeneration, it seemed a melancholy and solemn performance. The sermon (on predestination, with a finale which was a description of the resurrection day) made her feel creepy, and when the white-robed procession rising from countless graves was touched upon, and a pause came when she could hear the ocean’s distant moan once more, it seemed that spites were creeping and crawling all about that dim room.

With her advent at school Monday came something of the same trouble first met at Greenvale, for the master, a weazen, dried-up little old man, who wore a wig and seemed to exude rules and discipline, lacked the kindly interest of Miss Phinney.

Chip, almost a mature young lady, was aligned with girls and boys of ten and twelve, and once more the same shame and humiliation had to be endured. It wore away in time, however, for she had made almost marvellous progress under Miss Phinney. Her mind was keen and quick, and once at study again, she astonished Mr. Bell, the master.

Something of her old fearless self-reliance now came to her aid, also. It had made her dare sixty miles of wilderness alone and helpless, it had spurred her to escape Greenvale and her sense of being a dependent pauper, and now that latent force for good or ill still nerved her.

But Christmas Cove did not suit her. The sea that drew her eyes with its vastness seemed to awe her. The great house, brown and moss-coated, where she lived, was barnlike, and never quite warm enough. The long street she traversed four times daily was bleak and wind-swept. Aunt Abby was austere and lacking in cordiality; and Sundays–well, Sundays were Chip’s one chief abhorrence.

She may be blamed for it,–doubtless will be,–and yet she never had been, and it seemed never would be, quite reconciled to Sundays. At Tim’s Place they were unknown. At Greenvale they had been dreaded, and now at Christmas Cove they were no less so.

At Uncle Jud’s, in Peaceful Valley, where she had found an asylum, loving care, and companionship akin to her, Sundays were only half-Sundays–days of chore-doing, of reading, of rest, or long strolls along shady lanes with Uncle Jud, or following the brook and watching him fish. It was not right, maybe. It was somewhat of sacrilege, perhaps, this lazy, summer-day-strolling, flower-picking, berry-gathering way of passing them, and yet, as the months with Martin and his party in the wilderness where Sunday could not be observed, and those with Uncle Jud were all that Chip had really enjoyed, she must not be blamed.

Another influence–an insidious heart-hunger she could not put away–now added to her loneliness in the new life. It carried her thoughts back to the rippled, moonlit lake, where Ray had picked his banjo and sung to her; even back to that first night by the camp-fire when she had watched and listened to him in rapt admiration. It thrilled her as naught else could when she recalled the few moments at the lake when, unconscious of the need of restraint, she had let him caress her.

Then the long days of watching for his return were lived over, and the one almost ecstatic moment when he had leaped from the stage and over the wall, with no one in sight, while he held her in his arms.

And then–and this hurt the most–that last evening before they were to part again, when beside the firefly-lit mill-pond he had the chance to say so much, and said–nothing!

It was all a bitter-sweet memory, which she tried to put away forever the night she left Greenvale. She was now Vera Raymond. No one could trace her; and yet, so at odds were her will and heart, there still lingered the faint hope that Ray would sometime and somehow find her out.

And so, studying faithfully, often lonesome, now and then longing for the bygone days with Ray and Old Cy, and always hoping that she might sometime return to Peaceful Valley, Chip passed the winter at Christmas Cove.

Something of success came to her through it all. She reached and retained head positions in her classes. A word of praise came occasionally from Mr. Bell. Aunt Abby grew less austere and seemed to have a little pride in her. She became acquainted with other people and in touch with young folks, was invited to parties and sleigh-rides. The vernacular of Tim’s Place left her, and even Sundays were less a torture, in fact, almost pleasant, for then she saw most of the young folks she mingled with, and now and then exchanged a bit of gossip.

Her own dress became of more interest to her. Aunt Abby, fortunately for Chip, felt desirous that her ward should appear well, and Chip, thus educated and polished in village life, to a degree, at least, fulfilled Aunt Abby’s hopes.

Another success also came to her, for handsome as she undeniably was, with her big, appealing eyes, her splendid black hair, and well-rounded form, the young men began to seek her. One became persistent, and when spring had unlocked the long, curved bay once more, Chip had become almost a leader in the little circle of young people.

Her life with those who had taken her in charge also became more harmonious. In fact, something of affection began to leaven it, for the reason that never once had Aunt Abby questioned Chip as to her past. Aunt Mandy and Uncle Jud had both cautioned her as to its unwisdom, and she was broad and charitable enough to let it remain a closed book until such time as Chip was willing to open it; and for this, more than all else that she received, Chip felt grateful. But one day it came out–or at least a portion of it.

“I suppose you have often wondered where I was born, and who my parents were,” Chip said, one Sunday afternoon, when she and Aunt Abby were alone, “and I want to thank you for never, never asking.” And then, omitting much, she briefly outlined her history.

“I was born close to the wilderness,” she said, “and my mother died when I was about eight years old. Then my father took me into the woods, where I worked at a kind of a boarding house for lumbermen. I ran away from that when I was about sixteen. I had to; the reasons I don’t want to tell. I found some people camping in the woods when I’d been gone three days and ’most starved. They felt pity for me, I guess, and took care of me. I stayed at their camp that summer, and then they fetched me home with them and I was sent to school. Somebody said something to me there, somebody who hated me. She had been pestering me all the time, and I ran away. Uncle Jud found me and took care of me until you came, and that’s all I want to tell. I could tell a lot more, but I don’t ever want these people to find me or take me back where they live, and that’s why I don’t tell where I came from. Then I felt I was so dependent on them–I was twitted of it–that it’s another reason why I ran away. I wouldn’t have stayed with Uncle Jud more than over night except I had a chance to work and earn my board.”“But wasn’t it unkind of you–isn’t it now–not to let these people know you are alive?” answered Aunt Abby. “They were certainly good to you.”

“I know that they were,” returned Chip, somewhat contritely; “but I couldn’t stand being dependent on them any longer. If they found where I was, they’d come and fetch me back; and I’d feel so ashamed I couldn’t look ’em in the face. I’d rather they’d think I was dead.”

“Well, perhaps it is best you do not,” returned Aunt Abby, sighing; “but years of doubt, and not knowing whether some one we care for is dead or alive, are hard to bear. And now that you have told me some of your history, I will tell you a lifelong case of not knowing some one’s fate. Many years ago my sister and myself, who were born here, became acquainted with two young men, sailor boys from Bayport, named Cyrus and Judson Walker. Cyrus became attached to me and we were engaged to marry. It never came to pass, however, for the ship that Judson was captain of, with Cyrus as first mate, foundered at sea. All hands took to the two boats. The one Judson was in was picked up, but the other was never heard of afterward. In due time Judson and my sister Amanda married. He gave up a sailor’s life, and they settled down where they now live. I waited many years, vainly hoping for my sweetheart’s return, and finally, realizing that he must be dead, married Captain Bemis. That all happened so long ago that I do not care to count the years; and yet all through them has lingered that pitiful thread of doubt and uncertainty, that vain hope that somehow and someway Cyrus may have escaped death and may return. I know it will never happen. I know he is dead; and yet I cannot put away that faint hope and quite believe it is so, and never shall so long as I live. Now you have left those who must have cared something for you in much the same pitiful state of doubt, and it is not right.”

For one moment something almost akin to horror flashed over Chip.

“And was he called–was he never–I mean this brother, ever heard from?” she stammered, recovering herself in time.

“Why, no,” answered Aunt Abby, looking at her curiously, “of course not. Why, what ails you? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“Oh, nothing,” returned Chip, now more composed; “only the story and how strange it was.”

It ended the conversation, for Chip, so overwhelmed by the flood of possibilities contained in this story, dared not trust herself longer with Aunt Abby, and soon escaped to her room.

And now circumstances came trooping upon her: the shipwreck, which she had heard Old Cy describe so often; the name she knew was really his; the almost startling resemblance to Uncle Jud in speech, ways, and opinions; and countless other proofs. Surely it must be so. Surely Old Cy, of charming memory, and Uncle Jud no less so, must be brothers, and now it was in her power to–and then she paused, shocked at the position she faced.

She was now known as Vera Raymond, and respected; she had cut loose forever from the old shame of an outlaw’s child; of a wretched drudge at Tim’s Place; of being sold as a slave; and all that now made her blush.

And then Ray!

Full well she knew now what must have been in his heart that last evening and why he acted as he did. Hannah had told her the bitter truth, as she had since realized. Ray had been assured that she was an outcast, and despicable in the sight of Greenvale. He dared not say “I love you; be my wife.” Instead, he had been hurried away to keep them apart; and as all this dire flood of shame that had driven her from Greenvale surged in her heart, the bitter tears came.

In calmer moments, and when the heart-hunger controlled, she had hoped he might some day find her and some day say, “I love you.” But now, so soon, to make herself known, to tell who she was, to admit to these new friends that she was Chip McGuire with all that went with it, to have to face and live down that shame, to admit that she had taken Ray’s first name for her own–no, no, a thousand times no!

But what of Old Cy and Uncle Jud, and their lifelong separation?

Truly her footsteps had led her to a parting of the ways, one sign-board lettered “Duty and Shame,” the other a blank.