For many weeks now Chip had suffered from a troubled conscience, and, like most of us, was unable to face its consequences and admit her sin.

Time and again she had planned how she could best evade it and yet bring those two brothers together without first confessing. Old Cy must be told, of course. She could explain her conduct to him. He would surely forgive her, she thought, and then, maybe, find another home for her somehow and somewhere. Oversensitive as she was, to now confess her cowardly concealment and her deception of those who had loved and trusted her, seemed horrible.

But events were stronger than her will, for one day in the last of August, Uncle Jud returned from the village store, bringing dress materials and startling information. “Cap’n Bemis is failin’ purty fast,” he said, “so Aunt Abby writes, an’ she ain’t comin’ up here. It won’t make no difference to you, girlie,” he continued, turning to Chip. “I’ve brought home stuff to rig ye out fer school. Miss Solon the dressmaker’s comin’ to-morrer, ’n’ we’ll take keer o’ ye in good shape. We’ve made up our minds ye belong to us fer good, me ’n’ Mandy,” he added, smiling at Chip, “an’ I shall go with ye to Christmas Cove, if Cap’n Bemis ain’t improvin’, ’n’ find ye a boardin’ place.”

“I’m awful sorry to hear ’bout the Cap’n,” interrupted Aunt Mandy, as if the other matter and Chip’s future were settled definitely; “but if he drops off, Aunt Abby must come here fer good. I dunno but it’ll be a relief,” she added, looking at Uncle Jud and sighing. “’Twa’n’t no love-match in the first place, ’n’ Abby’s mind’s always been sot on your brother Cyrus, ’n’ she never quite gin up the idee he was alive.”

And now a sudden faintness came to Chip as the chasm in her own life was thus opened. Only one instant she faltered, and then her defiant courage rose supreme and she took the plunge.

“Oh, your brother Cyrus isn’t dead, Uncle Jud,” she exclaimed, “he’s alive and I know him. I’ve known it all summer and dare not tell because I’m a miserable coward and couldn’t own up that I lied to you. My name isn’t Raymond, it’s McGuire; and my father was a murderer, and I’m nobody and fit for nobody. I know you’ll all despise me now and I deserve it. I’m willing to go away, though,” and the next instant she was kneeling before Uncle Jud and sobbing.

It had all come in a brief torrent of pitiful confession which few would be brave enough to make.

To Chip, seeing herself as she did, it meant loss of love, home, respect, and all else she now valued, and that she must become a homeless wanderer once more.

But Uncle Jud thought otherwise, for now he drew the sobbing girl into his lap.

“Quit takin’ on so, girlie,” he said, choking back a lump; “why, we’ll all love ye ten times more fer all this, an’ ez fer bein’ a nobody, ye’re a blessed angel to us fer bringin’ the news ye hev.” And then he kissed her, while Aunt Mandy wiped her eyes on her apron.

The shower, violent for a moment, was soon over; for as Chip raised her wet eyes, a sunshiny smile illumined Uncle Jud’s face.

“If Cyrus is alive,” he said, “as ye callate, I’ll thank God till I set eyes on him, and then I think I’ll lick him fer not huntin’ me up all these years.”

“But mebbe he found Abby was married ’n’ didn’t want to,” interposed Aunt Mandy. “We mustn’t judge him yet.”

“No, I won’t judge him,” asserted Uncle Jud; “I’ll jest cuff him, good ’n’ hard, an’ let it go at that.

“Ez fer you, girlie, an’ jest to set yer mind at rest, we found out what your right name was and where ye run away from last fall, but never let on to nobody. ’Twas your business and nobody else’s, an’ made no difference in our feelin’s, ez ye must see; an’ now I’ll tell ye how I found out.

“I was down to the Corners one day arter ye went to Christmas Cove, ’n’ a feller–nice-lookin’ feller, too, with honest brown eyes–was askin’ if anybody had seen or heard o’ a runaway girl by the name o’ McGuire. Said she’d run away from Greenvale–’That’s ’bout a hundred miles from here,’ he said–an’ he was huntin’ for her. Nobody at the Corners knew about ye ’n’ I kept still, believin’ ye had reason fer not wantin’ to be found out.”

And now another tide–the thrill of love–surged in Chip’s heart, and her face became glorified.

And so the clouds rolled away. That night Chip wrote a brief but curious letter, so odd, in fact, it must be quoted verbatim:–

But Chip’s secret was a most transparent one, for when this missive reached Martin three days later, he recognized its angular penmanship and similarity to the note Aunt Comfort still treasured, and knew that Chip wrote it.

It startled him somewhat, however, for Old Cy’s youthful history was unknown to him, and suspecting that some mystery lay beneath this information, he told no one, but started for Riggsville at once.

The tide of emotion that had upset the even tenor of Uncle Jud’s home life slowly ebbed away, and a keen sense of expectancy took its place.

Chip, after giving him her letter, explained that Old Cy was most likely in the wilderness, and that the letter might not reach him for weeks.

And then one day a broad-shouldered, rather commanding, and somewhat citified man drove up to the home of Uncle Jud.“Does Mr. Judson Walker live here?” he inquired of Aunt Mandy, who met him at the door.

Her admission of that fact was scarce uttered when there came a rustling of skirts, a “Why, Mr. Frisbie!” and Chip was beside her, at which Martin, collected man of the world that he was, felt an unusual heart-throb of thankfulness.

A little later, when Uncle Jud had been summoned into their newly furnished “keeping room,” disclosures astonishing to all followed.

“We have been searching for you, Chip, far and near,” Martin assured them, “and Old Cy is still at it. He left us at the camp, almost a year ago, came to Greenvale, found you had run away, and came back to tell us. It upset us all so that we broke camp at once, taking Amzi with us, and returned to Greenvale. Old Cy there bade us good-bye and started to find you. Ray also began a search as well. I’ve advertised in dozens of papers, have kept Levi on watch for you at Grindstone ever since, and now I hope you will return with me to Greenvale.”

“I thank you all, oh, so much,” answered Chip, scared a little at this proposal, “but I don’t want to. I’m nobody there and never can be. I’d be ashamed to face folks there any more.”“I guess she best stay with us,” put in Uncle Jud, “fer we sorter ’dopted her, ’n’ not meanin’ no disrespect to you folks, I callate she’ll be more content here. I’d like ye to get word to Cyrus, though, soon’s possible. I hain’t sot eyes on him fer forty years, ’n’,” his eyes twinkling, “I’m jest spilin’ to pull his hair ’n’ cuff him.”

“I will help out in that matter at once, and more than gladly,” replied Martin, again looking at Chip and noting how improved she was; “but I still think Miss Runaway had better return with me. We need you, Chip,” he continued earnestly, “and so does some else I can name, more than you imagine, I fancy, and my wife will welcome you with open arms, you may be sure. As for that foolish Hannah, she’s the most penitent person in Greenvale. There’s another reason still,” he added, glancing around with a smile, “and no one is more glad of it than we all are. It’s a sixty-thousand-dollar reason–your heritage, Miss Vera McGuire, for your father is dead, and that amount is now in the Riverton Savings Bank awaiting you.”

Martin had expected this news to be overpowering, and a “Good God!” from Uncle Jud, and a gasping “Land sakes!” from Aunt Mandy, proved that it was.Chip’s face, however, was a study. First she grew pale, then flashed a scared glance from one to another of the three who watched her, and then almost did her shame and hatred of this vile parent find expression.

“I’m glad he–no, I won’t say so, for he was my father,” she exclaimed; “but I want Old Cy to have some of the money, and Uncle Jud here, and you folks, all. I was a pauper long enough,” and then, true to her instinct of how to escape from trouble, she ran out of the room.

“She’s a curis gal,” asserted Uncle Jud, looking after her as if feeling that she needed explanation, “the most curis gal I ever saw. But we can’t let her go, money or no money, Mr. Frisbie. I found her one night upon top o’ Bangall Hill. She was so starved an’ beat out from trampin’ she couldn’t hardly crawl up on to the wagon, ’n’ yet she said she wouldn’t be helped ’thout she could arn it. I think she’s like folks we read about, who starve ruther’n beg. But she kin have all we’ve got some day, an’ we jest can’t let her go.”

And Martin, realizing its futility, made no further protest.

Something of chagrin also came to him, for, broad-minded as he was, he realized how partial neglect, the narrow religious prejudice of Greenvale, and unwise notice of her childish ideas about spites and Old Tomah’s superstitions had all conspired to drive her away. She was honest and self-respecting, “true blue,” as Old Cy had said, grateful as a fawning dog for all that had been done for her, and in spite of her origin, a circumstance that carried no weight with Martin, she was one, he believed, who would develop into splendid womanhood. That she was well on her way toward that goal, her improved speech and devotion to these new friends gave ample evidence.

And now Ray’s position in this complex situation occurred to Martin; for this young man’s interest in Chip and almost heart-broken grief over her disappearance had long since betrayed his attachment.

“I suppose you may have guessed that there was a love-affair mixed up with this episode,” he said to the two somewhat dazed people.

“I callated thar was, that fust night,” Uncle Jud responded, his eyes twinkling again, “an’ told Mandy so. ’Twas that more’n anything else kept us from quizzin’ the gal. I knowed by her face she had heart trouble, ’n’ I’ve seen the cause on’t.”

“You have,” exclaimed Martin, astonished in turn, “for Heaven’s sake, where?”“Oh, down to the Corners, ’most a year ago, ’n’ a likely boy he was, too.”

“And never told her?”

“No, why should I, thinkin’ she’d run away from him. We didn’t want to spile her plans. We found out, though, her name was McGuire, but never let on till she told us a spell ago.” And then Uncle Jud told the story of Ray’s arrival in Riggsville in search of Chip.

“That fellow is my nephew, Raymond Stetson,” rejoined Martin with pride, “he also is an orphan, and I have adopted him. Chip has no cause to be ashamed of his attachment.”

“I don’t callate she is,” replied Uncle Jud. “’Tain’t that that jinerally makes a gal kick over the traces. Mebbe ’twas suthin some o’ you folks said.” And then a new light came to Martin.

“Mr. Walker,” he answered impressively, “in every village there is always a meddlesome old maid who invariably says things she’d better not, and ours is no exception. In this case it was a dependent of our family who took a dislike to Chip, it seems, and her escapade was its outcome.”

“Wal, ye’ve got to hev charity for ’em,” replied Uncle Jud with a broad smile. “Never havin’ suffered the joys ’n’ sorrows o’ love, they look at it sorter criss-cross, an’ mebbe this ’un did. Old maids are a good deal like cider–nat’raly turn into vinegar. What wimmin need more’n all the rest is bein’ loved, ’n’ if they don’t get it, they sour up in time an’ ain’t no comfort to themselves nor nobody else. Then ag’in, not havin’ no man nor no babies to look arter, they take to coddlin’ cats ’n’ dogs ’n’ parrots, which ain’t nat’ral.”

“I think,” continued Uncle Jud, “now that we’ve turned another furrow, you’d best stop a day or two with us, ’n’ sorter git ’quainted. We’ll be mighty glad to hev ye, me an’ Mandy, an’ then ag’in thar’s a lot o’ good trout holes up the brook. We hev plenty to eat, ’n’ mebbe a few days here in Peaceful Valley’ll sorter reconcile ye to leavin’ the gal with us.” And nothing loath, Martin accepted.

Aunt Mandy and Chip now bestirred themselves as never before. The dressmaker was left to her own resources, Martin and Uncle Jud rigged fish-poles and started for the brook. Chip, with pail in hand, hurried away to the fields, and when teatime arrived, the big platter of crisp fried trout, saucers filled with luscious blackberries, and ample shortcake of the same with cream that poured in clots, assured Martin that these people did indeed have plenty to eat.“How did this come to be named Peaceful Valley?” he queried, when they had all gathered around the table. “It’s very appropriate.”

“Wal,” answered Uncle Jud, “we got it from a feller that come up here paintin’ picturs one summer, an’,” chuckling, “’twas all we got for a month’s board, at that. He was a sort o’ skimpy critter, with long hair, kinder pale, and chawed tobacco stiddy. He ’lowed his name was Grahame, that he was in the show business ’n’ gittin’ backgrounds, as he called ’em, fer show picturs. He roved up ’n’ down the brook, puttin’ rocks ’n’ trees ’n’ waterfalls on paper, allus gittin’ ’round reg’lar ’bout meal-time–must ’a’ gained twenty pounds while here. An’ then one mornin’ he was missin’, ’n’ so was Aunt Mandy’s gold thimble ’n’ all her silver spoons. She’d sorter took to him, too, he was that palaverin’ in his way.”

There now ensued a series a questions from Uncle Jud in regard to Old Cy–how long Martin had known him, and all that pertained to his history.

It was gladly recited by Martin, together with all the strange happenings in the wilderness, the finding of Chip, the half-breed’s pursuit and abduction of her, and much else that has been told.

It was almost midnight ere Martin was shown to the best front chamber, and even then he lay awake an hour, listening to the steady prattle of a near-by brook and thinking of all that had happened.

A tone of regret crept into his voice, however, when, after thanking Uncle Jud and Aunt Mandy, and bidding them good-bye, he addressed Chip.

“I wish I could take you back with me,” he said, “your return would be such a blessing to Aunt Comfort and my wife. You may not believe it, but you are dear to them both. I must insist that you at least pay us a visit soon. Here is your bank book,” he added, presenting it. “You are rich now, or at least need never want, for which we are all grateful. And what about Ray?” he added, pausing to watch her. “What shall I say to him? Shall I tell him to come and see you?”

Chip shook her head firmly. “No, no,” she answered, “please don’t do that. Some day I may feel different, but not now.”