Life, always colorless at Christmas Cove, except in midsummer, now became changed for Aunt Abby. For all the years since her one girlish romance had ended, she had been a patient helpmate to a man she merely respected. Religion had been her chief solace. The annual visit to her sister’s gave the only relief to this motionless life, monotonous as the tides sweeping in and out of the cove; but now a counter-current slowly flowed into it.

Chip, of course, with her winsome eyes and grateful ways, was its mainspring, and so checkered had been her career and so humiliating all her past experiences, that now, escaped from dependence and feeling herself a valued companion, she tasted a new and joyous life. So true was this, that hard lessons at school, the regularity of church-going, and the unvarying tenor of it all seemed less by comparison.

Another undercurrent, aside from Chip’s devotion, also swept into Aunt Abby’s feelings,–the strange emotions following the knowledge that her former lover was still alive. For many years she had waited and hoped for this sailor boy’s return; then her heart had grown silent, as hope slowly ebbed, and then, almost forgetfulness–but not quite, however, for the long, lily-dotted mill-pond just above had now and then been visited by them. A certain curiously grown oak which was secluded near its upper end was once a trysting-place, and even the old mill with its plashing wheel held memories.

And now after forty years, during which she had become gray-haired and slightly wrinkled, all these memories returned like ghosts of long ago. No word or hint of them fell from her lips, not even to Chip, who was now nearest to her; and yet had that girl been a mind-reader, she would have seen that Aunt Abby’s persistent interest in all she had to tell about Old Cy meant something. Where he was now, how soon he would learn that his brother was still alive after all these years, was the one most pertinent subject oft discussed.

How Chip felt toward him, not alone for the heritage he had secured for her, but for other and more valued heart interests, need not be specified. He had seemed almost a father to her at the lake. He was the first of her new-found friends whose feelings had warmed toward her, and Chip was now mature enough to value these blessings at their true worth.

A certain mutual expectancy now entered the lives of Chip and Aunt Abby. Nothing could be done, however. Old Cy had gone out into the wide, wide world, as it were, searching for the little girl he loved. No manner of reaching him seemed possible; and yet, some day, he must learn what would bring him to them as fast as steam could fetch him.

“I know that he loved me as his own child there at the lake,” Chip said once in an exultant tone. “His going after me proves it; and once he hears where I am, he will hurry here, I know.”

Whether Aunt Abby’s heart responded to that wish or not, she never disclosed.

But the days, weeks, and months swept by, and Old Cy came not. Neither did any message come to Chip from Greenvale. At first, rebelling at Ray’s treatment of her, Chip felt that she never wanted to see him again. She had been so tender and loving toward him at the lake, had striven so hard to learn and to be more like him, had waited and watched, counting the days until his return, only to be told what she could not forget and to find him so neglectful, so cool to her, when her girlish heart was so full of love, that her feelings had changed almost in one instant, and pride had made her bitter.

Hannah had told an unpleasant truth, as Chip knew well enough; but truth and confiding love mixed illy, and Ray’s conduct, leaving her as he did with scarce a word or promise, was an episode that had chilled and almost killed Chip’s budding affection. As is always the case, such a feeling fades and flares like all others. There would now be a brief space when Chip hoped and longed for Ray’s coming, and then days when no thought of him came.

It was perhaps fortunate for him that Christmas Cove contained no serious admirer of Chip the while, else his cause and all memory of him would have been swept away. But that quaint village was peopled chiefly by old folk, those of the male persuasion being quite young, with a few girls of Chip’s age. Few young men remained there to make their way, and so no added interest came to vary Chip’s life.

The coming of summer, however, brought the annual influx of city boarders once more. First came elderly ladies, more anxious about suitable rooms and food than aught else, and then came the younger ones, whose gowns and their display appeared the only motive for existence. A few young men followed in their wake. Now and then a small yacht anchored in the mouth of the cove. The long wharf became a rendezvous for promenaders, tennis courts were established, and gay costumes, bright parasols, and astounding hats were in evidence.

It was all a new and fascinating panorama for Chip. Never before had she seen such butterflies of fashion, who glanced at her and her more modest raiment almost with scorn, and scarce conscious of them, she looked on with awe and admiration.

The old mill, the quaint house where she dwelt, and especially the long pond, now sprinkled thickly with lilies, became a Mecca for these newcomers, and not a pleasant day passed but from two to a dozen of them came trooping about and around it. They peered into the mill, exclaimed over the great dripping wheel, and almost shouted at the sight of the white blossoms on the pond.

One day a bevy of laughing and chattering girls with one gallant in white flannels approached the mill while Chip in calico was kneeling beside a flower-bed. She looked up at once and saw her erstwhile admirer at Peaceful Valley, Mr. Goodnow. One instant only their eyes met, his to turn quickly away, and then Chip, coloring at the slight, rose and entered the house. Once safe in this asylum, womanlike, she hastened to peep out at the arrivals. They halted for only a glance about and then, their protector (?) still in the lead, vanished behind the mill.

The next afternoon, just as Chip was returning from the village store, she met Mr. Goodnow again, this time alone.

With a bow and smile he raised his hat and halted.

“Why, Miss Raymond,” he exclaimed eagerly, “I am so glad to meet you again. Are you visiting here, and when did you leave Peaceful Valley?”

“I am living here now,” returned Chip, coolly, continuing on her way, “where you saw me yesterday.”

“Oh, yes,” he answered, not the least abashed, “and you must pardon me for not recognizing you then. It’s been a year, you know, since I saw you, and you have changed so in that time.”

“Of course,” responded Chip, her eyes snapping, “you couldn’t remember me so long. Why don’t you tell the truth and say you didn’t dare know me before those ladies?”

“Why, Miss Raymond, you wrong me; but I admire your frankness–it is so unusual among your charming sex!”“Then you did know me,” she returned sarcastically, “I knew well enough, and if they were with you now, you wouldn’t know me. I’m no fool, if I do wear calico.”

It was blunt. It was truthful. It was Chip all over; but this polished rake never winced.

“I never dispute a lady,” he answered suavely; “it doesn’t pay. Besides, I have found they all prefer sweet lies instead of truth. And now I will admit you looked so charming as you raised your face from among the flowers that I was dazed and didn’t think to bow.”

“You weren’t so dazed but that you managed to get away in a hurry.”

“Why, of course, I was piloting my friends up to the lily pond,” he returned, still unruffled, “and much as I desired, I couldn’t pause to visit with you.”

They had now reached Chip’s home. She halted at the gate, turned, and looked at him.

“I hope we may be friends, now that you have scolded me enough,” he added. “I had a delightful week with you last summer. I’ve lived it over many times. May I not call here to-morrow, and you and I will gather some of the lilies?”

A droll smile crept over Chip’s face at this.“Yes, if you will bring your lady friends also,” she answered. And with a “Thank you,” and raising his hat once more, this smooth-spoken fellow, impervious to sarcasm, turned away.

“Who was the young man?” Aunt Abby queried, when Chip entered the house.

“It’s a Mr. Goodnow, who spent a week with Uncle Jud,” she answered, smiling. “He came by here yesterday with three ladies and was close to me when I was working in my posy bed. He made out he didn’t remember me then, when I met him this afternoon. I guess I was saucy to him. I meant to be. He wouldn’t take it, and walked home with me.”

Aunt Abby looked surprised.

“I hope you weren’t really saucy,” she answered, “that wouldn’t have been becoming.”

Mr. Goodnow appeared next day, not at all disturbed, and Chip, a little more gracious, consented to gather lilies with him. The leaky punt that had served for that purpose many years was bailed out. He manned the oars. Chip bared one rounded arm, and, thus equipped, two really enjoyable hours were passed.

As Uncle Jud had said, he was a “slick talker.” Truth was not considered by him; instead, subtile flatteries were his stock in trade, and Chip, for the first time in her life, felt their insidious influence. She was in no wise deceived. Her woman’s wit and good sense detected the sham, and caring not one whit for him, she responded as saucily as she chose. It was not, perhaps, quite ladylike, but Chip was not as yet a polished lady; instead, she was a decidedly blunt-spoken girl who enjoyed exasperating this fashionable Lothario.

And never before had he met her like or one so fearless of speech.

“You are the sauciest girl I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,” he said, as they drew up to the landing and began sorting the lilies. “I didn’t notice it so much last summer; and yet you are no less charming, mainly because you are so frank. Most ladies whom I know are not so. They are arrant hypocrites and not one assertion in ten can be taken at its face value.”

“You seem to have been an apt scholar,” Chip responded, smiling. “If you like my blunt speech, as you say, why don’t you imitate it and be truthful for once in your life?”

“I dare not. No man ever yet won a woman’s favor by plain speech.”

“And so you want my favor. What for? I am not of your sort. I do not spend my life playing golf and tennis and wearing fine clothes.”

“But you ought to. You have the face and form required, and once you got into the swim of society, you would become a leader.”

Chip greeted this with a laugh. “Do you plaster it on as thick as that with every one,” she queried, “and will they stand it?”

“Why, yes,” he chuckled, “and almost beg for more. My ladies thrive on flattery, and unless a man doles it out to them, they think him stupid.”

When he had helped her out of the boat, holding and pressing her hand unduly long she thought, he gathered up the lilies and, with a graceful bow and “Sweets to the sweet,” offered them to her.

“I don’t want them,” she answered bluntly. “Take them to your arrant hypocrites and tell them a girl you couldn’t fool sent ’em.” And nonplussed a little at this speech, but still smiling, he followed Chip to the house. At the gate he halted and their eyes met.

“I’ve had a most charming morning, for which I thank you,” he said. And drawing two of the largest blooms from the bunch of lilies, he laid the rest on the gate-post. “You will have to take them,” he added. “And now I have something else to propose. I own a small yacht. It is anchored down near the wharf. How would you like a sail to-morrow? I shall be highly pleased to have you for my guest. Will you go?”

But Chip was not caught so easily.

“I’ll go if you will ask Aunt Abby also,” she answered, “not otherwise.”

“Why, of course,” he responded graciously, “that is understood.”

And still unruffled by this parting evidence of distrust, he bowed himself away.