Riverton, less provincial than Greenvale, was a village of some two thousand inhabitants. A few brick blocks, with less pretentious wooden buildings, formed a nucleus of stores. A brownstone bank, four churches, two hotels, the Quaboag House and the Astor House were intermingled among these, and a railroad with two trains in each direction a day added life and interest to the place. Each of the hotels sent a conveyance to meet every train, with a loud-voiced emissary to announce the fact of free transportation. In each hostelry a bar flourished, and like rival clubs, each had its afternoon and evening gathering of loafers who swapped yarns and gossip, smoked and chewed incessantly, and contributed little else to support the establishments. Three times daily, at meal hours, each of the rival landlords banged a discordant gong in his front doorway, without apparent result.At about eleven in the forenoon each weekday in summer, Uncle Joe Barnes on his lumbering two-horse stage, arrived from Greenvale, paused at the post-office, threw off a mail-pouch, thence around to the Quaboag House stable, and cared for his horses. At two he was ready for the return trip and mounting his lofty seat, he again drove to the front of the hotel, shouting “All aboard!” dismounted to assist lady passengers, but let masculine ones do their own climbing, and after halting to receive a mail-bag, again departed on his return trip.

A certain monotonous regularity was apparent in every move and every act and function of village life in Riverton. At precisely seven o’clock each morning the two landlords appeared simultaneously and banged their gongs. At twelve and six, this was repeated. At eight o’clock the three principal storekeepers usually entered their places of business; at nine, and while the academy bell was ringing near by, every village doctor might be seen starting out. At ten exactly, Dwight Bennett, the cashier of the bank, unlocked its front door, and the two hotel ’buses invariably started so nearly together that they met at the first turn going stationward. Even the four church clocks had the same habit, and it was often related that a stranger there, a travelling man, on his first, visit, made an amusing discovery.

“What kind of a fool clock have you got in this town?” he said to Sam Gates, the landlord of the Quaboag, next morning after his arrival. “I went to bed in good season last night an’ just got asleep when I heard it strike thirty-two. I dozed off an’ the next I knew it began clanging again, and I counted forty-four. What sort of time do you keep here, anyway? Do you run your town by the multiplication table?”

The half-dozen chronic loafers who met every afternoon in the Quaboag House office arrived in about the same order, smoked, drank, told their yarns, gathered all the gossip, and departed at nearly the same moment. Their evening visits partook of the same clocklike regularity.

These of the old guard were also dressed much the same, and “slouchy” best describes it. Gray flannel shirts in winter or summer alike. Collars, cuffs, and ties were never seen on them, though patches were, and as for shaving or hair-cutting, a few shaved once a week, some never did, and semi-annual hair-cuts were a fair average.

The worst sinner in this respect, Luke Atwater, occasionally called “Lazy Luke,” never had his beard shortened but once, and that was due to its being burnt off while he was fighting a brush fire in spring.

It was related of him, and believed by many, that once upon a time many years previous he had had his hair cut, and on that occasion the barber had found a whetstone concealed in Luke’s shock of tangled hair. It was also asserted that he admitted always carrying his whetstone back of his ear while mowing, and so losing it that way.

All the news and every happening in Riverton, from the catching of an extra big trout to twins, was duly commented upon and discussed by this coterie. Village politics, how much money each storekeeper was making, crop prospects, the run of sap every spring, drouth, weather indications, rain or snow falls, each and all formed rotating subjects upon which every one of this faithful-to-the-post clique expressed opinions.

Chip’s arrival there with the Frisbie family, and her later history, learned from Uncle Joe, furnished a fertile topic, her escapade in running away from Greenvale a more exciting one, while Old Cy’s visit and deposit of a fabulous sum in the bank in her name had been a nine days’ wonder. That amount, hinted at only by the cashier as a comfortable fortune, soon grew in size until it was generally believed to be almost a million.

This was Riverton and its decidedly rural status when late one December afternoon the Quaboag free ’bus (a two-seated pung, this time) swept up to that hotel’s front door, where the porter assisted a stylish young lady to alight, and he, stepping like a drum major, led the way into the Quaboag’s unwarmed parlor.

“Young lady, sir, a stunner, wants room over night, sir,” he announced to the landlord in the office a moment later. “Goin’ to Greenvale to-morrer, she says.”

On the instant all converse in the office ceased, and the six constant callers hardly breathed until Sam Gates hastened to the parlor and returned.

“It’s that McGuire gal–lady, I mean,” he asserted pompously; then to the porter, “Git a move on, Jim, ’n’ start a fire in Number 6, an’ quick, too!” And hastily brushing his untidy hair before the office mirror, he left the room again, followed by six envious glances. Then those astonished loafers grouped themselves, the better to observe the passage between parlor and office.Only one instant sight of this important guest was obtained by them as Chip emerged from the parlor and followed the landlord upstairs, and then the hushed spell was broken.

“By gosh, it’s her!” exclaimed one in an awed whisper, “an’ Jim was right, she’s a stunner!”

“I ’member jest how she looked that fust day she came,” asserted another. “Saw her legs, too, when she shinned up top o’ the stage.”

“Ye won’t git ’nother chance, I’ll bet!” declared a third.

“What do ye s’pose she’s here for,” queried a fourth, “to draw the int’rest on her money, or what?”

It was precisely four-forty-five when Chip appeared before this judge and jury of all Riverton’s happenings. At five-forty-five they had agreed that she was the handsomest young lady who had ever set foot in the town, that she must be going to get married soon, and that her mission there was to draw out a few thousand dollars for wedding finery. Then they dispersed, and at six-forty-five, when they assembled at the Quaboag again, half of Riverton knew their conclusions, and by bedtime all knew them.

By eight-thirty next morning, this all-observant and all-wise clique had gathered in the hotel office once more, an unusual proceeding, and when Chip tripped out, eight pairs of eyes watched her depart. Then they dispersed.

At nine o’clock Chip walked up the stone steps to the bank door, read the legend, “Open from 10 a.m. until 2 p.m.,” turned away, and once more resumed her leisurely stroll up and down the street while she peered into store windows. At ten precisely by the four church clocks she was back at the bank again, and the cashier lost count of the column he was adding when he saw her enter.

“I would like three hundred dollars, if you please, sir,” she said, presenting her little book, and he had to count it over four times, to make sure the amount was right. Then he passed the thick bundle of currency out under his latticed window, seeing only the two wide-open, fathomless eyes and dimpled face that had watched him, and feeling, as he afterward admitted, like fifty cents.

And now ensued an experience the like of which poor Chip had never even dreamed,–the supreme joy of spending money without stint for those near and dear to her. And what a medley of gifts she bought! Two silk dress patterns, two warm wraps, three winter hats, a gold watch for Miss Phinney, an easy-chair, two of the finest pipes she could find, a trout rod, four pairs of gloves, and finally a gun for Nezer. Then as her roll of money grew less, she began to pick up smaller articles,–handkerchiefs, slippers, and the like.

“Send them to the hotel, please,” she said to one and all of whom she purchased articles of any size, “marked for Vera McGuire.”

That was enough!

Riverton had sensations, mild ones, of course. Now and then a fire had occurred, once an elopement. Occasionally a horse ran away, causing damage to some one. But nothing had occurred to compare with the arrival of a supposed fabulously rich young lady who came without escort, who walked into and out of stores like a young goddess, noticing no one, and who spent money as if it were autumn leaves.

A few of the Quaboag retinue followed her about in a not-to-be-observed manner. Women by the dozen hastily donned outdoor raiment, and visited stores, just to observe her. They crossed and recrossed the street to meet her, and a battery of curious eyes was focussed on her for two hours.

When she returned to the hotel, the old guard, recruited by every idle man in town, filled the office, awaiting her. Uncle Joe, who had heard of her arrival the moment he came, was among them, recounting her history once more, and when she neared the hotel, he emerged to meet her.

“Why, bless yer eyes, Chip,” he said, extending a calloused hand, “but I’m powerful glad to see ye once more. Whatever made ye run away the way ye did, ’n’ what be ye doin’ here? Buyin’ out the hull town? I’ve got the pung filled wi’ bundles a’ready wi’ yer name on ’em.”

He beaued her into the parlor, like the ancient gallant he was. He washed, brushed his hair and clothing, and awaited her readiness to dine, without holding further converse with the curious crowd. He ushered her into the dining room and made bold to sit and eat with her unasked, and when he assisted her to the front seat in his long box sleigh, crowded with her purchases, and drove away, he was envied by two dozen observers.

“Why didn’t ye send us word o’ yer comin’,” he said as they left Riverton, “so I cud ’a’ spruced up some an’ come down with a better rig, bells on the hosses and new buffler robes?”

“There was no need of that,” answered Chip, pleased, as well she might be. “I am just the same girl that I always was, only happier now that I have more friends. How is dear old Aunt Comfort, and every one in Greenvale? I am anticipating seeing them so much.”

And never during all the twenty years in which Uncle Joe had journeyed twice each day over this road had the way seemed shorter, or had he been blessed with a more interesting companion.

The only regret Chip had, was that she had forgotten to buy Uncle Joe a present. She made up for it later, however.

At Greenvale, Chip met almost an ovation. Aunt Comfort kissed her and cried over her. Nezer ran for Angie, who soon appeared on the scene, and Hannah was so “flustered” she was unable to speak after the first greeting. Martin, who had heard of Chip’s arrival from Uncle Joe, hastened to Aunt Comfort’s, and had Chip been a real “millionnairess” or some titled lady, she could not have awakened more interest or received half so cordial a welcome.

Hannah was the one who felt the most embarrassed, however, and guilty as well. For half an hour, while Chip was the centre of interest, she could only stare at her in dumb amazement. Then she stole out of the room, and later Chip found her in the kitchen, shedding copious tears.“I’m a miserable sinner ’n’ the Lord’ll never forgive me,” she half moaned, when Chip tried to console her. “An’ to think ye feel the way ye say, ’n’ to bring me a present, arter all the mean things I said. It’s a-heapin’ coals o’ fire on my head, that it is.” And the shower increased.

“I have forgotten all about them, Hannah, truly I have,” Chip assured her, “and I wish you would. You didn’t understand me then, perhaps, or I you, so let us be friends now.”

The next afternoon Chip, who had learned that Miss Phinney’s school was to close the day following, set out to call on her in time to arrive at its adjournment.

No hint of her return had reached Miss Phinney, no letters had been exchanged, and not since that tearful separation had they met.

And now as Chip followed the lonely by-road so often traversed by her, what a flood of bitter-sweet memories returned,–each bend, each tree, each rock, and the bridge over the Mizzy held a different recollection. Here at this turn she had first met Ray, after her resolve to leave Greenvale. At the next landmark, a lane crossing the meadows, she had always parted from her teacher, the last time in tears. And how long, long ago it all seemed!Then beyond, and barely visible, was the dear old schoolhouse. She could see it now, half hid in the bushes, a lone and lowly little brown building outlined on the winter landscape and apparently dwarfed in size. Once it had awed her; now it seemed pathetic.

The last of its pupils were vanishing as Chip drew near, and inside, and as lonely as that lone temple, Miss Phinney still lingered.

That day had not gone well with her. A note of complaint had come from one parent that morning, and news that a dearly loved scholar was ill as well, and Miss Phinney’s own life seemed like the fields just now–cold, desolate, and snow-covered.

And then while she, thus lone and lonesome, was putting away books, slates, ink-bottles, and all the badges of her servitude, Chip, without knocking, walked in.

How they first exclaimed, then embraced, then kissed, and then repeated it while each tried to wink the tears away, and failed; how they sat hand in hand in that dingy, smoke-browned room with its knife-hacked benches, unconscious of the chill, while Chip told her story; and how, just as the last rays of the setting sun flashed from the icicles along its eaves, they left it, still hand in hand, was but an episode such as many a schoolgirl can recall.

Of the few friends Greenvale held for Chip, none seemed quite so near and dear as Miss Phinney, and none lived longer in her memory. They had been for many months not teacher and pupil, but rather two sisters, confiding, patient, and tender. Life swept them apart. They might never meet again, and yet, so long as both lived, never would those school days be forgotten.

With Sunday came Chip’s most gratifying experience, perhaps, for her arrival was now known by the entire village and the fact that she was an heiress as well. Her fortune (also known) was considered almost fabulous according to Greenvale standards, and when Chip with Angie entered the church porch, it was crowded with people waiting to receive them. Chip, of course, now well clad and well poised, was once more the cynosure of all eyes except when the pastor prayed. At the close of service a score, most of whom she knew by sight only, waited to greet her and shake hands with her in the porch. The parson hurried down the aisle to add his smile and hand clasp, and, all in all, it was a most gratifying reception.

And here and now, let no carping critic say it was all due to that bank account, but rather a country town’s expression of respect and good-will toward one whom they felt deserved it.

That it all pleased Angie, goes without saying. That Chip well deserved this vindication, no one will question; and when her visit ended and she departed, no one, not even Miss Phinney, missed her more than Angie.

Only one thread of regret wove itself into Chip’s feelings as she rode away with Uncle Joe, whose horses were now decked properly for this important event. She had received a most cordial reception on all sides–almost a triumph of good-will. Her gifts had brought an oft-repeated chorus of thanks and a few tears. On all sides and among all she had been welcome, even receiving a call and words of praise from Parson Jones. She was a nobody no longer; instead, a somebody whom all delighted to honor and commend.

But the one whose motherly pride would have been most gratified, she for whom Chip’s heart yearned for oftenest, would never know it.