As might be expected, Chip gave Aunt Abby a full recital of her morning’s episode as soon as she entered the house, and with it her comments upon this smooth-spoken young man.

“He reeled off flattery by the yard,” she said, “and no matter how I took it, or how sharply I set him back, he kept at it. The way he piled it on was almost funny, just as though he thought I believed it. Of course I didn’t, not a word, and what’s more I wouldn’t trust him farther than I could see him. He’s got shifty eyes, and Cy once told me never to believe a man with such eyes. He wants me to go sailing with him to-morrow, and I said I would go if you were asked. I knew you wouldn’t go, however.”

“Of course not,” answered Aunt Abby, severely, “and his asking you in such a way was almost an insult. If he had meant well, he would have said he was taking other friends out and would have asked us both to join them. I should not have consented to that even, however. These summer people are not our sort, and to accept such favors from them is to put ourselves in a fair way of being laughed at. I would advise, also, that you have no more to say to this young man. It will not reflect credit upon you if you do.”

That afternoon, while Chip practised upon her banjo, it being vacation time, Aunt Abby called upon several neighbors with news-gathering intent. She succeeded to the fullest, and that evening related it to Chip.

“This Mr. Goodnow has been here about two weeks,” she said, “and is boarding at Captain Perkins’s. He came in a small steam yacht he claims he owns, and has been going about with three ladies who are stopping at the Mix House. Two of them are sisters, the Misses Wilson, and a Mrs. Simpson, a widow. He seems the most devoted to the widow. They have been out driving quite often, and once or twice she has been sailing with him alone. It’s all right, of course, only she being a good deal older than he is, makes it seem curious. When he calls here to-morrow, as I suppose he will, I’d better see him.”

He called quite early the next morning, as may be guessed, and a more picture-book yachtsman Aunt Abby never set eyes upon. His white duck shoes, trousers, and cap, white flannel coat, dark blue silk shirt, jaunty sailor tie and russet belt, all completed an attire so spick and span that it seemed that he must have just emerged from a tailor shop.

But Aunt Abby was not awed overmuch. She had seen his like before, and met him at her door with serene self-possession.

“I am Mr. Goodnow,” he explained with easy assurance, “and Miss Raymond has kindly consented to accept a few hours’ enjoyment in my yacht if you will also honor me.” And he bowed again.

“We thank you very much, sir,” Aunt Abby responded stiffly, “but I must decline for us both. We should hardly care to accept hospitalities which we could not return.”

“I regret it very much,” he answered in a hurt tone, “and assure you I am the one to feel obligated.” And then, as Aunt Abby drew back, and the door began to close very slowly, he bowed and retreated in good order.

But he was not to be thus checkmated, and from now on he began to watch for chances to intercept and accost Chip.

It was, and always had been, a part of her nature to be out of doors as much as possible, and since the close of school she was out more than ever. Somewhat akin to Old Cy in love of Nature, the fields, woods, and streams had always attracted her, and at Christmas Cove the sea added a new charm to which she yielded nearly every pleasant day. And her steps led her far and wide.

Down to the seldom-used wharf to watch the tide ebb and flow between its mussel-coated piles, over the broad-rippled sands of the cove when the tide left them bare, around to the long, rocky barrier beyond the cove where the sea waves dashed, were her favorite strolls.

The next afternoon she strayed to where the ocean spray was leaping. She had scarce reached her favorite lookout spot, a shaded cliff, when she saw Goodnow approaching.

Her first impulse was to return home at once, the next to remain.

She did not fear him, he seemed such an effeminate, foppish sort of man, that lithe and strong as she was, she felt she could outrun him, or, if need be, throw him into the sea. And so she waited, cool and indifferent. Although conscious that he was nearing her, she never turned her head until he was beside her. Then she looked up.“I beg your pardon,” he said, raising his hat, “but may I share this cliff with you?” And he seated himself near.

“It isn’t mine,” answered Chip, rather ungraciously, “so there’s no need to ask.”

“But every lady has a right to decline a gentleman’s company wherever she is,” he responded in his usual suave tone. “I saw you coming here, and I’ll admit I was bold enough to follow.”

“And what for?” she answered, in her blunt way, “I never invited you.”

“No, you didn’t, and I never expect you will. But you are such a saucy, fascinating little wood-nymph that I couldn’t help it. I am sorry, though, that you and your worthy aunt refused my yacht yesterday. I wanted an opportunity to get better acquainted with her and yourself as well, and thought that a good way.

“Do you love the ocean,” he continued, as Chip made no response, “and is this village your real home, or do you reside at Peaceful Valley?”

“I live here now,” returned Chip, resolving to be brief in all her answers and hoping he would betake himself away.

She did not like him, nor his smooth, polished speech. She felt that it was all affected, and that at heart he meant no good toward her. Then his failure to recognize her when with his lady friends still rankled. She knew well enough that he dared not admit acquaintance with a calico-clad country girl at that moment. And what the gossips of Christmas Cove insinuated about him and this widow awoke her contempt.

Totally unused to the ways of fashionable society as she was, for him to play court to a widow evidently ten or fifteen years his senior seemed unnatural.

His almost nauseating and persistent flattery of herself was equally objectionable. All this flashed over her now while he was talking.

“You must find it lonesome here,” he said, in response to her admission; “but perhaps you have a beau, a sweetheart, somewhere, whom you care for.”

Chip colored slightly, but made no answer.

“I’m sure you haven’t here,” he went on, “for I’ve not seen an eligible fellow native to this village since I came.” He paused a moment, awaiting an admission, and then continued: “How do you pass the time, anyway, and isn’t life here monotonous? Don’t you long for some excitement, some fun, some color to it all? I’ve watched these villagers now for three weeks and their lives seem so prosy, so dead slow, it is painful. They get up, eat, chase the cows and chickens, hoe in the gardens, mow hay, and every blessed woman wears the same calico gown six days in the week. Sundays they all spruce up, go to meeting, and the next week repeat the programme. Isn’t it so?”

“I presume it is,” answered Chip, with rising ire; “but if folks here weren’t satisfied, they could move away, couldn’t they? And if it’s all so dull, what did you come here for? Nobody asked you, did they?”

“No,” he responded, laughing, “no one did, and no one will miss me when I go–not even you. The only redeeming feature is that they all seem willing to take my money.”

“Would you stay if they weren’t,” she returned, still more hotly, “would you sponge on us folks and sneer at us as well?”

“Keep cool, my dear girl,” he answered unruffled, “keep cool, and let your lovely hair grow. I’m not sneering at you or any one. I am merely stating facts. To us who live in the whirl of city life, a few weeks here is a delightful change, and we are glad to pay well for it. I am only speaking of how it must seem to live this way all the time.”He paused a moment, watching Chip’s face turned half away, and then continued persuasively: “I am sorry you are so ready to believe ill of me or to think I am sneering at all things. In that you have changed very much since last summer. Then you seemed to enjoy talking with me; now you blaze up into wrath at my pleasantry. I am very sorry you feel as you do. I’d like to be better friends with you if possible, otherwise I wouldn’t have risked the rebuff I received from your excellent aunt yesterday. I’d like very much to call on you, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to entertain you and your aunt on my boat. I am an idle fellow, I’ll admit, with nothing to do but spend my time and money, but that is my misfortune, and you ought to have pity on me.”

And so this smooth-tongued, persuasive talker ran on and on while Chip, fascinated, in spite of her dislike of him, listened.

More than that, he grew eloquent and even pathetic at times in describing his hopes and ambitions in life. He even asserted that he longed to live differently and to become a useful man, instead of an idle one. It was all hypocrisy, of course, but Chip was scarce able to detect it, and lulled by his specious, pleading voice, she admitted that she had no real reason for distrusting or disliking him. Also, that she would enjoy a sail on his boat, and would try to persuade her aunt to accept another invitation.

This especially was what he most wanted, for shrewd schemer that he was, he knew that if he could ingratiate himself with this guardian aunt, permission to call must follow, and with that, some opportunity to make a conquest of this simple country girl.

Sated as he was with the society of more polished and therefore artificial womanhood, blasÉ to all the purities of life and refined society, a rouÉ and rake conversant with all vice, this fearless, wholesome, yet unsophisticated girl who seemed like a breath from the pine woods, attracted him as no other could.

And now he had her almost spellbound on this lonely shore, with the sea murmuring at their feet and the cool winds whispering in the pine trees shading them.

It was Don Juan and Haidee over again, only this Juan was a more selfish and heartless one, calculating on the ruin of this wood-born flower without thought of consequences.

He made one mistake, however, after he had lulled her into almost believing him to be both honest and worthy,–he sneered at religion.

“All that people go to church for is to see and be seen, ladies especially,” he said. “They live to dress and show off their new gowns and hats, and were it not for the chance church-going gives them, not one parson in a hundred would have a corporal’s guard for audience. As for the preaching, not one in ten understands a word of it, and most of those who understand fail to believe it. I don’t, I am sure. I consider a minister is a man who talks to earn his money. A few old tabbies, of course, are sincere and believe in prayer and all that sort of foolishness, but the rest only make believe they do. There may be a God and maybe there isn’t–I don’t know. I doubt it, however. As for the hereafter, that is all moonshine. When we go, that is the end of us.”

“And so you don’t believe in spirits and a future life,” answered Chip, with sudden defiance. “Well, I do, and I know that people have souls that live again, for I’ve seen them, hundreds of times. As for all church-going people being hypocrites, that’s a lie, and I know better. The best woman I ever knew believed in praying, and so did my mother, and I won’t hear them called such a name.”It was Chip, blazing up again, in defence of her own opinions, and this smooth-spoken fellow saw his mistake on the instant.

“Oh, well, you may be right,” he admitted at once. “I wasn’t speaking of all womankind–only the fashionable ones whom I know. As for soul life, I want to believe as you do, of course, and wish you would convince me that it is true.” And so peace was restored, and once more the lullaby of his wooing talk began.

For two hours he spun to Chip the web of his blandishments, and then the sun warned her, and she rose to go.

“It would be delightful to escort you home,” he said, “but I fear I’d better not. Your aunt might see us returning, and scold you. Now if you will meet me here again to-morrow afternoon, and try to convince me that there is a future life, I shall be most happy. Will you?”

But Chip was alert.

“No, I don’t think I shall,” she responded bluntly; “I am not running after you–not a step. As for what you believe or don’t believe, that isn’t my lookout,” and with an almost uncivil “Good day, sir,” she left him.

The farther away she got from this snakelike charmer, the more an intuitive belief in his real intentions possessed her. She was unskilled in the fine art of conversation, had only the inborn purity of her thoughts to protect her; and yet she half read this specious flatterer, and felt, rather than realized, his baseness.

A change in her own convictions that now served as a mantle of protection against his persuasions had come to her during these dreamy hours by the sea. Accepting at first Old Tomah’s superstitions, she had been led to contemplate the great question of future life and the existence of God. Aunt Comfort’s unselfish character, combined with perfect faith in the Supreme Power, had had its influence. Angie’s kindness and that first prayer Chip had heard in the tent were not lost. Aunt Abby’s consistent belief and devotion to duty also had had its effect; and all these pertinent examples, combined with the impress of the vast ocean, the solitude of this lonely shore, and the echo of its ceaseless billows, had awakened true veneration in Chip’s heart, and convinced her that some Unseen Power moved all human impulse and controlled all human destiny.