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.