It was cold comfort for Ray.
One of Chip’s first acts of emancipation was to write to Aunt Comfort and Angie, assuring both of her love and best wishes, and thanking them for all they had done. Both letters were cramped in chirography but correct in spelling, and in Angie’s was a note for Martin, asking that he draw one hundred dollars of her money and send it to her, and as much more to pay some one to follow Old Cy. The latter request Martin ignored, however, for he had already set the machinery of newspaperdom at work, and an advertisement for information of that wanderer was flying far and wide.
Of the money sent her, Chip made odd and quite characteristic uses, only one of which needs mention,–the purchase of a banjo. Had Ray known this, and that the tender memory it invoked was the reason for this investment, he would have had less cause for grief. But Ray did not, which was all the better for him.
And now, while she is in good company at Christmas Cove, with Mr. Bell, syntax, decimal fractions, the planetary system, and divisions of the earth six hours of each school day, or with Aunt Abby sewing, or picking at the banjo, or attending church, we must leave Chip and follow Old Cy.
With a hunter’s instinct he had calculated that Chip would head for the place of her birth, and then, if possible, send word to either himself or the Indian. That she had made way with herself he did not consider probable. She was not of that fibre, he felt positive; but instead, would make her own way across country, working, if need be, to obtain food and shelter until she at last reached the one spot nearest her heart,–her mother’s grave.
Believing this of her, and judging rightly, he left Greenvale, and, as it happened, twice crossed and once followed the very route she had taken for miles. That he failed to hear of her from the many he asked was solely due to accident, added to her own caution in avoiding all observant eyes.
And what an almost hopeless and interminable tramp he took! Back and forth across the section of country she was likely to follow for weeks and weeks, halting a day in every village and two or three in each city, asking the same question over and over again, until his indomitable courage and almost deathless faith slowly ebbed away.
Autumn came, the leaves grew scarlet and brown, snow followed, and winter locked all streams, and still Old Cy journeyed on. Spring and sunshine once more warmed the earth into life, the fields grew green, and yet he paused not.
With June and the real beginning of summer, however, came a new inspiration, which was to go at once by rail and stage to Chip’s native town and learn if, perchance, she, or any news of her, had reached this village.
Another thought also came with this,–that Martin might soon again visit the woods and perhaps he could intercept him.