“Good-bye,
“Ray.”
How every word of this half-boyish, half-manly letter was read and re-read by Chip; how it woke the old memories of the wilderness and of herself, a ragged waif there; and how, somehow, in spite of pride and anger, a little thrill of happiness crept into her heart, needs no explanation.
But she was not quite ready yet to forgive him, and what he failed to say when he might, still rankled in her feelings.
But Old Cy, that kindly soul, so like a father! Almost did she feel that to meet him would be worth more than to see any one else in the world. And to think he was still hunting for her, far and near!
And now, quite unlike most young ladies, who deem their love missives sacred, Chip showed hers to Aunt Abby.
“It’s from Raymond Stetson,” she said, rather bashfully, “a boy who was in the woods with those people who were kind to me, and we became very good friends.”
Aunt Abby smiled as she perused its contents.
“And so he was the cause of your running away from Greenvale,” she said. “Why didn’t you write him a note of thanks after you learned he had been searching for you? I think he deserved that much, at least.”
“I wouldn’t humble myself,” Chip answered spiritedly, “and then I was ashamed to let any one know I had used his name. I hadn’t time to think what name to give when Uncle Jud asked me, and his was the first that came to mind,” she added naïvely.