But Ray was discreet. “Oh, three or four years,” he answered nonchalantly. “I knew her when she lived in Greenvale.” Then to check the stage-driver’s curiosity, he added, “She was only a little girl, then. I presume she has changed since.”
“She’s a purty good-lookin’ gal now,” asserted Captain Mix, “but middlin’ odd in her ways. Not much on gallivantin’ round wi’ young folks, but goin’ to school stiddy ’n’ roamin’ round the woods when she ain’t. Purty big gal to be goin’ to school she is. I callate her arly eddication must ’a’ been sorter neglected. Mebbe ye know ’bout it,” and once more this persistent Yankee glanced at his companion.
But Ray was too loyal to the little girl he loved to discuss her further, and made no answer. Instead, he began inquiries about Christmas Cove, and as they jogged on mile after mile, he learned all that was to be known of that quiet village. When they had reached a point some three miles from it, a kindly thought came to the driver.
“If Vera ain’t ’spectin’ ye,” he said, “mebbe ye’d like to s’prise her. If so be it, ye kin. She’s ’most allus out this way ’n’, curislike, hides ’fore I get ’long whar she is. If I see her to-day, ’n’ ye want to, I’ll drop ye clus by ’n’ let ye.”
Chip, as usual, had followed her oft-taken walk on this pleasant May afternoon. When the carryall was sighted also, as usual, she had hidden herself. With beating heart she saw two occupants this time, and looking out of her laurel screen, she saw that one was Ray.
Then she crouched lower. The moment she had waited for had come.
But now something unexpected happened, for after the carryall passed her hiding spot, Ray, brown and stalwart, leaped out. The carryall drove on, and she saw him returning and scanning the bushes.
She was caught, fairly and squarely. One instant she hesitated, then, blushing rose-red, emerged from the undergrowth.
And now came another capture, for with a “Chip, my darling,” Ray sprang forward, and although she turned away, the next moment she was clasped in his arms.