"I don't think we best quiz her much," Uncle Jud (as he was known) said to his wife that first night. "I found her on the top o' Bangall Hill, where she riz up like a ghost. She 'lowed she run away from somewhar, but where 'twas, she didn't want to tell. My 'pinion is thar's a love 'fair at the bottom on't all; but whether it's so or not, it ain't none o' our business. She needs a home, sartin sure. She says she means to airn her keep, which is the right sperit, an' long as she minds us, she kin have it." That Chip "airned her keep" and something more was soon evinced, for in two weeks it was "Aunt Mandy" and "Uncle Jud" from her, and "Patty" or "Pattycake," the nickname given her that first morning, from them. More than that, so rapidly had she won her way here that by now Uncle Jud had visited the Riggsville store, some four miles down this valley, and materials for two dresses, new shoes, a broad sun hat, and other much-needed clothing were bought for Chip. Neither was it all one-sided, for these people, well-to-do in their isolated home, were also quite alone. Their two boys had grown up, gone away and married, and had homes of their own, and the company of a bright and winsome girl like Chip was needed in this home. Her adoption and acceptance of it were like a small stream flowing into a larger one, for the reason that these people were almost primitive in location and custom. "We don't go to meetin' Sundays," Uncle Jud had explained that first day after breakfast. "We're sorter heathen, I s'pose; but then ag'in, thar ain't no chance. Thar used to be meetin's down to the Corners, 'n' a parson; but he only got four hundred a year, an' hard work to collect that, 'n' so he gin the job up. Since then the meetin'-house has kinder gone to pieces, 'n' the Corner folks use it now for storin' tools. We obsarve Sundays here by bein' sorter lazy, 'n' I go fishin' some or pickin' berries." To Chip, reared at Tim's Place, and whose knowledge of Sunday was its strict observance at Greenvale, this seemed a relief. Sundays there had never been pleasant days to her. She could not understand what the preaching and praying meant, or why people needed to look so solemn on that day. She had been stared at so much at church, also, that the ordeal had become painful. The parson had, on two occasions, glared and glowered at her while he assured her that her opinions and belief in spites were rank heresy and that she was a wicked heathen; and, all in all, religion was not to her taste. With these people she was to escape it, and instead of being imprisoned for long, weary hours while being stared at each Sunday, she was likely to have perfect freedom and a chance to go with this nice old man on a fishing or berry-picking jaunt.