"If Cyrus is goin', I'll have to," he said. "I'd be lonesome without him." And to this assertion he adhered. Ray, however, was the most dejected and unhappy one now here, though fortunately Old Cy was the only one who understood why, and he kept silent. Old Cy's defection had influenced all alike, and wood life was no longer attractive. It was a pity, in a way, for no more charming spot than this sequestered lake could be found. The trout leaping or breaking its glassy surface night and morning seemed to almost urge an angler; not an hour in all the day but two to a dozen deer might be seen along its shore, and blueberries were ripening over in the "blow down." Amzi's garden, now doubled in size, was well along, and it seemed a sin to leave so many attractions. But Martin had lost heart for these allurements. The thought of poor, homeless Chip begging her way somewhere, spoiled it all. Conscious that her own neglect might have invited this calamity, Angie was almost heart-broken, and it was a saddened party that closed and barred the new cabin and left this rippled lake one morning. They were even more sad when Aunt Comfort showed them Chip's message, and Angie read it with brimming eyes. And now came Old Cy's departure, on a quest as hopeless as that of the Wandering Jew and as pathetic as the Ancient Mariner's. But the climax was reached when Old Cy gave Martin his parting message and charge:--"Here's a bank book," he said, "that calls fer 'bout sixty thousand dollars. It's the savin's o' McGuire, 'n' belongs to Chip. I found the cave whar 'twas hid. I found McGuire 'n' the half-breed, both dead 'n' floatin' in the lake clus by, an' 'twas to keer fer this money I quit ye three weeks ago. "If I never come back here,--an' I never shall 'thout I find Chip,--keep it fer her. Sometime she may show up. If ever she does, tell her Old Cy did all he could fer her." CHAPTER XXXI "Those who hev nothin' but a stiddy faith the Lord'll provide, never git fat."--Old Cy Walker. Life at Peaceful Valley and the home of Judson Walker fell into its usual monotony after Chip's departure. Each day Uncle Jud went about his chores and his crop-gathering and watched the leaves grow scarlet, then brown, and finally go eddying up and down the valley, or heap themselves into every nook and cranny for final sleep. Existence had become something like this to him, but he could no longer anticipate a vernal budding forth as the leaves came, but only the sear and autumn for himself, with the small and sadly neglected churchyard at the Corners for its ending.