Ray's heart was not here. Far away in some night camp, Chip was thinking of him. He knew each day would bear her farther away. No word of her safe arrival could reach them now. Long months must elapse ere he and she could meet again, and in prospect they seemed an eternity. "Come, git yer banjo, my boy," Old Cy ejaculated at last, seeing Ray's face grow gloomy. "Tune 'er up, an' play us suthin' lively. None o' them goody-goody weepin' sort o' tunes; but give us 'Money Musk' 'n' a few jigs. I'm feelin' our prospects are so cheerful, I'd like to cut a few pigeon-wings out o' compliment." But Old Cy's hilarity was nearly all put on. He, too, felt the effect of the empty seats and missed every one that had gone, and Ray's jig tunes lacked their spirit. He essayed a few, and then quite unconsciously his fingers strayed to "My Old Kentucky Home," and Old Cy's feelings responded. CHAPTER XIV "I jist nachly hate a person that talks as tho' he'd bin measured fer a harp."--Old Cy Walker. Chip's arrival in Greenvale produced astonishment and gossip galore. It began when the stage that "Uncle Joe" Barnes had driven for twenty years started for that village. There were other passengers besides Martin, his wife, and Chip. The seats inside were soon filled, and Chip, seeing a coveted chance, climbed nimbly to a position beside the driver. "Gee Whittaker," observed one bystander to another, as Chip's black-stockinged legs flashed into view, "but that gal's nimbler'n a squirrel 'n' don't mind showin' underpinnin'. I wished I was drivin' that stage. I'll bet she's a circus." Uncle Joe soon found her a live companion at least, for he had scarce left the village ere she began. "Your hosses are fatter'n Tim's hosses used to be," she said. "Do ye feed 'em on hay and taters?" Uncle Joe gave her a sideways glance. "Hay and taters," he exclaimed; "we don't feed hosses on taters down here. Where'd you come from?" "I used to live at Tim's Place, up in the woods, 'n' we fed our hosses on taters, 'n' they had backs sharp 'nuff to split ye." This time Uncle Joe faced squarely around. "I know all about hosses," she continued glibly, "I used to take keer on 'em 'n' ride one ploughin', an' I've been throwed more'n a hundred times when we struck roots, an' ye ought to 'a' heerd Tim cuss. I used to cuss just the same, but Mrs. Frisbie says I mustn't." "Wal, I swow," ejaculated Uncle Joe, realizing that he had a "case." "What's your name, 'n' whar's Tim's Place?" "My name's Chip, Chip McGuire, only 'tain't, it's Vera; but they allus called me Chip, an' Tim's Place is ever so far up in the woods. I runned away 'cause dad sold me, an' fetched up at Mrs. Frisbie's camp, 'n' she's goin' to eddicate me. My mother got killed when I was a kid, 'n' my dad killed 'nother one, too; he's a bad 'un." Uncle Joe gasped at this gory tale of double murder, not being quite sure that the girl was sane. "Hain't they ketched yer dad yit?" he queried.