It is also possible, in fact almost certain, that that unfortunate waif's somewhat pitiful tale had won her teacher's interest and affection as naught else could. Only one reservation was made by Chip--her own feelings toward Ray. All else became an open book to Miss Phinney. When school was out, the two walked homeward together as far as their ways permitted, and then Chip obtained the one hour of the day which she felt was quite her own. At first, during the autumn days, she had used it for a scamper through the nutbrown woods. When winter came and it was not too cold, she occasionally visited the mill pond above the village, where, if the conditions were right, all the skating and sliding youth were gathered; and when blessed spring returned, it was away to the hills and fields once more. On Saturdays she seldom left the house, unless sent on an errand, and Sunday became a day of penance. "I don't know why folks watch me so much when I go to meetin'," Chip complained once to her teacher, "but they do, and I don't like it. I can see now why they did when I first came. I guess they thought I was an Injun, maybe; but what do I do now to make 'em so curious?" "Oh, I wouldn't mind them," Miss Phinney answered soothingly, "no one intends to annoy you; but it takes a long time for people here to become accustomed to a stranger." Miss Phinney dared not tell her pupil that her somewhat wild belief and unquestionably rude origin and early life formed the basis of this curiosity. And now, when the flowers and birds had once more returned to Greenvale, and Ray might return any day, a little plan that Chip had had in mind for many weeks took shape. She knew Ray must come on the stage, and eager for a sight of his face as only love can make one, she meant to be the first to meet and greet him. A mile down the village street and beyond the last house was a sharp hilltop. The stage usually reached here about an hour after the close of school, and to this vantage point, where she could hide behind a stone wall, Chip now betook herself each day. Her plans for meeting her young hero were well considered. She was sure he would, like herself, prefer a seat with Uncle Joe. That important person, whose heart she had won by her admiration of his horses on her arrival, would surely invite her to ride into the village, if he saw her. If he was alone, she would remain hid; but if _some one_ was with him, she would then disclose herself and the coveted invitation and meeting with Ray would follow. It was a vague, uncertain plan. No one in Greenvale had the remotest idea when Ray would return. Chip only knew that he was expected in the spring. The day, or even week, was a long-range guess. But even that slim chance poor, lonesome, heart-longing Chip would not miss, and so each day at close of school she hurried to her lookout point to watch and wait.