At school next day her mind and heart were at war. The parts of speech and rules of subtraction and division seemed complete chaos, and when homeward bound, she loitered slowly along, hoping Ray would make amends and meet her on the way. But again he failed to appear. And that night, when alone with Hannah, a worse blow came. "I heerd young Stetson got back yesterday," she said, fixing her steely blue eyes on Chip, "an' you went down the road to meet him. I should think you'd be 'shamed o' yourself. If you're callatin' on settin' your cap for him, 'twon't do a mite o' good. His aunt wouldn't think o' havin' sich an outcast ez you for him--that I can tell ye." But not a word of reply came from poor Chip. Such speeches were not new to her, and she had long before ceased to answer them. But this one, from its very truth, hurt more than all others had, and, crushed by it, she stole away out of the house. No thought that Ray might call came to her. She only wished to escape somewhere, that she might cry away her misery and shame in solitude. The evening was but a repetition of the previous one. The same sweet influence and silvered light was all about, but no heed of its beauty came to Chip. Instead, she felt herself a shameful thing of no account. Her lover had failed her--now she knew why, and as she sped along the lonely way to the schoolhouse, scarce conscious of her steps, all hope and all joy left her. Why or for what purpose she was hurrying toward this deserted little building, she knew not. Hot tears filled her eyes. Shame surged in her heart. She was a nobody in the eyes of all her world, and once she had reached the worn sill, so often crossed by her, she threw herself upon it and sobbed in utter despair. For a long hour she sat there while the tide of feeling ebbed and tears came unchecked, and then the reaction came. With it, also, came something of the old courage and defiance that had once led her to face night, danger, and sixty miles of wilderness alone. "I have made a mistake," she said, sitting up, "and Hannah was right. I am a nobody here, and Ray has been told so and has kept away." And now with returning calm, and soothed, maybe, by the still, ethereal night, she saw herself, her past and present, as it all was. Back in an instant she sped in thought to the moment when, kneeling to these people, she begged for food; back to that first prayer she ever heard in the tent, and the offer of rescue that followed. And then her life here, with all its hopes and humiliation, rose before her. "It was all wrong, my coming here," she said, looking away to the village where lights twinkled; "I am not their sort, nor they mine. I'd better go away." Then, lifted a wee bit by this new resolve, she rose and returned to the house. The tall clock in the sitting room was just chiming ten when she entered, and Aunt Comfort was there alone.