"Raymond was here this evening," she said kindly, "and waited quite a spell. Where have you been?" "Oh, nowhere," answered Chip, pleasantly, "only I was lonesome and went out for a walk." Little did good Aunt Comfort realize what a volcano of hope, despair, shame, and tender love was concealed beneath that calm answer, or the new resolve budding in Chip's heart. No more did Ray suspect it when he met her coming home from school the next afternoon. For during those two wretched hours when she was alone on the worn schoolhouse step, poor Chip McGuire, the low-born, pitiful waif, had become a woman and put away girlish impulses. "I couldn't come to see you that first evening," he said at once, "for uncle and aunty kept me talking till bedtime. Where were you last night?" "Oh, I didn't much think you would come," answered Chip, calmly, smiling at him in a far-off way. "I am a nobody here, as you will soon find out, and I don't expect--anything. I got lonesome last night and went off for a walk." Ray looked at her in wide-eyed astonishment. And well he might, for only two short days since she had met him, an eager, simple girl, and now she spoke like a woman. No word, no hint of his neglect, escaped her; but a cool indifference was apparent. "Tell me about the woods and Old Cy," she said, not waiting for him to speak again, "and how is the hermit? I want to know all about them." "Oh, I left 'em all right," answered Ray, sullenly, for like a boy he wanted to be coaxed. And then, urged a little by Chip, he told his winter's experience. One episode interested her most of all--the strange trapper's doings, his theft of their game, their pursuit of him and discovery of his hiding spot. "I know who that was," she said, when it was all described. "It was my father, and if he had caught you spying upon him, I guess he'd shot you both. He always used to go somewhere trapping every fall; but nobody could ever find where." This return to the memories of the wilderness wore away something of Chip's cool reserve, and when the house was reached her eyes had grown tender. "I shall be glad to see you often--as--as your folks will let you come," she said, somewhat timidly when they parted; and scarce understanding this speech, Ray left her. "Chip has changed a whole lot," he said to his aunt a little later, "and I wish she hadn't; she don't seem the same any more." "I'm glad of it if she has," answered Angie, smiling at him. "There was need enough of it." CHAPTER XXIV Old Cy had builded wiser than he realized when he coaxed Ray to spend a winter in the woods. The long tramps through the vast wilderness; the keen hunt for signs of mink, fisher, otter, and wildcat, with constant guard against danger; the unremitting though zestful labor of gum-gathering; the far-sighted need for winter preparation; and last but not least Old Cy's cheerful philosophy, had broadened the lad and developed both muscle and mind.