His success, too, had encouraged him. He was eager to try another season there, and planned for hiring men to gather gum, and saw in this vocation possible future. But the change in Chip puzzled him. He had returned, expecting to find her the same timid, yet courageous little girl, ready to be his companion at all times and to kiss him when he chose--a somewhat better-educated girl, of course, using more refined language, but otherwise the same confiding child, as it were. She was all this the day of his return; and then, presto! like a sudden blast of cold air came a change. Too loyal to her to question any one, he could only wonder why this change. He called again soon after that first, unsatisfying walk home with her, to find her the same cool, collected young lady. She was nice to him, induced him to talk of the woods once more and his own plans; but it was not the Chip of old who listened, but quite another person. "I am going back to the lake with uncle and aunt," he said at last, "and I mean to coax them to take you along. You have been shut up in school so long, it will do you good." "Please don't say a word to them about it," she urged, in hurt tone, "for it will do no good. I wouldn't go, anyway." "Not go to the woods if you could," he exclaimed in astonishment; "why, what do you mean?" "Just what I say," she returned firmly, and then added wistfully, "I'd fly there, if I had wings. I'd give my life, almost, for one more summer like the last. But I shall not go again now, and maybe never." It was unaccountable and quite beyond Ray's ken--this strange decision of hers--and her "Please don't say any more about it," closed the subject. Another and even greater shock came to Ray when late that evening, on the porch, he essayed to kiss her. "No, no; please don't," she said with almost a sob, pushing him away. "It's silly now, and--and--you mustn't." A week later school closed, and Chip's conduct was then also a puzzle to Miss Phinney. As usual on these occasions, when the hour came, each pupil, young and old, filed past the teacher at her desk, the boys to shake hands, the girls to be kissed, and all bade good-by, after which they trooped away, glad to escape. This ceremony now took place as usual. All departed except Chip, and she remained at her desk. Some intuition of pity or sympathy drew Miss Phinney to her at once; and then, at the first word from her, Chip gave way to tears--not light ones, but sobs that shook her as a great grief. Vainly Miss Phinney tried to cheer and console her, stroking the bowed head until her own eyes grew misty. "I didn't mean to give way," Chip said at last, looking up and brushing away the tears, "but you've been so good and patient with me, I couldn't help it. I hain't many friends here, I guess, and--" choking back another sob--"I shall be more lonesome'n ever."