er; the slight, erect, graceful form of a
young woman modishly attired. It was Flip, but Flip made taller by the
lengthened skirt and clinging habiliments of fashion. Flip freckled,
but, through the cunning of a relief of yellow color in her gown, her
piquant brown-shot face and eyes brightened and intensified until she
seemed like a spicy odor made visible. I cannot affirm that the judgment
of Flip's mysterious modiste was infallible, or that the taste of
Mr. Lance Harriott, her patron, was fastidious; enough that it was
picturesque, and perhaps not more glaring and extravagant than the color
in which Spring herself had once clothed the sere hillside where Flip
was now seated. The phantom mirror in the tree fork caught and held her
with the sky, the green leaves, the sunlight and all the graciousness
of her surroundings, and the wind gently tossed her hair and the gay
ribbons of her gypsy hat. Suddenly she started. Some remote sound in
the trail below, inaudible to any ear less fine than hers, arrested her
breathing. She rose swiftly and darted into cover.

Ten minutes passed. The sun was declining; the white fog was beginning
to creep over the Coast Range. From the edge of the wood Cinderella
appeared, disenchanted, and in her homespun garments. The clock had
struck--the spell was past. As she disappeared down the trail even
the magic mirror, moved by the wind, slipped from the tree top to the
ground, and became a piece of common glass.

CHAPTER IV.

The events of the day had produced a remarkable impression on the facial
aspect of the charcoal-burning Fairley. Extraordinary processes of
thought, indicated by repeated rubbing of his forehead, had produced a
high light in the middle and a corresponding deepening of shadow at the
sides, until it bore the appearance of a perfect sphere. It was this
forehead that confronted Flip reproachfully as became a deceived
comrade, menacingly as became an outraged parent in the presence of a
third party and--a Postmaster!

"Fine doin's this, yer receivin' clandecent bundles and letters, eh?"
he began. Flip sent one swift, withering look of contempt at the
Postmaster, who at once becoming invertebrate and groveling, mumbled
that he must "get on" to the Crossing, and rose to go. But the old
man, who had counted on his presence for moral support, and was clearly
beginning to hate him for precipitating this scene with his daughter,
whom he feared, violently protested.

"S