The Postmaster at Fisher’s Crossing had just received the weekly mail and express from San Francisco, and was engaged in examining it.  It consisted of five letters and two parcels.  Of these, three of the letters and the two parcels were directed to Flip.  It was not the first time during the last six months that this extraordinary event had occurred, and the curiosity of the Crossing was duly excited.  As Flip had never called personally for the letters or parcels, but had sent one of her wild, irregular scouts or henchmen to bring them, and as she was seldom seen at the Crossing or on the stage road, that curiosity was never satisfied.  The disappointment to the Postmaster—­a man past the middle age—­partook of a sentimental nature.  He looked at the letters and parcels; he looked at his watch; it was yet early, he could return by noon.  He again examined the addresses; they were in the same handwriting as the previous letters.  His mind was made up, he would deliver them himself.  The poetic, soulful side of his mission was delicately indicated by a pale blue necktie, a clean shirt, and a small package of ginger-nuts, of which Flip was extravagantly fond.

The common road to Fairley’s Ranch was by the stage turnpike to a point below the Gin and Ginger Woods, where the prudent horseman usually left his beast and followed the intersecting trail afoot.  It was here that the Postmaster suddenly observed on the edge of the wood the figure of an elegantly dressed woman; she was walking slowly, and apparently at her ease; one hand held her skirts lightly gathered between her gloved fingers, the other slowly swung a riding-whip.  Was it a picnic of some people from Monterey or Santa Cruz?  The spectacle was novel enough to justify his coming nearer.  Suddenly she withdrew into the wood; he lost sight of her; she was gone.  He remembered, however, that Flip was still to be seen, and as the steep trail was beginning to tax all his energies, he was fain to hurry forward.  The sun was nearly vertical when he turned into the canon, and saw the bark roof of the cabin beyond.  At almost the same moment Flip appeared, flushed and panting, in the road before him.

“You’ve got something for me,” she said, pointing to the parcel and letter.  Completely taken by surprise, the Postmaster mechanically yielded them up, and as instantly regretted it.  “They’re paid for,” continued Flip, observing his hesitation.

“That’s so,” stammered the official of the Crossing, seeing his last chance of knowing the contents of the parcel vanish; “but I thought ez it’s a valooable package, maybe ye might want to examine it to see that it was all right afore ye receipted for it.”

“I’ll risk it,” said Flip, coolly, “and if it ain’t right I’ll let ye know.”