As the girl seemed inclined to retire with her property, the Postmaster was driven to other conversation.  “We ain’t had the pleasure of seeing you down at the Crossing for a month o’ Sundays,” he began, with airy yet pronounced gallantry.  “Some folks let on you was keepin’ company with some feller like Bijah Brown, and you were getting a little too set up for the Crossing.”  The individual here mentioned being the county butcher, and supposed to exhibit his hopeless affection for Flip by making a long and useless divergence from his weekly route to enter the canon for “orders,” Flip did not deem it necessary to reply.  “Then I allowed how ez you might have company,” he continued; “I reckon there’s some city folks up at the summit.  I saw a mighty smart, fash’n’ble gal cavorting round.  Hed no end o’ style and fancy fixin’s.  That’s my kind, I tell you.  I just weaken on that sort o’ gal,” he continued, in the firm belief that he had awakened Flip’s jealousy, as he glanced at her well-worn homespun frock, and found her eyes suddenly fixed on his own.

“Strange I ain’t got to see her yet,” she replied coolly, shouldering her parcel, and quite ignoring any sense of obligation to him for his extra-official act.

“But you might get to see her at the edge of the Gin and Ginger Woods,” he persisted feebly, in a last effort to detain her; “if you’ll take a pasear there with me.”

Flip’s only response was to walk on toward the cabin, whence, with a vague complimentary suggestion of “drop-in’ in to pass the time o’ day” with her father, the Postmaster meekly followed.

The paternal Fairley, once convinced that his daughter’s new companion required no pecuniary or material assistance from his hands, relaxed to the extent of entering into a querulous confidence with him, during which Flip took the opportunity of slipping away.  As Fairley had that infelicitous tendency of most weak natures, to unconsciously exaggerate unimportant details in their talk, the Postmaster presently became convinced that the butcher was a constant and assiduous suitor of Flip’s.  The absurdity of his sending parcels and letters by post when he might bring them himself did not strike the official.  On the contrary, he believed it to be a masterstroke of cunning.  Fired by jealousy and Flip’s indifference, he “deemed it his duty”—­using that facile form of cowardly offensiveness—­to betray Flip.

Of which she was happily oblivious.  Once away from the cabin, she plunged into the woods, with the parcel swung behind her like a knapsack.  Leaving the trail, she presently struck off in a straight line through cover and underbrush with the unerring instinct of an animal, climbing hand over hand the steepest ascent, or fluttering like a bird from branch to branch down the deepest declivity.  She soon reached that part of the trail where the susceptible Postmaster had seen the fascinating unknown.  Assuring herself she was not followed, she crept through