the news of a clue to his long-lost son without emotion, but lately he seemed to look upon it as a foregone conclusion, and one that necessarily solved the question of companionship for Flip.  “In course, when you’ve got your own flesh and blood with ye, ye can’t go foolin’ around with strangers.”  These autumnal blossoms of affection, I fear, came too late for any effect upon Flip, precociously matured by her father’s indifference and selfishness.  But she was good-humored, and, seeing him seriously concerned, gave him more of her time, even visited him in the sacred seclusion of the “diamond pit,” and listened with far-off eyes to his fitful indictment of all things outside his grimy laboratory.  Much of this patient indifference came with a capricious change in her own habits; she no longer indulged in the rehearsal of dress, she packed away her most treasured garments, and her leafy boudoir knew her no more.  She sometimes walked on the hillside, and often followed the trail she had taken with Lance when she led him to the ranch.  She once or twice extended her walk to the spot where she had parted from him, and as often came shyly away, her eyes downcast and her face warm with color.  Perhaps because these experiences and some mysterious instinct of maturing womanhood had left a story in her eyes, which her two adorers, the Postmaster and the butcher, read with passion, she became famous without knowing it.  Extravagant stories of her fascinations brought strangers into the valley.  The effect upon her father may be imagined.  Lance could not have desired a more effective guardian than he proved to be in this emergency.  Those who had been told of this hidden pearl were surprised to find it so jealously protected.

CHAPTER V.

The long, parched summer had drawn to its dusty close.  Much of it was already blown abroad and dissipated on trail and turnpike, or crackled in harsh, unelastic fibres on hillside and meadow.  Some of it had disappeared in the palpable smoke by day and fiery crests by night of burning forests.  The besieging fogs on the Coast Range daily thinned their hosts, and at last vanished.  The wind changed from northwest to southwest.  The salt breath of the sea was on the summit.  And then one day the staring, unchanged sky was faintly touched with remote mysterious clouds, and grew tremulous in expression.  The next morning dawned upon a newer face in the heavens, on changed woods, on altered outlines, on vanished crests, on forgotten distances.  It was raining!

Four weeks of this change, with broken spaces of sunlight and intense blue aerial islands, and then a storm set in.  All day the summit pines and redwoods rocked in the blast.  At times the onset of the rain seemed to be held back by the fury of the gale, or was visibly seen in sharp waves on the hillside.  Unknown and concealed watercourses suddenly overflowed the trails, pools became lakes and brooks rivers.  Hidden from the storm, the sylvan silence of sheltered valleys was broken by the impetuous rush of waters; even the tiny streamlet that traversed Flip’s retreat in the Gin and Ginger Woods became a cascade.