warmed her bundled baby, and left the ceremony of introduction to her companion.  Flip regarded the two with calm preoccupation and indifference.  The only thing that touched her interest was the old squaw’s draggled skirt and limp neckerchief.  They were Flip’s own, long since abandoned and cast off in the Gin and Ginger Woods.  “Secrets again,” whined Fairley, still eying Flip furtively.  “Secrets again, in course—­in course—­jiss so.  Secrets that must be kep from the ole man.  Dark doin’s by one’s own flesh and blood.  Go on! go on!  Don’t mind me.”  Flip did not reply.  She had even lost the interest in her old dress.  Perhaps it had only touched some note in unison with her revery.

“Can’t ye get the poor critter some whiskey?” he queried, fretfully.  “Ye used to be peart enuff before.”  As Flip turned to the corner to lift the demijohn, Fairley took occasion to kick the squaw with his foot, and indicate by extravagant pantomime that the bargain was not to be alluded to before the girl.  Flip poured out some whiskey in a tin cup, and, approaching the squaw, handed it to her.  “It’s like ez not,” continued Fairley to his daughter, but looking at the squaw, “that she’ll be huntin’ the woods off and on, and kinder looking after the last pit near the Madronos; ye’ll give her grub and licker ez she likes.  Well, d’ye hear, Flip?  Are ye moonin’ agin with yer secrets?  What’s gone with ye?”

If the child were dreaming, it was a delicious dream.  Her magnetic eyes were suffused by a strange light, as though the eye itself had blushed; her full pulse showed itself more in the rounding outline of her cheek than in any deepening of color; indeed, if there was any heightening of tint, it was in her freckles, which fairly glistened like tiny spangles.  Her eyes were downcast, her shoulders slightly bent, but her voice was low and clear and thoughtful as ever.

“One o’ the big pines above the Madrono pit has blown over into the run,” she said.  “It’s choked up the water, and it’s risin’ fast.  Like ez not it’s pourin’ over into the pit by this time.”

The old man rose with a fretful cry.  “And why in blazes didn’t you say so first?” he screamed, catching up his axe and rushing to the door.

“Ye didn’t give me a chance,” said Flip, raising her eyes for the first time.  With an impatient imprecation, Fairley darted by her and rushed into the wood.  In an instant she had shut the door and bolted it.  In the same instant the squaw arose, dashed the long hair not only from her eyes but from her head, tore away her shawl and blanket, and revealed the square shoulders of Lance Harriott!  Flip remained leaning against the door; but the young man in rising dropped the bandaged papoose, which rolled from his lap into the fire.  Flip, with a cry, sprang toward it; but Lance caught her by the waist with one arm, as with the other he dragged the bundle from the flames.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, gayly, “it’s only”—­