charcoal-burning; on the nurturing of spies and "adders" in the family
circle, and on the seditiousness of dark and mysterious councils in
which a gray-haired father was left out. It was true that a word or
look from Flip generally brought these monologues to an inglorious and
abrupt termination, but they were none the less lugubrious as long as
they lasted. In time they were succeeded by an affectation of contrite
apology and self-depreciation. "Don't go out o' the way to ask the old
man," he would say, referring to the quantity of bacon to be ordered;
"it's nat'ral a young gal should have her own advisers." The state of
the flour-barrel would also produce a like self-abasement. "Unless
ye're already in correspondence about more flour, ye might take the
opinion o' the first tramp ye meet ez to whether Santa Cruz Mills is a
good brand, but don't ask the old man." If Flip was in conversation
with the butcher, Fairley would obtrusively retire with the hope "he
wasn't intrudin' on their secrets."

These phases of her father's weakness were not frequent enough to
excite her alarm, but she could not help noticing they were accompanied
with a seriousness unusual to him. He began to be tremulously watchful
of her, returning often from work at an earlier hour, and lingering by
the cabin in the morning. He brought absurd and useless presents for
her, and presented them with a nervous anxiety, poorly concealed by an
assumption of careless, paternal generosity. "Suthin' I picked up at
the Crossin' for ye to-day," he would say, airily, and retire to watch
the effect of a pair of shoes two sizes too large, or a fur cap in
September. He would have hired a cheap parlor organ for her, but for
the apparently unexpected revelation that she couldn't play. He had
received 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,