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