exchange of presents and confidences seemed to suddenly awake Fairley to
a vague, uneasy sense of some unfulfilled duties as a parent. The first
effect of this on his weak nature was a peevish antagonism to the cause
of it. He had long, fretful monologues on the vanity of diamond-making,
if accompanied with a "pestering" by "interlopers;" on the wickedness
of concealment and conspiracy, and their effects on 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