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 blames didn't you say
so first?" he screamed, catching up his axe and rushing to the door.