The events of the day had produced a remarkable impression on the facial aspect of the charcoal-burning Fairley. Extraordinary processes of thought, indicated by repeated rubbing of his forehead, had produced a high light in the middle and a corresponding deepening of shadow at the sides, until it bore the appearance of a perfect sphere. It was this forehead that confronted Flip reproachfully as became a deceived comrade, menacingly as became an outraged parent in the presence of a third party and--a Postmaster! “Fine doin's this, yer receivin' clandecent bundles and letters, eh?” he began. Flip sent one swift, withering look of contempt at the Postmaster, who at once becoming invertebrate and groveling, mumbled that he must “get on” to the Crossing, and rose to go. But the old man, who had counted on his presence for moral support, and was clearly beginning to hate him for precipitating this scene with his daughter, whom he feared, violently protested. “Sit down, can't ye? Don't you see you're a witness?” he screamed hysterically. It was a fatal suggestion. “Witness,” repeated Flip, scornfully. “Yes, a witness! He gave ye letters and bundles.” “Weren't they directed to me?” asked Flip. “Yes,” said the Postmaster, hesitatingly; “in course, yes.” “Do YOU lay claim to them?” she said, turning to her father. “No,” responded the old man. “Do you?” sharply, to the Postmaster. “No,” he replied. “Then,” said Flip, coolly, “if you're not claimin' 'em for yourself, and you hear father say they ain't his, I reckon the less you have to say about 'em the better.” “Thar's suthin' in that,” said the old man, shamelessly abandoning the Postmaster. “Then why don't she say who sent 'em, and what they are like,” said the Postmaster, “if there's nothin' in it?” “Yes,” echoed Dad. “Flip, why don't you?” Without answering the direct question, Flip turned upon her father. “Maybe you forget how you used to row and tear round here because tramps and such like came to the ranch for suthin', and I gave it to 'em? Maybe you'll quit tearin' round and letting yourself be made a fool of now by that man, just because one of those tramps gets up and sends us some presents back in turn?” “'Twasn't me, Flip,” said the old man, deprecatingly, but glaring at the astonished Postmaster. “Twasn't my doin'. I allus said if you cast your bread on the waters it would come back to you by return mail. The fact is, the Gov'ment is gettin' too high-handed! Some o' these bloated officials had better climb down before next leckshen.” “Maybe,” continued Flip to her father, without looking at her discomfited visitor, “ye'd better find out whether one of those officials comes up to this yer ranch to steal away a gal about my own size, or to get points about diamond-making. I reckon he don't travel round to find out who writes all the letters that go through the Post Office.”