Since Mrs. Strange was the first capable dressmaker who had ever come to Jonesville, Paloma had closed her eyes and plunged with reckless extravagance. Now the girl insisted upon a general exhibition of her new wardrobe, a sort of grand fashion review, for the edification of her caller, in the course of which she tried on all her dresses. Paloma was petite and well proportioned, and the gowns were altogether charming. Alaire was honest in her praise, and Paloma's response was one of whole-hearted pleasure. The girl beamed. Never before had she been so admired, never until this moment had she adored a person as she adored Mrs. Austin, whose every suggestion as to fit and style was acted upon, regardless of Mrs. Strange. "I don't know what Dad will say when he gets the bill for these dresses," Paloma confessed. "Your father is a mighty queer man," Mrs. Strange observed. "I haven't so much as laid eyes on him." Paloma nodded. "Yes. And he's getting more peculiar all the time; I can't make out what ails him." "Where is he now?" asked Alaire. "Heaven knows! Out in the barn or under the house." Taking advantage of the dressmaker's momentary absence from the room, Paloma continued in a whisper: "I wish you'd talk to Dad and see what you make of him. He's absolutely--queer. Mrs. Strange seems to have a peculiar effect on him. Why, it's almost as if--" "What?" "Well, I suppose I'm foolish, but--I'm beginning to believe in spells. You know, Mrs. Strange's husband is a sort of--necromancer." "How silly!" There was no further opportunity for words, as the woman reappeared at that instant; but a little later Alaire went in search of Blaze, still considerably mystified. As she neared the farm buildings she glimpsed a man's figure hastily disappearing into the barn. The figure bore a suspicious resemblance to Blaze Jones, yet when she followed he was nowhere to be seen. Now this was curious, for Texas barns are less pretentious than those of the North, and this one was little more than a carriage-house and a shelter for agricultural implements. "Mr. Jones!" Alaire called. She repeated Blaze's name several times; then something stirred. The door of a harness closet opened cautiously, and out of the blackness peered Paloma's father. He looked more owlish than ever behind his big, gold-rimmed spectacles. "What in the world are you doing in there?" she cried. Blaze emerged, blinking. He was dusty and perspiring. "Hello, Miz Austin!" he saluted her with a poor assumption of breeziness. "I was fixin' some harness, but I'm right glad to see you." Alaire regarded him quizzically. "What made you hide?" she asked. "Hide? Who, me?" "I saw you dodge in here like a--gopher." Blaze confessed. "I reckon I've got the willies. Every woman I see looks like that dam' dressmaker." "Paloma was telling me about you. Why do you hate her so?"