For six months the sea fogs monotonously came and went along the Monterey coast; for six months they beleaguered the Coast Range with afternoon sorties of white hosts that regularly swept over the mountain crest, and were as regularly beaten back again by the leveled lances of the morning sun.  For six months that white veil which had once hidden Lance Harriott in its folds returned without him.  For that amiable outlaw no longer needed disguise or hiding-place.  The swift wave of pursuit that had dashed him on the summit had fallen back, and the next day was broken and scattered.  Before the week had passed, a regular judicial inquiry relieved his crime of premeditation, and showed it to be a rude duel of two armed and equally desperate men.  From a secure vantage in a seacoast town Lance challenged a trial by his peers, and, as an already prejudged man escaping from his executioners, obtained a change of venue.  Regular justice, seated by the calm Pacific, found the action of an interior, irregular jury rash and hasty.  Lance was liberated on bail.

The Postmaster at Fisher’s Crossing had just received the weekly mail and express from San Francisco, and was engaged in examining it.  It consisted of five letters and two parcels.  Of these, three of the letters and the two parcels were directed to Flip.  It was not the first time during the last six months that this extraordinary event had occurred, and the curiosity of the Crossing was duly excited.  As Flip had never called personally for the letters or parcels, but had sent one of her wild, irregular scouts or henchmen to bring them, and as she was seldom seen at the Crossing or on the stage road, that curiosity was never satisfied.  The disappointment to the Postmaster ­a man past the middle age ­partook of a sentimental nature.  He looked at the letters and parcels; he looked at his watch; it was yet early, he could return by noon.  He again examined the addresses; they were in the same handwriting as the previous letters.  His mind was made up, he would deliver them himself.  The poetic, soulful side of his mission was delicately indicated by a pale blue necktie, a clean shirt, and a small package of gingernuts, of which Flip was extravagantly fond.

The common road to Fairley’s Ranch was by the stage turnpike to a point below the Gin and Ginger Woods, where the prudent horseman usually left his beast and followed the intersecting trail afoot.  It was here that the Postmaster suddenly observed on the edge of the wood the figure of an elegantly-dressed woman; she was walking slowly, and apparently at her ease; one hand held her skirts lightly gathered between her gloved fingers, the other slowly swung a riding whip.  Was it a picnic of some people from Monterey or Santa Cruz?  The spectacle was novel enough to justify his coming nearer.  Suddenly she withdrew into the wood; he lost sight of her; she was gone.  He remembered, however, that Flip was still to be seen, and as the steep trail was beginning to tax all his energies, he was fain to hurry forward.  The sun was nearly vertical when he turned into the canyon, and saw the bark roof of the cabin beyond.  At almost the same moment Flip appeared, flushed and panting, in the road before him.

“You’ve got something for me,” she said, pointing to the parcel and letters.  Completely taken by surprise, the Postmaster mechanically yielded them up, and as instantly regretted it.  “They’re paid for,” continued Flip, observing his hesitation.

“That’s so,” stammered the official of the Crossing, seeing his last chance of knowing the contents of the parcel vanish; “but I thought ez it’s a valooable package, maybe ye might want to examine it to see that it was all right afore ye receipted for it.”

“I’ll risk it,” said Flip, coolly, “and if it ain’t right I’ll let ye know.”

As the girl seemed inclined to retire with her property, the Postmaster was driven to other conversation.  “We ain’t had the pleasure of seeing you down at the Crossing for a month o’ Sundays,” he began, with airy yet pronounced gallantry.  “Some folks let on you was keepin’ company with some feller like Bijah Brown, and you were getting a little too set up for the Crossing.”  The individual here mentioned being the county butcher, and supposed to exhibit his hopeless affection for Flip by making a long and useless divergence from his weekly route to enter the canyon for “orders,” Flip did not deem it necessary to reply.  “Then I allowed how ez you might have company,” he continued; “I reckon there’s some city folks up at the summit.  I saw a mighty smart, fash’n’ble gal cavorting round.  Had no end o’ style and fancy fixin’s.  That’s my kind, I tell you.  I just weaken on that sort o’ gal,” he continued, in the firm belief that he had awakened Flip’s jealousy, as he glanced at her well-worn homespun frock, and found her eyes suddenly fixed on his own.

“Strange I ain’t got to see her yet,” she replied coolly, shouldering her parcel, and quite ignoring any sense of obligation to him for his extra-official act.

“But you might get to see her at the edge of the Gin and Ginger Woods,” he persisted feebly, in a last effort to detain her; “if you’ll take a pasear there with me.”  Flip’s only response was to walk on toward the cabin, whence, with a vague complimentary suggestion of “droppin’ in to pass the time o’ day” with her father, the Postmaster meekly followed.

The paternal Fairley, once convinced that his daughter’s new companion required no pecuniary or material assistance from his hands, relaxed to the extent of entering into a querulous confidence with him, during which Flip took the opportunity of slipping away.  As Fairley had that infelicitous tendency of most weak natures, to unconsciously exaggerate unimportant details in their talk, the Postmaster presently became convinced that the butcher was a constant and assiduous suitor of Flip’s.  The absurdity of his sending parcels and letters by post when he might bring them himself did not strike the official.  On the contrary, he believed it to be a master stroke of cunning.  Fired by jealousy and Flip’s indifference, he “deemed it his duty” ­using that facile form of cowardly offensiveness ­to betray Flip.

Of which she was happily oblivious.  Once away from the cabin, she plunged into the woods, with the parcel swung behind her like a knapsack.  Leaving the trail, she presently struck off in a straight line through cover and underbrush with the unerring instinct of an animal, climbing hand over hand the steepest ascent, or fluttering like a bird from branch to branch down the deepest declivity.  She soon reached that part of the trail where the susceptible Postmaster had seen the fascinating unknown.  Assuring herself she was not followed, she crept through the thicket until she reached a little waterfall and basin that had served the fugitive Lance for a bath.  The spot bore signs of later and more frequent occupancy, and when Flip carefully removed some bark and brushwood from a cavity in the rock and drew forth various folded garments, it was evident she had used it as a sylvan dressing-room.  Here she opened the parcel; it contained a small and delicate shawl of yellow China crepe.  Flip instantly threw it over her shoulders and stepped hurriedly toward the edge of the wood.  Then she began to pass backward and forward before the trunk of a tree.  At first nothing was visible on the tree, but a closer inspection showed a large pane of ordinary window glass stuck in the fork of the branches.  It was placed at such a cunning angle against the darkness of the forest opening that it made a soft and mysterious mirror, not unlike a Claude Lorraine glass, wherein not only the passing figure of the young girl was seen, but the dazzling green and gold of the hillside, and the far-off silhouetted crests of the Coast Range.

But this was evidently only a prelude to a severer rehearsal.  When she returned to the waterfall she unearthed from her stores a large piece of yellow soap and some yards of rough cotton “sheeting.”  These she deposited beside the basin and again crept to the edge of the wood to assure herself that she was alone.  Satisfied that no intruding foot had invaded that virgin bower, she returned to her bath and began to undress.  A slight wind followed her, and seemed to whisper to the circumjacent trees.  It appeared to waken her sister naiads and nymphs, who, joining their leafy fingers, softly drew around her a gently moving band of trembling lights and shadows, of flecked sprays and inextricably mingled branches, and involved her in a chaste sylvan obscurity, veiled alike from pursuing god or stumbling shepherd.  Within these hallowed precincts was the musical ripple of laughter and falling water, and at times the glimpse of a lithe brier-caught limb, or a ray of sunlight trembling over bright flanks, or the white austere outline of a childish bosom.

When she drew again the leafy curtain, and once more stepped out of the wood, she was completely transformed.  It was the figure that had appeared to the Postmaster; the slight, erect, graceful form of a young woman modishly attired.  It was Flip, but Flip made taller by the lengthened skirt and clinging habiliments of fashion.  Flip freckled, but, through the cunning of a relief of yellow color in her gown, her piquant brown-shot face and eyes brightened and intensified until she seemed like a spicy odor made visible.  I cannot affirm that the judgment of Flip’s mysterious modiste was infallible, or that the taste of Mr. Lance Harriott, her patron, was fastidious; enough that it was picturesque, and perhaps not more glaring and extravagant than the color in which Spring herself had once clothed the sere hillside where Flip was now seated.  The phantom mirror in the tree fork caught and held her with the sky, the green leaves, the sunlight and all the graciousness of her surroundings, and the wind gently tossed her hair and the gay ribbons of her gypsy hat.  Suddenly she started.  Some remote sound in the trail below, inaudible to any ear less fine than hers, arrested her breathing.  She rose swiftly and darted into cover.

Ten minutes passed.  The sun was declining; the white fog was beginning to creep over the Coast Range.  From the edge of the wood Cinderella appeared, disenchanted, and in her homespun garments.  The clock had struck ­the spell was past.  As she disappeared down the trail even the magic mirror, moved by the wind, slipped from the tree top to the ground, and became a piece of common glass.