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 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.