his charitable version of Susy's unfaithfulness to her; it even
seemed to him that she had already suspected it.  But as he was
about to withdraw to leave her to meet them alone, she had stopped
him suddenly.

"What would you advise me to do?"

It was his first interview with her since the revelation of his own
feelings.  He looked into the pleading, troubled eyes of the woman
he now knew he had loved, and stammered:--

"You alone can judge.  Only you must remember that one cannot force
an affection any more than one can prevent it."

He felt himself blushing, and, conscious of the construction of his
words, he even fancied that she was displeased.

"Then you have no preference?" she said, a little impatiently.

"None."

She made a slight gesture with her handsome shoulders, but she only
said, "I should have liked to have pleased you in this," and turned
coldly away.  He had left without knowing the result of the
interview; but a few days later he received a letter from her
stating that she had allowed Susy to return to her aunt, and that
she had resigned all claims to her guardianship.

"It seemed to be a foregone conclusion," she wrote; "and although I
cannot think such a change will be for her permanent welfare, it is
her present WISH, and who knows, indeed, if the change will be
permanent?  I have not allowed the legal question to interfere with
my judgment, although her friends must know that she forfeits any
claim upon the estate by her action; but at the same time, in the
event of her suitable marriage, I should try to carry out what I
believe would have been Mr. Peyton's wishes."

There were a few lines of postscript: "It seems to me that the
change would leave you more free to consult your own wishes in
regard to continuing your friendship with Susy, and upon such a
footing as may please you.  I judge from Mrs. McClosky's
conversation that she believed you thought you were only doing your
duty in reporting to me, and that the circumstances had not altered
the good terms in which you all three formerly stood."

Clarence had dropped the letter with a burning indignation that
seemed to sting his eyes until a scalding moisture hid the words
before him.  What might not Susy have said?  What exaggeration of
his affection was she not capable of suggesting?  He recalled Mrs.
McClosky, and remembered her easy acceptance of him as Susy's lover.
What had they told Mrs. Peyton?  What must be her opinion of his
deceit towards herself?  It was hard enough to bear this before he
knew he loved her.  It was intolerable now!  And this is what she
meant when she suggested that he should renew his old terms with
Susy; it was for HIM that this ill-disguised, scornful generosity in
regard to Susy's pecuniary expectations was intended.  What should
he do?  He would write to her, and indignantly deny any clandestine
affection for Susy.  But could he do that, in honor, in truthfulness?
Would it not be better to write and confess all?  Yes,--EVERYTHING.

Fortunately for his still boyish impulsiveness, it was at this time
that the discovery of his own financial ruin came to him.  The
inquest on the body of Pedro Valdez and the confession of his
confidant had revealed the facts of the fraudulent title and forged
testamentary documents.  Although it was correctly believed that
Pedro had met his death in an escapade of gallantry or intrigue, the
coroner's jury had returned a verdict of "accidental death," and the
lesser scandal was lost in the wider, far-spreading disclosure of
fraud.  When he had resolved to assume all the liabilities of his
purchase, he was obliged to write to Mrs. Peyton and confess his
ruin.  But he was glad to remind her that it did not alter HER
status or security; he had only given her the possession, and she
would revert to her original and now uncontested title.  But as
there was now no reason for his continuing the stewardship, and as
he must adopt some profession and seek his fortune elsewhere, he
begged her to relieve him of his duty.  Albeit written with a
throbbing heart and suffused eyes, it was a plain, business-like,
and practical letter.  Her reply was equally cool and matter of
fact.  She was sorry to hear of his losses, although she could not
agree with him that they could logically sever his present
connection with the rancho, or that, placed upon another and
distinctly business footing, the occupation would not be as
remunerative to him as any other.  But, of course, if he had a
preference for some more independent position, that was another
question, although he would forgive her for using the privilege of
her years to remind him that his financial and business success had
not yet justified his independence.  She would also advise him not
to decide hastily, or, at least, to wait until she had again
thoroughly gone over her husband's papers with her lawyer, in
reference to the old purchase of the Sisters' title, and the
conditions under which it was bought.  She knew that Mr. Brant would
not refuse this as a matter of business, nor would that friendship,
which she valued so highly, allow him to imperil the possession of
the rancho by leaving it at such a moment.  As soon as she had
finished the examination of the papers, she would write again.  Her
letter seemed to leave him no hope, if, indeed, he had ever indulged
in any.  It was the practical kindliness of a woman of business,
nothing more.  As to the examination of her husband's papers, that
was a natural precaution.  He alone knew that they would give no
record of a transaction which had never occurred.  He briefly
replied that his intention to seek another situation was unchanged,
but that he would cheerfully await the arrival of his successor.
Two weeks passed.  Then Mr. Sanderson, Mrs. Peyton's lawyer,
arrived, bringing an apologetic note from Mrs. Peyton.  She was so
sorry her business was still delayed, but as she had felt that she
had no right to detain him entirely at Robles, she had sent to Mr.
Sanderson to TEMPORARILY relieve him, that he might be free to look
around him or visit San Francisco in reference to his own business,
only extracting a promise from him that he would return to Robles to
meet her at the end of the week, before settling upon anything.

The bitter smile with which Clarence had read thus far suddenly
changed.  Some mysterious touch of unbusiness-like but womanly
hesitation, that he had never noticed in her previous letters, gave
him a faint sense of pleasure, as if her note had been perfumed.  He
had availed himself of the offer.  It was on this visit to
Sacramento that he had accidentally discovered the marriage of Susy
and Hooker.

"It's a great deal better business for her to have a husband in the
'profesh' if she's agoin' to stick to it," said his informant, Mrs.
McClosky, "and she's nothing if she ain't business and profesh, Mr.
Brant.  I never see a girl that was born for the stage--yes, you
might say jess cut out o' the boards of the stage--as that girl Susy
is!  And that's jest what's the matter; and YOU know it, and I know
it, and there you are!"

It was with these experiences that Clarence was to-day reentering
the wooded and rocky gateway of the rancho from the high road of the
canada; but as he cantered up the first slope, through the drift of
scarlet poppies that almost obliterated the track, and the blue and
yellow blooms of the terraces again broke upon his view, he thought
only of Mrs. Peyton's pleasure in this changed aspect of her old
home.  She had told him of it once before, and of her delight in it;
and he had once thought how happy he should be to see it with her.

The servant who took his horse told him that the senora had arrived
that morning from Santa Inez, bringing with her the two Senoritas
Hernandez from the rancho of Los Canejos, and that other guests were
expected.  And there was the Senor Sanderson and his Reverence Padre
Esteban.  Truly an affair of hospitality, the first since the padron
died.  Whatever dream Clarence might have had of opportunities for
confidential interview was rudely dispelled.  Yet Mrs. Peyton had
left orders to be informed at once of Don Clarencio's arrival.

As he crossed the patio and stepped upon the corridor he fancied he
already detected in the internal arrangements the subtle influence
of Mrs. Peyton's taste and the indefinable domination of the
mistress.  For an instant he thought of anticipating the servant and
seeking her in the boudoir, but some instinct withheld him, and he
turned into the study which he had used as an office.  It was empty;
a few embers glimmered on the hearth.  At the same moment there was
a light step behind him, and Mrs. Peyton entered and closed the door
behind her.  She was very beautiful.  Although paler and thinner,
there was an odd sort of animation about her, so unlike her usual
repose that it seemed almost feverish.

"I thought we could talk together a few moments before the guests
arrive.  The house will be presently so full, and my duties as
hostess commence."

"I was--about to seek you--in--in the boudoir," hesitated Clarence.

She gave an impatient shiver.

"Good heavens, not there!  I shall never go there again.  I should
fancy every time I looked out of the window that I saw the head of
that man between the bars.  No! I am only thankful that I wasn't
here at the time, and that I can keep my remembrance of the dear old
place unchanged."  She checked herself a little abruptly, and then
added somewhat irrelevantly but cheerfully, "Well, you have been
away?  What have you done?"

"Nothing," said Clarence.

"Then you have kept your promise," she said, with the same nervous
hilarity.

"I have returned here without making any other engagement," he said
gravely; "but I have not altered my determination."

She shrugged her shoulders again, or, as it seemed, the skin of her
tightly fitting black dress above them, with the sensitive shiver of
a highly groomed horse, and moved to the hearth as if for warmth;
put her slim, slippered foot upon the low fender, drawing, with a
quick hand, the whole width of her skirt behind her until it
clingingly accented the long, graceful curve from her hip to her
feet.  All this was so unlike her usual fastidiousness and repose
that he was struck by it.  With her eyes on the glowing embers of
the hearth, and tentatively advancing her toe to its warmth and
drawing it away, she said:--

"Of course, you must please yourself.  I am afraid I have no right
except that of habit and custom to keep you here; and you know," she
added, with an only half-withheld bitterness, "that they are not
always very effective with young people who prefer to have the
ordering of their own lives.  But I have something still to tell you
before you finally decide.  I have, as you know, been looking over
my--over Mr. Peyton's papers very carefully.  Well, as a result, I
find, Mr. Brant, that there is no record whatever of his wonderfully
providential purchase of the Sisters' title from you; that he never
entered into any written agreement with you, and never paid you a
cent; and that, furthermore, his papers show me that he never even
contemplated it; nor, indeed, even knew of YOUR owning the title
when he died.  Yes, Mr. Brant, it was all to YOUR foresight and
prudence, and YOUR generosity alone, that we owe our present
possession of the rancho.  When you helped us into that awful
window, it was YOUR house we were entering; and if it had been YOU,
and not those wretches, who had chosen to shut the doors on us after
the funeral, we could never have entered here again.  Don't deny it,
Mr. Brant.  I have suspected it a long time, and when you spoke of
changing YOUR position, I determined to find out if it wasn't I who
had to leave the house rather than you.  One moment, please.  And I
did find out, and it WAS I.  Don't speak, please, yet.  And now,"
she said, with a quick return to her previous nervous hilarity,
"knowing this, as you did, and knowing, too, that I would know it
when I examined the papers,--don't speak, I'm not through yet,--
don't you think that it was just a LITTLE cruel for you to try to
hurry me, and make me come here instead of your coming to ME in San
Francisco, when I gave you leave for that purpose?"

"But, Mrs. Peyton," gasped Clarence.

"Please don't interrupt me," said the lady, with a touch of her old
imperiousness, "for in a moment I must join my guests.  When I found
you wouldn't tell me, and left it to me to find out, I could only go
away as I did, and really leave you to control what I believed was
your own property.  And I thought, too, that I understood your
motives, and, to be frank with you, that worried me; for I believed
I knew the disposition and feelings of a certain person better than
yourself."

"One moment," broke out Clarence, "you MUST hear me, now.  Foolish
and misguided as that purchase may have been, I swear to you I had
only one motive in making it,--to save the homestead for you and
your husband, who had been my first and earliest benefactors.  What
the result of it was, you, as a business woman, know; your friends
know; your lawyer will tell you the same.  You owe me nothing.  I
have given you nothing but the repossession of this property, which
any other man could have done, and perhaps less stupidly than I did.
I would not have forced you to come here to hear this if I had
dreamed of your suspicions, or even if I had simply understood that
you would see me in San Francisco as I passed through."

"Passed through?  Where were you going?" she said quickly.

"To Sacramento."

The abrupt change in her manner startled him to a recollection of
Susy, and he blushed.  She bit her lips, and moved towards the
window.

"Then you saw her?" she said, turning suddenly towards him.  The
inquiry of her beautiful eyes was more imperative than her speech.

Clarence recognized quickly what he thought was his cruel blunder in
touching the half-healed wound of separation.  But he had gone too
far to be other than perfectly truthful now.

"Yes; I saw her on the stage," he said, with a return of his boyish
earnestness; "and I learned something which I wanted you to first
hear from me.  She is MARRIED,--and to Mr. Hooker, who is in the
same theatrical company with her.  But I want you to think, as I
honestly do, that it is the best for her.  She has married in her
profession, which is a great protection and a help to her success,
and she has married a man who can look lightly upon certain
qualities in her that others might not be so lenient to.  His worst
faults are on the surface, and will wear away in contact with the
world, and he looks up to her as his superior.  I gathered this from
her friend, for I did not speak with her myself; I did not go there
to see her.  But as I expected to be leaving you soon, I thought it
only right that as I was the humble means of first bringing her into
your life, I should bring you this last news, which I suppose takes
her out of it forever.  Only I want you to believe that YOU have
nothing to regret, and that SHE is neither lost nor unhappy."

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