or two acts of outlawry, he made his return to civilization impossible.  The deserted wife and step-mother of his child coldly accepted the situation, forbidding his name to be spoken again in her presence, announced that he was dead, and kept the knowledge of his existence from his own son, whom she placed under the charge of her sister.  But the sister managed to secretly communicate with the outlawed father, and, under a pretext, arranged between them, of sending the boy to another relation, actually dispatched the innocent child to his unworthy parent.  Perhaps stirred by remorse, the infamous man—­”

“Stop!” said Clarence suddenly.

He had thrown down his pen, and was standing erect and rigid before the Father.

“You are trying to tell me something, Father Sobriente,” he said, with an effort.  “Speak out, I implore you.  I can stand anything but this mystery.  I am no longer a child.  I have a right to know all.  This that you are telling me is no fable—­I see it in your face, Father Sobriente; it is the story of—­of—­”

“Your father, Clarence!” said the priest, in a trembling voice.

The boy drew back, with a white face.  “My father!” he repeated.  “Living, or dead?”

“Living, when you first left your home,” said the old man hurriedly, seizing Clarence’s hand, “for it was he who in the name of your cousin sent for you.  Living—­yes, while you were here, for it was he who for the past three years stood in the shadow of this assumed cousin, Don Juan, and at last sent you to this school.  Living, Clarence, yes; but living under a name and reputation that would have blasted you!  And now dead—­dead in Mexico, shot as an insurgent and in a still desperate career!  May God have mercy on his soul!”

“Dead!” repeated Clarence, trembling, “only now?”

“The news of the insurrection and his fate came only an hour since,” continued the Padre quickly; “his complicity with it and his identity were known only to Don Juan.  He would have spared you any knowledge of the truth, even as this dead man would; but I and my brothers thought otherwise.  I have broken it to you badly, my son, but forgive me?”

An hysterical laugh broke from Clarence and the priest recoiled before him.  “Forgive you!  What was this man to me?” he said, with boyish vehemence.  “He never loved me!  He deserted me; he made my life a lie.  He never sought me, came near me, or stretched a hand to me that I could take?”

“Hush! hush!” said the priest, with a horrified look, laying his huge hand upon the boy’s shoulder and bearing him down to his seat.  “You know not what you say.  Think—­think, Clarence!  Was there none of all those who have befriended you—­who were kind to you in your wanderings—­to whom your heart turned unconsciously?  Think, Clarence!  You yourself have spoken to me of such a one.  Let your heart speak again, for his sake—­for the sake of the dead.”