“Not exactly as they said,” said Clarence gently.  “She elected to make her home with her aunt, Mrs. McClosky, who is the wife of the manager of this theatre, and she adopted the profession a month ago.  As it now appears that there was some informality in the old articles of guardianship, Mrs. Peyton would have been powerless to prevent her from doing either, even if she had wished to.”

The infelicity of questioning Clarence regarding Susy suddenly flashed upon the forgetful Phoebe, and she colored.  Yet, although sad, he did not look like a rejected lover.

“Of course, if she is here with her own relatives, that makes all the difference,” she said gently.  “It is protection.”

“Certainly,” said Clarence.

“And,” continued Phoebe hesitatingly, “she is playing with—­with—­an old friend—­Mr. Hooker!”

“That is quite proper, too, considering their relations,” said Clarence tolerantly.

“I—­don’t—­understand,” stammered Phoebe.

The slightly cynical smile on Clarence’s face changed as he looked into Phoebe’s eyes.

“I’ve just heard that they are married,” he returned gently.

CHAPTER XII.

Nowhere had the long season of flowers brought such glory as to the broad plains and slopes of Robles Rancho.  By some fortuitous chance of soil, or flood, or drifting pollen, the three terraces had each taken a distinct and separate blossom and tint of color.  The straggling line of corral, the crumbling wall of the old garden, the outlying chapel, and even the brown walls of the casa itself, were half sunken in the tall racemes of crowding lupines, until from the distance they seemed to be slowly settling in the profundity of a dark-blue sea.  The second terrace was a league-long flow of gray and gold daisies, in which the cattle dazedly wandered mid-leg deep.  A perpetual sunshine of yellow dandelions lay upon the third.  The gentle slope to the dark-green canada was a broad cataract of crimson poppies.  Everywhere where water had stood, great patches of color had taken its place.  It seemed as if the rains had ceased only that the broken heavens might drop flowers.

Never before had its beauty—­a beauty that seemed built upon a cruel, youthful, obliterating forgetfulness of the past—­struck Clarence as keenly as when he had made up his mind that he must leave the place forever.  For the tale of his mischance and ill-fortune, as told by Hopkins, was unfortunately true.  When he discovered that in his desire to save Peyton’s house by the purchase of the Sisters’ title he himself had been the victim of a gigantic fraud, he accepted the loss of the greater part of his fortune with resignation, and was even satisfied by the thought that he had at least effected the possession of the property for Mrs. Peyton.  But when he found that those of his tenants who had bought under him had acquired only