He welcomed them with that smile of bantering approbation, supposed to keep down inordinate vanity, which for some occult reason one always reserves for the members of one’s own family.  He was quite conscious that Susy was looking very pretty in this new and mature frock, and that as she stood beside his wife, far from ageing Mrs. Peyton’s good looks and figure, she appeared like an equal companion, and that they mutually “became” one another.  This, and the fact that they were all, including Mary Rogers, in their freshest, gayest morning dresses, awakened a half-humorous, half-real apprehension in his mind, that he was now hopelessly surrounded by a matured sex, and in a weak minority.

“I think I ought to have been prepared,” he began grimly, “for this addition to—­to—­the skirts of my family.”

“Why, John,” returned Mrs. Peyton quickly; “do you mean to say you haven’t noticed that the poor child has for weeks been looking positively indecent?”

“Really, papa, I’ve been a sight to behold.  Haven’t I, Mary?” chimed in Susy.

“Yes, dear.  Why, Judge, I’ve been wondering that Susy stood it so well, and never complained.”

Peyton glanced around him at this compact feminine embattlement.  It was as he feared.  Yet even here he was again at fault.

“And,” said Mrs. Peyton slowly, with the reserved significance of the feminine postscript in her voice, “if that Mr. Brant is coming here to-day, it would be just as well for him to see that she is no longer A child, as when he knew her.”

An hour later, good-natured Mary Rogers, in her character of “a dear,”—­which was usually indicated by the undertaking of small errands for her friend,—­was gathering roses from the old garden for Susy’s adornment, when she saw a vision which lingered with her for many a day.  She had stopped to look through the iron grille in the adobe wall, across the open wind-swept plain.  Miniature waves were passing over the wild oats, with glittering disturbances here and there in the depressions like the sparkling of green foam; the horizon line was sharply defined against the hard, steel-blue sky; everywhere the brand-new morning was shining with almost painted brilliancy; the vigor, spirit, and even crudeness of youth were over all.  The young girl was dazzled and bewildered.  Suddenly, as if blown out of the waving grain, or an incarnation of the vivid morning, the bright and striking figure of a youthful horseman flashed before the grille.  It was Clarence Brant!  Mary Rogers had always seen him, in the loyalty of friendship, with Susy’s prepossessed eyes, yet she fancied that morning that he had never looked so handsome before.  Even the foppish fripperies of his riding-dress and silver trappings seemed as much the natural expression of conquering youth as the invincible morning sunshine.  Perhaps it might have been a reaction against Susy’s caprice or some latent susceptibility of her own; but a momentary antagonism to her friend stirred even her kindly nature.  What right had Susy to trifle with such an opportunity?  Who was she to hesitate over this gallant prince?