“How often am I to remind you, John,” interrupted the lady, with some impatience, “that we agreed never to speak of her past, or even to think of her as anything but our own child.  You know how it pains me!  And the poor dear herself has forgotten it, and thinks of us only as her own parents.  I really believe that if that wretched father and mother of hers had not been killed by the Indians, or were to come to life again, she would neither know them nor care for them.  I mean, of course, John,” she said, averting her eyes from a slightly cynical smile on her husband’s face, “that it’s only natural for young children to be forgetful, and ready to take new impressions.”

“And as long, dear, as we are not the subjects of this youthful forgetfulness, and she isn’t really finding us as stupid as the rancho,” replied her husband cheerfully, “I suppose we mustn’t complain.”

“John, how can you talk such nonsense?” said Mrs. Peyton impatiently.  “But I have no fear of that,” she added, with a slightly ostentatious confidence.  “I only wish I was as sure”—­

“Of what?”

“Of nothing happening that could take her from us.  I do not mean death, John,—­like our first little one.  That does not happen to one twice; but I sometimes dread”—­

“What?  She’s only fifteen, and it’s rather early to think about the only other inevitable separation,—­marriage.  Come, Ally, this is mere fancy.  She has been given up to us by her family,—­at least, by all that we know are left of them.  I have legally adopted her.  If I have not made her my heiress, it is because I prefer to leave everything to you, and I would rather she should know that she was dependent upon you for the future than upon me.”

“And I can make a will in her favor if I want to?” said Mrs. Peyton quickly.

“Always,” responded her husband smilingly; “but you have ample time to think of that, I trust.  Meanwhile I have some news for you which may make Susy’s visit to the rancho this time less dull to her.  You remember Clarence Brant, the boy who was with her when we picked her up, and who really saved her life?”

“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Peyton pettishly, “nor do I want to!  You know, John, how distasteful and unpleasant it is for me to have those dreary, petty, and vulgar details of the poor child’s past life recalled, and, thank Heaven, I have forgotten them except when you choose to drag them before me.  You agreed, long ago, that we were never to talk of the Indian massacre of her parents, so that we could also ignore it before her; then why do you talk of her vulgar friends, who are just as unpleasant?  Please let us drop the past.”

“Willingly, my dear; but, unfortunately, we cannot make others do it.  And this is a case in point.  It appears that this boy, whom we brought to Sacramento to deliver to a relative”—­

“And who was a wicked little impostor,—­you remember that yourself, John, for he said that he was the son of Colonel Brant, and that he was dead; and you know, and my brother Harry knew, that Colonel Brant was alive all the time, and that he was lying, and Colonel Brant was not his father,” broke in Mrs. Peyton impatiently.