“As it seems you do remember that much,” said Peyton dryly, “it is only just to him that I should tell you that it appears that he was not an impostor.  His story was true.  I have just learned that Colonel Brant was actually his father, but had concealed his lawless life here, as well as his identity, from the boy.  He was really that vague relative to whom Clarence was confided, and under that disguise he afterwards protected the boy, had him carefully educated at the Jesuit College of San Jose, and, dying two years ago in that filibuster raid in Mexico, left him a considerable fortune.”

“And what has he to do with Susy’s holidays?” said Mrs. Peyton, with uneasy quickness.  “John, you surely cannot expect her ever to meet this common creature again, with his vulgar ways.  His wretched associates like that Jim Hooker, and, as you yourself admit, the blood of an assassin, duelist, and—­Heaven knows what kind of a pirate his father wasn’t at the last—­in his veins!  You don’t believe that a lad of this type, however much of his father’s ill-gotten money he may have, can be fit company for your daughter?  You never could have thought of inviting him here?”

“I’m afraid that’s exactly what I have done, Ally,” said the smiling but unmoved Peyton; “but I’m still more afraid that your conception of his present condition is an unfair one, like your remembrance of his past.  Father Sobriente, whom I met at San Jose yesterday, says he is very intelligent, and thoroughly educated, with charming manners and refined tastes.  His father’s money, which they say was an investment for him in Carson’s Bank five years ago, is as good as any one’s, and his father’s blood won’t hurt him in California or the Southwest.  At least, he is received everywhere, and Don Juan Robinson was his guardian.  Indeed, as far as social status goes, it might be a serious question if the actual daughter of the late John Silsbee, of Pike County, and the adopted child of John Peyton was in the least his superior.  As Father Sobriente evidently knew Clarence’s former companionship with Susy and her parents, it would be hardly politic for us to ignore it or seem to be ashamed of it.  So I intrusted Sobriente with an invitation to young Brant on the spot.”

Mrs. Peyton’s impatience, indignation, and opposition, which had successively given way before her husband’s quiet, masterful good humor, here took the form of a neurotic fatalism.  She shook her head with superstitious resignation.

“Didn’t I tell you, John, that I always had a dread of something coming”—­

“But if it comes in the shape of a shy young lad, I see nothing singularly portentous in it.  They have not met since they were quite small; their tastes have changed; if they don’t quarrel and fight they may be equally bored with each other.  Yet until then, in one way or another, Clarence will occupy the young lady’s vacant caprice, and her school friend, Mary Rogers, will be here, you know, to divide his attentions, and,” added Peyton, with mock solemnity, “preserve the interest of strict propriety.  Shall I break it to her,—­or will you?”