Mary took it and turned it over in her hands.

“It’s in a man’s handwriting,” she said innocently.

“I hadn’t noticed it,” returned Clarence with invincible naivete, “but perhaps it is.”

“And you hand it over for me to give to Susy, and ain’t a bit curious to know who it’s from?”

“No,” returned Clarence, opening his big eyes in smiling and apologetic wonder.

“Well,” responded the young lady, with a long breath of melancholy astonishment, “certainly, of all things you are—­you really are!” With which incoherency—­apparently perfectly intelligible to herself—­she left him.  She had not herself the slightest idea who the letter was from; she only knew that Susy wanted it concealed.

The incident made little impression on Clarence, except as part of the general uneasiness he felt in regard to his old playmate.  It seemed so odd to him that this worry should come from her,—­that she herself should form the one discordant note in the Arcadian dream that he had found so sweet; in his previous imaginings it was the presence of Mrs. Peyton which he had dreaded; she whose propinquity now seemed so full of gentleness, reassurance, and repose.  How worthy she seemed of any sacrifice he could make for her!  He had seen little of her for the last two or three days, although her smile and greeting were always ready for him.  Poor Clarence did not dream that she had found from certain incontestable signs and tokens, both in the young ladies and himself, that he did not require watching, and that becoming more resigned to Susy’s indifference, which seemed so general and passive in quality, she was no longer tortured by the sting of jealousy.

Finding himself alone that afternoon, the young man had wandered somewhat listlessly beyond the low adobe gateway.  The habits of the siesta obtained in a modified form at the rancho.  After luncheon, its masters and employees usually retired, not so much from the torrid heat of the afternoon sun, but from the first harrying of the afternoon trades, whose monotonous whistle swept round the walls.  A straggling passion vine near the gate beat and struggled against the wind.  Clarence had stopped near it, and was gazing with worried abstraction across the tossing fields, when a soft voice called his name.

It was a pleasant voice,—­Mrs. Peyton’s.  He glanced back at the gateway; it was empty.  He looked quickly to the right and left; no one was there.

The voice spoke again with the musical addition of a laugh; it seemed to come from the passion vine.  Ah, yes; behind it, and half overgrown by its branches, was a long, narrow embrasured opening in the wall, defended by the usual Spanish grating, and still further back, as in the frame of a picture, the half length figure of Mrs. Peyton, very handsome and striking, too, with a painted picturesqueness from the effect of the checkered light and shade.

“You looked so tired and bored out there,” she said.  “I am afraid you are finding it very dull at the rancho.  The prospect is certainly not very enlivening from where you stand.”