Howbeit some of the energy and enthusiasm that he breathed into these various essays made their impression.  He succeeded in forming the Landlords’ League; under a commission suggested by him the straggling boundaries of Robles and the adjacent claims were resurveyed, defined, and mutually protected; even the lawless Gilroy, from extending an amused toleration to the young administrator, grew to recognize and accept him; the peons and vacqueros began to have faith in a man who acknowledged them sufficiently to rebuild the ruined Mission Chapel on the estate, and save them the long pilgrimage to Santa Inez on Sundays and saints’ days; the San Francisco priest imported from Clarence’s old college at San Jose, and an habitual guest at Clarence’s hospitable board, was grateful enough to fill his flock with loyalty to the young padron.

He had returned from a long drive one afternoon, and had just thrown himself into an easy-chair with the comfortable consciousness of a rest fairly earned.  The dull embers of a fire occasionally glowed in the oven-like hearth, although the open casement of a window let in the soft breath of the southwest trades.  The angelus had just rung from the restored chapel, and, mellowed by distance, seemed to Clarence to lend that repose to the wind-swept landscape that it had always lacked.

Suddenly his quick ear detected the sound of wheels in the ruts of the carriage way.  Usually his visitors to the casa came on horseback, and carts and wagons used only the lower road.  As the sound approached nearer, an odd fancy filled his heart with unaccountable pleasure.  Could it be Mrs. Peyton making an unexpected visit to the rancho?  He held his breath.  The vehicle was now rolling on into the patio.  The clatter of hoofs and a halt were followed by the accents of women’s voices.  One seemed familiar.  He rose quickly, as light footsteps ran along the corridor, and then the door opened impetuously to the laughing face of Susy!

He came towards her hastily, yet with only the simple impulse of astonishment.  He had no thought of kissing her, but as he approached, she threw her charming head archly to one side, with a mischievous knitting of her brows and a significant gesture towards the passage, that indicated the proximity of a stranger and the possibility of interruption.

“Hush!  Mrs. McClosky’s here,” she whispered.

“Mrs. McClosky?” repeated Clarence vaguely.

“Yes, of course,” impatiently.  “My Aunt Jane.  Silly!  We just cut away down here to surprise you.  Aunty’s never seen the place, and here was a good chance.”

“And your mother—­Mrs. Peyton?  Has she—­does she?”—­stammered Clarence.

“Has she—­does she?” mimicked Susy, with increasing impatience.  “Why, of course she doesn’t know anything about it.  She thinks I’m visiting Mary Rogers at Oakland.  And I am—­afterwards,” she laughed.  “I just wrote to Aunt Jane to meet me at Alameda, and we took the stage to Santa Inez and drove on here in a buggy.  Wasn’t it real fun?  Tell me, Clarence!  You don’t say anything!  Tell me—­wasn’t it real fun?”