very silly and capricious; I might have been very vain, but my vanity isn’t a bit worse than your pride; my love of praise and applause in the theatre isn’t a bit more horrid than your fears of what people might think of you or me.  That’s gospel truth, isn’t it, Clarence?  Tell me!  Don’t look that way and this—­look at me!  I ain’t poisonous, Clarence.  Why, one of your cheeks is redder than the other, Clarence; that’s the one that’s turned from me.  Come,” she went on, taking the lapels of his coat between her hands and half shaking him, half drawing him nearer her bright face.  “Tell me—­isn’t it true?”

“I was thinking of you just now when I fell asleep, Susy,” he said.  He did not know why he said it; he had not intended to tell her, he had only meant to avoid a direct answer to her question; yet even now he went on.  “And I thought of you when I was out there in the rose garden waiting to come in here.”

“You did?” she said, drawing in her breath.  A wave of delicate pink color came up to her very eyes, it seemed to him as quickly and as innocently as when she was a girl.  “And what did you think, Klarns,” she half whispered—­“tell me.”

He did not speak, but answered her blue eyes and then her lips, as her arms slipped quite naturally around his neck.

*****

The dawn was breaking as Clarence and Jim Hooker emerged together from the gate of the casa.  Mr. Hooker looked sleepy.  He had found, after his return from Fair Plains, that his host had an early engagement at Santa Inez, and he had insisted upon rising to see him off.  It was with difficulty, indeed, that Clarence could prevent his accompanying him.  Clarence had not revealed to Susy the night before the real object of his journey, nor did Hooker evidently suspect it, yet when the former had mounted his horse, he hesitated for an instant, extending his hand.

“If I should happen to be detained,” he began with a half smile.

But Jim was struggling with a yawn.  “That’s all right—­don’t mind us,” he said, stretching his arms.  Clarence’s hesitating hand dropped to his side, and with a light reckless laugh and a half sense of providential relief he galloped away.

What happened immediately thereafter during his solitary ride to Santa Inez, looking back upon it in after years, seemed but a confused recollection, more like a dream.  The long stretches of vague distance, gradually opening clearer with the rising sun in an unclouded sky; the meeting with a few early or belated travelers and his unconscious avoidance of them, as if they might know of his object; the black shadows of foreshortened cattle rising before him on the plain and arousing the same uneasy sensation of their being waylaying men; the wondering recognition of houses and landmarks he had long been familiar with; his purposeless attempts to recall the circumstances in which he had known them—­all these were like a dream.  So, too, were the recollections