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?"

This was all so like her old, childlike, charming, irresponsible self,
that Clarence, troubled and bewildered as he was, took her hands and
drew her like a child towards him.

"Of course," she went on, yet stopping to smell a rosebud in his
buttonhole, "I have a perfect right to come to my own home, goodness
knows! and if I bring my own aunt, a married woman