o
supper with him."

Clarence slightly lifted his brows.

"You are more fortunate than I am," he said smilingly. "I only arrived
here at seven, and I must leave at midnight."

Phoebe hesitated a moment, then said with affected carelessness:--

"What do you think of the young girl who plays with him? Do you know
her? Who is she?"

He looked at her quickly, and then said, with some surprise:--

"Did he not tell you?"

"She WAS the adopted daughter of Mrs. Peyton,--Miss Susan Silsbee," he
said gravely.

"Then she DID run away from home as they said," said Phoebe impulsively.

"Not EXACTLY as they said," said Clarence gently. "She elected to make
her home with her aunt, Mrs. McClosky, who is the wife of the manager
of this theatre, and she adopted the profession a month ago. As it
now appears that there was some informality in the old articles of
guardianship, Mrs. Peyton would have been powerless to prevent her from
doing either, even if she had wished to."

The infelicity of questioning Clarence regarding Susy suddenly flashed
upon the forgetful Phoebe, and she colored. Yet, although sad, he did
not look like a rejected lover.

"Of course, if she is here with her own relatives, that makes all the
difference," she said gently. "It is protection."

"Certainly," said Clarence.

"And," continued Phoebe hesitatingly, "she is playing with--with--an old
friend--Mr. Hooker!"

"That is quite proper, too, considering their relations," said Clarence
tolerantly.

"I--don't--understand," stammered Phoebe.

The slightly cynical smile on Clarence's face changed as he looked into
Phoebe's eyes.

"I've just heard that they are married," he returned gently.

CHAPTER XII.

Nowhere had the long season of flowers brought such glory as to the
broad plains and slopes of Robles Rancho. By some fortuitous chance of
soil, or flood, or drifting pollen, the three terraces had each taken a
distinct and separate blossom and tint of color. The straggling line of
corral, the crumbling wall of the old garden, the outlying chapel, and
even the brown walls of the casa itself, were half sunken in the tall
racemes of crowding lupines, until from the distance they seemed to be
slowly settling in the profundity of a dark-blue sea. The second terrace
was a league-long flow of gray and gold daisies, in which the cattle
dazedly wandered mid-leg deep. A perpetual sunshine of yellow dandelions
lay upon the third. The gentle slope t