"But you will see her yourself," Everett said.

"I hope so," said the disheartened Clarence, driving up toward the house in which he felt his fate would be decided. Victoriano had heard the phaeton's wheels and came out to meet it.

"I am so glad to see you, old fellow," said he to Clarence; "it seems an age since sundown."

"I was detained in town about that business of Don Gabriel, but it is all arranged. He can take his place at the bank now, whenever he wishes, or wait until the 1st of October; it will be kept for him. Then I had my own business about the mine. That is all right, too. I only wish that things had gone on as well at home."

"So do I, but it has been awful. Retty told you."

"Yes, I know it all now."

"Unfortunately I did not tell him father's insulting remarks about Miss Mercedes," sadly observed Everett.

"Yes, had I known that, I would not have gone into the house. But I went, and father had the satisfaction of saying it to me himself; and on my telling him what I thought about it, he expressed himself willing that I should take myself off. So here I am, driven from home, and I came to ask you for a bed to-night, as I am very tired."

"And hungry, too. Father spoiled his supper with his courteous remarks,"

added Everett.

"Come, my dear boy; no one is more welcome to this whole house,"

Victoriano said, with true Spanish hospitality, much intensified by present circumstances. "Come; father will soon be here. At present, Mercedes, Madame Halier Milord and myself only are at home. Mother and the rest are at the Mechlins. Come in; come, Retty."

"No. I'll say good-by to Clary now and walk home."

"But this is awful," Victoriano said, as if beginning to realize the situation. "For Heaven's sake, where are you going? And why must you go?"

"I will not if Mercedes does not send me away. If she does, I shall go first to San Francisco, and thence God only knows where," was Clarence's reply.

"She won't send you away; she shan't. If you only knew how the poor little thing cried, so that this morning literally she could not see out of her eyes, you would then know how she feels. She told me that if she lost all hope of being your wife she would lie down and die. She felt better this morning when father left, as he told her he would arrange everything with you so that the wedding should not be postponed. Then she was comforted and went to sleep. But-" And Victoriano stopped.

"But what? Better tell me all, dear Tano," said Clarence.

"Well, I was going to say that she is again unhappy because Lotte and Rosy told her what your father said. She had not heard that part of the trouble before."

Clarence stood silent with one foot upon the first step. He was calculating the chances against him. He turned to Victoriano, and, with a sickly smile that was truly painful to see, said:

"My heart misgives me, dear Tano; I cannot blame her if she considers my father's words unpardonable."

"But they were not _your_ words," Everett interposed. "You are not to blame if your father forgets _himself_ and makes a brute of _himself_. I almost hate him. Courage, dear Clary."

"Yes, remember, 'Faint heart never won fair lady,'" Victoriano added, and the quotation brought such sweet recollections to poor Clarence's troubled mind, that he staggered as he went up the steps. But, with a renewed effort over himself, he managed to stand firmly, and to say to Everett:

"I suppose we must part now, dear brother."

Everett threw his arms around him, and for a few moments both brothers held each other in close, silent embrace.

"Cheer up, boys. Don't think you are to part," said Victoriano, with assumed cheerfulness. "You must come to breakfast with us to-morrow Retty. When father comes he and Clary will concoct some plan so as not to postpone the wedding. Come, I'll take you home. I'll let Mercedes know first that Clarence is here." So saying he walked into the house.

Returning in a few moments, he said:

"Walk in, Clary. Mercedes will be in the parlor in a minute. Now, Retty, I'll take you home."

While both drove to the Darrells, Clarence went in the parlor to wait with beating heart Mercedes' coming. He walked about the room looking at every object in it without seeing anything. When he heard the rustle of her dress, he stood by the piano with his arms crossed over his breast as if trying to compress the wild throbbing of his heart. He was pale to the lips and his eyes had an expression of longing, of beseeching tenderness, that was far more sad and eloquent than tears would have been. Mercedes came in, followed by her faithful Milord, who, seeing that Clarence paid no attention to him, turned up his nose in mild resentment and went to lie down upon the rug in front of the fire-place.

She offered to Clarence her hand in silence. In silence he took it, kissed it and led her to a sofa, sitting down by her side. She was the first to speak. Looking into his eyes, she said:

"Clarence, must we part? I have such, faith in your truth that I believe you will candidly tell me your opinion, even if it kills both of us. Am I right?"

"My darling, what is it? Do not put me to a test that may be too hard, for I tell you frankly I can give up my life, but not my love. Not you!

my own! Oh, no; anything but that. Not that." So saying, he took both her hands-the beauty of which he so loved-and kissed them warmly, all the time fearing that if she said to him that she must break off their engagement, he must submit, as he could not blame her if she considered him beneath her love. "What is it you wish to ask me? Oh, my angel! be merciful!"

"I wish to ask you what must I do when your father has said such frightful things to my papa? Am I obliged and in duty bound to decline a tie which will create any relationship with him?"

Clarence was silent, still holding the dear little hands. His face flushed with shame, but became pale again as he replied:

"It would have been more difficult to solve that problem if my father himself had not done so by driving me off. I am exiled now-driven away from home. I doubt whether he would consider you related to him by being my wife now."

"I am glad of that," said she, quickly, but then checking herself, and a little abashed by what she thought the hasty expression of a selfish feeling, she said: "Forgive me; I don't mean I am glad he should drive you away, but that since he has cut you off-and yet-he cannot do that.

How can he?"

"He has done so. That proves he can, doesn't it?"

"No, Clarence. No matter what he does he is still your father."

Clarence leaned his head back on the sofa and looked at the chandelier in silence for some moments, then said:

"Yes, he is my father, but not the father he used to be. There are different kinds of fathers. Some are kind and good, others are most unnatural and cruel. Are they entitled to the same love and respect?"

"But was he ever cruel to you before?"

"Never. He has been always most kind and indulgent to all his children, but especially so to Alice and myself."

"Then, Clarence, for this one fault, all his life of kindness and devotion must not be forgotten."

"Oh, my darling! are you going to plead for him and forget my misery? My heart is bleeding yet with the pain of leaving home, and if your indulgence to him means that I must bear the burden of his fault, _I then-I must suffer alone_!"

"I do not wish you to suffer at all. If there is to be any suffering, I shall share it with you. No. All I say is that if Mr. Darrell is so angry at my papa and myself, we had better postpone our wedding until-"

Clarence sprang to his feet, and with hands pressed to his forehead, began pacing the room, greatly agitated, but without speaking a word.

"Clarence, hear me. It will only be for a little while."

He shook his head, and continued his walk-his mind a prey to the wildest despair.

"Would it not be very unbecoming for us to marry now, and your family not be present at the wedding?"

"Why shouldn't they be present? All would be but father, and in the furious state of his feelings he had better be away-a great deal better-far, far away."

"Since he is so furious, I don't think he would like his wife and children to be at our wedding."

"Mercedes, tell me frankly," said he, resuming his place at her side: "tell me, has my father's outrageous conduct made me lose caste in your estimation? If so, I shall not blame you, because when a man acts so ungentlemanly, so ruffianly, it is fair to suppose that his sons might do the same."