"Never! Such an idea never entered my mind. How could it?" said Mercedes, with great earnestness.

"If it did not, it is because you are good and generous. Still, perhaps, it is selfish in me to keep you to your engagement with the son of such a rough. I release you, Mercedes. You are free," he said, and he closed his eyes and leaned his head again on the back of the sofa. A sensation of icy coldness came over him, and he thought that death must come like that. But for all that mental agony, he still thought Mercedes would be right in rejecting him.

The whole scene as described to him by Everett, when his father was uttering those low insults to Don Mariano, came vividly before him, and he thought it would be impossible for Mercedes not to feel a sense of humiliation in uniting herself to him-he, the son of that brutish fellow-that rough. He arose, and his pallor was so great that Mercedes thought he must be ill.

"Mercedes, we part now. Heaven bless you."

"Clarence, you are ill. What do you mean? Will you not wait for papa?"

"No. I had better go now."

"You misunderstood me, I think, else how could you think of going?"

"Did you not say that our wedding had better be postponed? And does that not mean that it may never, _never_ be?"

"Why should it mean that?"

"Because, how can we measure the duration of an anger so senseless? It might last years. No, Mercedes, I feel that you have the right to reject me. I shall be so very wretched without you, that I would beg and entreat, but-"

"Clarence, I do not reject you, and I have no right, no wish, to do so.

Please do not say that."

"Will you be mine-my wife-after all the ruffianly words my father has said?"

"Certainly. Why should I blame you?"

"My own, my sweet wife. Oh! how dearly I love you! The strength of my love makes my heart ache. Will you call me when you think you can consent to our wedding?"

"What do you mean by asking if I will _call_ you?"

"I mean that if our marriage is to be postponed, I shall leave you, but shall be ready to obey your call, and I pray I may not wait for it a long time. And I say this, also, that if upon reflection you decide to cast me off, I shall not complain, because-because my father has lowered me. I am not the same Clarence I was two days ago. You cannot feel proud of me now."

"But I do. Please do not say those dreadful things. Why should you go away?"

"Because it is best, as long as our marriage is to be postponed. My presence here will be a cause of irritation to my father, and goodness knows what he might not do in his angry mood. If you would not feel humiliated by marrying me, the best thing would be to have a quiet wedding immediately, with only the members of your family present, and not invite guests at all, and then we would take the steamer to San Francisco, and go to our home there."

"I don't think mamma would consent to that."

"Then, my darling, I must leave you now. I will return to town, and take the steamer which leaves at daylight, I shall abide implicitly by what you decide. Make known your wishes, and I shall obey."

"You are offended, Clarence, and I do not know how I have incurred your displeasure," she said in those tones of her voice which were the most thrilling to him-most sure of going straight to his heart.

Silently he approached her, and kneeling at her feet, he put his arms around the slender and graceful form he idolized so fervently. He rested his head on her shoulder for a few moments, then with a sigh, that seemed to come from his very soul, he said:

"I am not offended, my sweet rosebud, but I am very miserable. Pity me.

You see, on my knees I beg you to marry me now-immediately-in two days.

If not, I must go now-to-night. Say, will you marry me, as I _beg_ of you?"

"Oh, Clarence, why do you ask me? How can I tell? You will have to ask papa and mamma."

"Will they consent?"

"Papa, perhaps; but I fear mamma will not approve of such a hasty marriage."

"That is so. Perhaps I am unreasonable. Good-by, my beloved. Will you call me back soon?"

"Clarence, you are not going? How can you?"

"I must. Do not ask me to remain, under the circumstances, unless it is to make you my wife. I cannot."

He pressed her to his heart in a long, tender embrace. He arose, and gazed at her sweet face so sadly, that she felt a pang of keen distress and apprehension.

"Clarence, do not look at me so sadly. Please remain until papa comes.

Do not go. You might never see him."

"I must, or I will lose the steamer. Farewell, my own sweet love."

He clasped her to his heart, and wildly covered her face with kisses.

Then, without daring to look back, hurried out of the room into the hall, across the piazza and down the garden-path to the gate, where his phaeton had been left by Victoriano, after having taken Everett home.

"She must naturally hesitate to marry the son of a man who can act and has acted as my father did. I cannot blame her. I ought to respect her for it. Oh, pitying God! how wretched I am! Farewell, happiness for me."

Muttering this short soliloquy, Clarence drove quickly down the incline leading to the main road.

When the last sound of his footsteps died away, a feeling of utter desolation rushed upon Mercedes. The silence of the house was appalling.

In that silence it seemed to her as if a life of lonely misery was suddenly revealed. To lose Clarence, was to lose happiness forevermore.

Shocked and terrified at her loneliness, with no hope of seeing him again, she rushed out and ran to the gate, calling him. She saw that he was driving fast, and would soon be crossing the dry bed of the brook to take the main road. Once there he would be too far to hear her voice.

She ran out of the gate and turned to the right into a narrow path that also led to the main road, going across the hill through the low bushes and a few elder trees near the house, thus cutting off more than half the distance. Loudly she called his name, again and again, running in the narrow path as fast as her strength allowed. She heard the sound of the phaeton's wheels as they grated harshly on the pebbles of the brook, and then all was silent again.

"Oh, my darling is gone," said she, and the ground swelled and moved under her feet, and the trees went round in mad circles, and she knew no more. She had fallen down fainting, with no one near her but her faithful Milord, who had followed her, and now nestled by her side.

Clarence had heard her voice call to him, and tried to turn his horses immediately, but they were going down the hill too fast to turn without danger of upsetting; he saw he must first get to the foot of the hill, and turn when he reached the brook. He did so, and with heart-throbs of renewed hope, he re-ascended the hill and hurried to the house. At the door he met Madam Halier, who was blinking at the hall lamp as if just awakened from a sound sleep. Clarence asked for Miss Mercedes.

"I think madamoiselle has just gone down to Madame Mechlin's. I heard her calling Tano, and that woke me up. I had just dropped off into a short nap of five minutes-_just_ five minutes."

"I thought I heard her voice in this direction," said Clarence, pointing to the opposite side.

"Oh, no. I think she was afraid to go to Mrs. Mechlin's alone, and she called her brother. But she has been anxious to see you all day. I will send a servant to say you have come. Walk in. Had you a pleasant drive from town?"

"Madam, I have seen Miss Mercedes since my return from town. I had said farewell, and was driving away, when I thought I heard her voice calling me. Perhaps I was mistaken, but I think not. Where has she gone, I wonder?"

"To Madam Mechlin's, monsieur."

"Be it so. Good-by, madam," said he, extending his hand.

"But will you not wait for madamoiselle?"

"No, madam; if she did not call me, I need not wait."