“Barclay is a trump,” he said.  “It is all the prettier in him to go that he has a wife of his own.  The commandant made no objection to the exchange.  In fact the old fellow behaved like a father to me, shook hands, patted me on the shoulder, congratulated me, and all that sort of thing.  Old boy, married himself, and very fond of his family.  Upon my word, it seems to better a man’s heart to marry him.”

“Of course it does,” chimed in Clara.  “He is so much happier that of course he is better.”

“Well, my little princess, where shall we go?”

“Go first to see Aunt Maria.  There! don’t make a face.  She is very good in the long run.  She will be sweet enough to you in three days.”

“Of course I will go.  Where is she?”

“Boarding at a hacienda a few miles from town.  We can take horses, canter out there, and pass the night.”

She was full of spirits; laughed and chattered all the way; laughed at everything that was said; chattered like a pleased child.  Of course she was thinking of the surprise that she would give him, and how she had circumvented his sense of honor about marrying a rich girl, and how hard and fast she had him.  Moreover the contrast between her joyous present and her anxious past was alone enough to make her run over with gayety.  All her troubles had vanished in a pack; she had gone at one bound from purgatory to paradise.

At the hacienda Thurstane was a little struck by the respect with which the servants received Clara; but as she signed to them to be silent, not a word was uttered which could give him a suspicion of the situation.  Mrs. Stanley, moreover, was taking a siesta, and so there was another tell-tale mouth shut.

“Nobody seems to be at home,” said Clara, bursting into a merry laugh over her trick as they entered the house.  “Where can the master and mistress be?”

They were now in a large and handsomely furnished room, which was the parlor of the hacienda.

“Don’t sit down,” cried Clara, her eyes sparkling with joy.  “Stand just there as you are.  Let me look at you a moment.  Wait till I tell you something.”

She fronted him for a few seconds, watching his wondering face, hesitating, blushing, and laughing.  Suddenly she bounded forward, threw her arms around his shoulders and cried excitedly, hysterically, “My love! my husband! all this is yours.  Oh, how happy I am!”

The next moment she burst into tears on the shoulder to which she was clinging.

“What is the matter?” demanded Thurstane in some alarm; for he did not know that women can tremble and weep with gladness, and he thought that surely his wife was sick if not deranged.

“What! don’t you guess it?” she asked, drawing back with a little more calmness, and looking tenderly into his puzzled eyes.

“You don’t mean—?”

“Yes, darling.”

“It can’t be that—?”

“Yes, darling.”