“Oh, he’s been lost ever so long,” said Susy composedly; “but I’ve got a Newfoundland and a spaniel and a black pony;” and here, with a rapid inventory of her other personal effects, she drifted into some desultory details of the devotion of her adopted parents, whom she now readily spoke of as “papa” and “mamma,” with evidently no disturbing recollection of the dead.  From which it appeared that the Peytons were very rich, and, in addition to their possessions in the lower country, owned a rancho in Santa Clara and a house in San Francisco.  Like all children, her strongest impressions were the most recent.  In the vain hope to lead her back to this material yesterday, he said—­

“You remember Jim Hooker?”

“Oh, he ran away, when you left.  But just think of it!  The other day, when papa and I went into a big restaurant in San Francisco, who should be there waiting on the table—­yes, Clarence, a real waiter—­but Jim Hooker!  Papa spoke to him; but of course,” with a slight elevation of her pretty chin, “I couldn’t, you know; fancy—­a waiter!”

The story of how Jim Hooker had personated him stopped short upon Clarence’s lips.  He could not bring himself now to add that revelation to the contempt of his small companion, which, in spite of its naivete, somewhat grated on his sensibilities.

“Clarence,” she said, suddenly turning towards him mysteriously, and indicating the shopman and his assistants, “I really believe these people suspect us.”

“Of what?” said the practical Clarence.

“Don’t be silly!  Don’t you see how they are staring?”

Clarence was really unable to detect the least curiosity on the part of the shopman, or that any one exhibited the slightest concern in him or his companion.  But he felt a return of the embarrassed pleasure he was conscious of a moment before.

“Then you’re living with your father?” said Susy, changing the subject.

“You mean my cousin,” said Clarence, smiling.  “You know my father died long before I ever knew you.”

“Yes; that’s what you used to say, Clarence, but papa says it isn’t so.”  But seeing the boy’s wondering eyes fixed on her with a troubled expression, she added quickly, “Oh, then, he is your cousin!”

“Well, I think I ought to know,” said Clarence, with a smile, that was, however, far from comfortable, and a quick return of his old unpleasant recollections of the Peytons.  “Why, I was brought to him by one of his friends.”  And Clarence gave a rapid boyish summary of his journey from Sacramento, and Flynn’s discovery of the letter addressed to Silsbee.  But before he had concluded he was conscious that Susy was by no means interested in these details, nor in the least affected by the passing allusion to her dead father and his relation to Clarence’s misadventures.  With her rounded chin in her hand, she was slowly examining his face, with a certain mischievous yet demure abstraction.  “I tell you what, Clarence,” she said, when he had finished, “you ought to make your cousin get you one of those sombreros, and a nice gold-braided serape.  They’d just suit you.  And then—­then you could ride up and down the Alameda when we are going by.”