“We could always run away, Clarence,” responded the young girl calmly.  “There’s nothing the matter with that.”

Clarence was startled.  The idea of desolating the sad, proud, handsome Mrs. Peyton, whom he worshiped, and her kind husband, whom he was just about to serve, was so grotesque and confusing, that he said hopelessly, “Yes.”

“Of course,” she continued, with the same odd affectation of coyness, which was, however, distinctly uncalled for, as she eyed him from under her broad hat, “you needn’t come with me unless you like.  I can run away by myself,—­if I want to!  I’ve thought of it before.  One can’t stand everything!”

“But, Susy,” said Clarence, with a swift remorseful recollection of her confidence yesterday, “is there really anything troubles you?  Tell me, dear.  What is it?”

“Oh, nothing—­everything!  It’s no use,—­you can’t understand!  You like it, I know you do.  I can see it; it’s your style.  But it’s stupid, it’s awful, Clarence!  With mamma snooping over you and around you all day, with her ‘dear child,’ ‘mamma’s pet,’ and ‘What is it, dear?’ and ’Tell it all to your own mamma,’ as if I would!  And ‘my own mamma,’ indeed!  As if I didn’t know, Clarence, that she isn’t.  And papa, caring for nothing but this hideous, dreary rancho, and the huge, empty plains.  It’s worse than school, for there, at least, when you went out, you could see something besides cattle and horses and yellow-faced half-breeds!  But here—­Lord! it’s only a wonder I haven’t run away before!”

Startled and shocked as Clarence was at this revelation, accompanied as it was by a hardness of manner that was new to him, the influence of the young girl was still so strong upon him that he tried to evade it as only an extravagance, and said with a faint smile, “But where would you run to?”

She looked at him cunningly, with her head on one side, and then said:—­

“I have friends, and”—­

She hesitated, pursing up her pretty lips.

“And what?”

“Relations.”

“Relations?”

“Yes,—­an aunt by marriage.  She lives in Sacramento.  She’d be overjoyed to have me come to her.  Her second husband has a theatre there.”

“But, Susy, what does Mrs. Peyton know of this?”

“Nothing.  Do you think I’d tell her, and have her buy them up as she has my other relations?  Do you suppose I don’t know that I’ve been bought up like a nigger?”

She looked indignant, compressing her delicate little nostrils, and yet, somehow, Clarence had the same singular impression that she was only acting.

The calling of a far-off voice came faintly through the wood.

“That’s Mary, looking for me,” said Susy composedly.  “You must go, now, Clarence.  Quick!  Remember what I said,—­and don’t breathe a word of this.  Good-by.”

But Clarence was standing still, breathless, hopelessly disturbed, and irresolute.  Then he turned away mechanically towards the trail.