a dubious possession of their lands and no title, he had unhesitatingly reimbursed them for their improvements with the last of his capital.  Only the lawless Gilroy had good-humoredly declined.  The quiet acceptance of the others did not, unfortunately, preclude their settled belief that Clarence had participated in the fraud, and that even now his restitution was making a dangerous precedent, subversive of the best interests of the State, and discouraging to immigration.  Some doubted his sanity.  Only one, struck with the sincerity of his motive, hesitated to take his money, with a look of commiseration on his face.

“Are you not satisfied?” asked Clarence, smiling.

“Yes, but”—­

“But what?”

“Nothin’.  Only I was thinkin’ that a man like you must feel awful lonesome in Calforny!”

Lonely he was, indeed; but his loneliness was not the loss of fortune nor what it might bring.  Perhaps he had never fully realized his wealth; it had been an accident rather than a custom of his life, and when it had failed in the only test he had made of its power, it is to be feared that he only sentimentally regretted it.  It was too early yet for him to comprehend the veiled blessings of the catastrophe in its merciful disruption of habits and ways of life; his loneliness was still the hopeless solitude left by vanished ideals and overthrown idols.  He was satisfied that he had never cared for Susy, but he still cared for the belief that he had.

After the discovery of Pedro’s body that fatal morning, a brief but emphatic interview between himself and Mrs. McClosky had followed.  He had insisted upon her immediately accompanying Susy and himself to Mrs. Peyton in San Francisco.  Horror-stricken and terrified at the catastrophe, and frightened by the strange looks of the excited servants, they did not dare to disobey him.  He had left them with Mrs. Peyton in the briefest preliminary interview, during which he spoke only of the catastrophe, shielding the woman from the presumption of having provoked it, and urging only the importance of settling the question of guardianship at once.  It was odd that Mrs. Peyton had been less disturbed than he imagined she would be at even his charitable version of Susy’s unfaithfulness to her; it even seemed to him that she had already suspected it.  But as he was about to withdraw to leave her to meet them alone, she had stopped him suddenly.

“What would you advise me to do?”

It was his first interview with her since the revelation of his own feelings.  He looked into the pleading, troubled eyes of the woman he now knew he had loved, and stammered:—­

“You alone can judge.  Only you must remember that one cannot force an affection any more than one can prevent it.”

He felt himself blushing, and, conscious of the construction of his words, he even fancied that she was displeased.

“Then you have no preference?” she said, a little impatiently.