and kindly, and the boy later
believed that if he had been more familiar with the face he would have
loved it better. For it was the last and only day he was to see it, as,
late that afternoon, after a dusty ride along more traveled highways,
they reached their journey's end.

It was a low-walled house, with red-tiled roofs showing against the dark
green of venerable pear and fig trees, and a square court-yard in the
centre, where they had dismounted. A few words in Spanish from Flynn to
one of the lounging peons admitted them to a wooden corridor, and thence
to a long, low room, which to Clarence's eyes seemed literally piled
with books and engravings. Here Flynn hurriedly bade him stay while he
sought the host in another part of the building. But Clarence did not
miss him; indeed, it may be feared, he forgot even the object of their
journey in the new sensations that suddenly thronged upon him, and the
boyish vista of the future that they seemed to open. He was dazed
and intoxicated. He had never seen so many books before; he had never
conceived of such lovely pictures. And yet in some vague way he thought
he must have dreamt of them at some time. He had mounted a chair, and
was gazing spellbound at an engraving of a sea-fight when he heard
Flynn's voice.

His friend had quietly reentered the room, in company with an oldish,
half-foreign-looking man, evidently his relation. With no helping
recollection, with no means of comparison beyond a vague idea that his
cousin might look like himself, Clarence stood hopelessly before him. He
had already made up his mind that he would have to go through the
usual cross-questioning in regard to his father and family; he had even
forlornly thought of inventing some innocent details to fill out his
imperfect and unsatisfactory recollection. But, glancing up, he was
surprised to find that his elderly cousin was as embarrassed as he was,
Flynn, as usual, masterfully interposed.

"Of course ye don't remember each other, and thar ain't much that either
of you knows about family matters, I reckon," he said grimly; "and as
your cousin calls himself Don Juan Robinson," he added to Clarence,
"it's just as well that you let 'Jackson Brant' slide. I know him better
than you, but you'll get used to him, and he to you, soon enough. At
least, you'd better," he concluded, with his singular gravity.

As he turned as if to leave the room with Clarence's embarrassed
relative--much to that gentl