g more familiar and narrative, eh?"

To this Clarence, somewhat bored by these present solemn abstractions,
assented gladly, and took up his pen. Father Sobriente, resuming his
noiseless pacing, began:

"On the fertile plains of Guadalajara lived a certain caballero,
possessed of flocks and lands, and a wife and son. But, being also
possessed of a fiery and roving nature, he did not value them as he did
perilous adventure, feats of arms, and sanguinary encounters. To this
may be added riotous excesses, gambling and drunkenness, which in time
decreased his patrimony, even as his rebellious and quarrelsome spirit
had alienated his family and neighbors. His wife, borne down by shame
and sorrow, died while her son was still an infant. In a fit of equal
remorse and recklessness the caballero married again within the year.
But the new wife was of a temper and bearing as bitter as her consort.
Violent quarrels ensued between them, ending in the husband abandoning
his wife and son, and leaving St. Louis--I should say Guadalajara--for
ever. Joining some adventurers in a foreign land, under an assumed name,
he pursued his reckless course, until, by one or two acts of outlawry,
he made his return to civilization impossible. The deserted wife and
step-mother of his child coldly accepted the situation, forbidding his
name to be spoken again in her presence, announced that he was dead, and
kept the knowledge of his existence from his own son, whom she placed
under the charge of her sister. But the sister managed to secretly
communicate with the outlawed father, and, under a pretext, arranged
between them, of sending the boy to another relation, actually
dispatched the innocent child to his unworthy parent. Perhaps stirred by
remorse, the infamous man--"

"Stop!" said Clarence suddenly.

He had thrown down his pen, and was standing erect and rigid before the
Father.

"You are trying to tell me something, Father Sobriente," he said, with
an effort. "Speak out, I implore you. I can stand anything but this
mystery. I am no longer a child. I have a right to know all. This that
you are telling me is no fable--I see it in your face, Father Sobriente;
it is the story of--of--"

"Your father, Clarence!" said the priest, in a trembling voice.

The boy drew back, with a white face. "My father!" he repeated. "Living,
or dead?"

"Living, when you first left your home," said the old man hurriedly,
seizing Clarence's hand, "for it was he