When Victoriano had left Everett at his front door, exacting the promise that he would come to breakfast with Clarence next morning, he merely delayed long enough to learn that Alice was quiet, and Mrs. Darrell thought that with a night's rest she would be well next day. He then drove back home, and thinking that Clarence was going to stay, left the phÆton at the front gate to run down through the side gate to Mrs. Mechlin's, to call his mother and say to her that Clarence had been sent off by his father, and had come to their house to pass the night. But as he hurried through the front garden, Victoriano remembered that the horses had to be put in the stable and taken care of, so he went in the kitchen to tell a servant he must attend to the horses immediately.

“Yes, patroncito, I'll do it right away,” said the lazy Indian, who first had to stretch himself and yawn several times, then hunt up tobacco and cigarette paper, and smoke his cigarette. This done, he, having had a heavy supper, shuffled lazily to the front of the house, as Clarence was driving down the hill for the second time, and DoÑa Josefa and Victoriano returning from Mrs. Mechlin, came in through the garden side gate.

“Who is going in that carriage?” was the first question put by Victoriano to Madame Halier.

“It is Monsieur Clarence.”

“And where is Mercedes?”

“She called you to go to Madame Mechlin's.”

“No such thing,” said Victoriano, going to look in the parlor; returning immediately to renew his questions.

But the madame could do no more than repeat all she knew, which was little enough, and that little thoroughly mixed in her mind.

All that Victoriano and DoÑa Josefa could ascertain, with some clearness, was that Clarence was going, and had come back, thinking that Mercedes had called him, but that on being told that Mercedes had called Tano to accompany her to Mrs. Mechlin's, he had gone away.

“I must overtake Clarence. There is some misunderstanding here, that is plain,” said Victoriano, going to the back piazza to call a servant.

This time Chapo came a little quicker, not knowing whether he would be to blame, because the Americano went off with his horses before he had time to put them in the stable.

“Bring me my bay horse, saddled, in two minutes, do you hear? Two minutes—not two hours—go quick.”

“We cannot find Mercita. She is not in the house,” said DoÑa Josefa to her son, much alarmed.

“She must be, mother. Call the other girls. Look again for her. I must run after Clarence, and learn why he is going, instead of passing the night here.”

Fifteen minutes after Clarence had left, Victoriano was galloping behind him, wondering why he could not see him anywhere on the road.

Madame Halier and DoÑa Josefa continued looking for Mercedes most anxiously, but in vain. George now came up, and joined in the search for the missing girl.

As Victoriano crossed the brook and ascended the hill beyond it, Don Mariano and Gabriel came up into the court-yard. They immediately hurried into the house, Don Mariano knowing that Mercedes would be anxious for him to talk with Clarence.

DoÑa Josefa and the madame met them at the door, and related as well as they knew all that had occurred. They all agreed that the matter had better be kept from the servants, if possible, and they all went out by the front gate again, since it was useless to search in the direction of Mrs. Mechlin's house. Don Mariano and Gabriel saw George follow the path to the right and disappear. They followed him. George had heard the barking of a dog in the distance, and at first paid no attention to it, but when the barking would be followed by most piteous howls, he listened, and thought he recognized the plaintive whining of Milord. He followed the path, and as he did so, came nearer to the barking, and soon after Milord himself met him, with demonstrations of great satisfaction.

George had no doubt now of finding Mercedes. He let Milord be the guide, and run ahead, he following. In a few minutes he saw something white on the ground, and immediately after recognized Mercedes' form lying motionless across the path, as she had fallen. In a moment George had lifted her insensible form in his arms, calling out he had found her.

Don Mariano ran to him, but Gabriel, being more active, passed him, and was quickly at George's side, gazing anxiously at his sister's face.

“Give her to me, George,” said Don Mariano, in a hoarse whisper, for he was so agitated he could scarcely speak. “Give my baby to me.”

“Wait a little while. I'll carry her a little longer,” said George, holding the unconscious girl.

“Father is too agitated to be steady enough just now,” said Gabriel. “I'll carry her.”

“Let me see her face, for God's sake! Has she no life?” Don Mariano exclaimed.

“Oh, yes. She has fainted only. We will soon restore her to consciousness. Don't be alarmed. I think the parting with Clarence has nearly killed her—but she is alive,” George said.

“But why did they part? Why did he go?” Don Mariano asked.

“That is as much a mystery to me as to you,” George replied.

The fainting girl was tenderly placed in her bed, and all the care that loving hearts could bestow was lavished on her. But nearly two hours elapsed before she returned to consciousness. Then, after looking vaguely about the room for some minutes, an expression of pain came over her face, and looking at her father, she asked for Clarence.

“Victoriano has gone to call him,” Don Mariano replied, hoping that this little fiction would come true, and believing it would if Victoriano could overtake the fugitive.

“I am so glad,” she said, and with a sigh closed her eyes, lying so calmly that it was difficult to see whether she had relapsed into a swoon, or lay so quiet from sheer exhaustion.

In the meantime, he for whose love all this misery was suffered—and who shared it fully—was flying onward as rapidly as a couple of fast thoroughbreds could take him. Victoriano followed at full gallop, confident of overtaking him, or if not, of being in town before the steamer left. But the fates decided it should not be as the heart of the anxious rider wished, and when he rode up to the wharf the steamer was leaving it. He could see its lights moving swiftly away, and hear the shaking and revolving of the wheels on the smooth bay, as the black, floating mass glided off, like a cruel monster swimming away with the happiness of so many loving hearts.

Victoriano stood looking at the steamer with a disappointment so keen that it seemed unbearable. He could have rebelled against any power. Then a sense of realization of the inevitable came like a revelation to him, and he felt overpowered, surrounded by dangers that he might not avoid, because they would come upon him unawares.

In this perturbed state of mind he was still looking at the steamer passing over the moonlit bay, when the freight agent for the steamer came to say that Mr. Darrell had left a note for him, and he would bring it if he waited. Victoriano not only would wait, but followed to the door of the freight office.

The agent said, as he handed the note, that Mr. Darrell had left orders at the stable to keep the two horses and phÆton until Don Victoriano sent for them. Eagerly Victoriano read the note. It ran thus:

Dear Tano:

Forgive me for not waiting to bid you good-by. I feared to miss the boat; and since DoÑa Josefa desired to postpone the wedding, I thought it was best for me to be away, under present circumstances. It would be too unendurable in my painful humiliation to be constantly dreading some other unexpected outbreak from my father. My presence would be a source of irritation to him, which might lead to worse results.

Say to Don Mariano and Don Gabriel I will write to them as soon as I reach San Francisco, perhaps before. My love to all of you, my good and beloved friends. Heaven bless you all.

I don't ask you to think kindly of me, for I know you will. I feel sick in mind and body; and how I wish I could have slept under your hospitable roof.

Tell Retty to write or telegraph how Alice is. I was so disappointed not to find Miss Mercedes when I drove back. I had felt so sure I heard her voice calling me, that I was faint with disappointment and thoroughly heartsick.

Good-by, dear Tano, again. God bless you all.

Ever your true friend,

Clarence.

P. S.—I leave you my horses and phÆton

There was nothing for Victoriano to do now but return home. He went to the stable, ordered fresh horses put to the phÆton, and leaving his own horse with the other two, said he would send for them when they were thoroughly rested. He went to see Clarence's horses himself to be sure that they were well groomed. Two men were rubbing them down, and he saw that neither of the two fine animals had been hurt by their furious drive. He patted them, and they turned their pretty heads and intelligent eyes, expanding their nostrils as they recognized him.

Victoriano was so depressed that he felt a presentiment of never more seeing Clarence. He looked at the two horses as if they were a last token of his friendship, and he hurried out of the stable and out of town quickly, to be alone with the silent moon and his own thoughts; his thoughts of Alice, of Clarence and Mercedes going with him, as he drove home. But Victoriano's thoughts of those three interesting persons were shared by many others.

Don Mariano and DoÑa Josefa sat by Mercedes' bedside. Her heavy slumber began to alarm them. She lay motionless, with closed eyelids, but she was not sleeping, for she would open her eyes when they spoke to her.

About midnight DoÑa Josefa asked her if she had been sleeping. She shook her head and whispered:

“I am waiting for Clarence. He is coming, sitting on a water lily. I see him. I am waiting.”

The look of dismay that DoÑa Josefa exchanged with her husband, revealed to each other their terrible anxiety and dread.

“We must wait for Victoriano, and if Clarence does not come, then we must send for a doctor,” Don Mariano whispered.

But Mercedes heard him, and said, scarcely audibly: “He will come. I am waiting. He loves me. He don't want to kill me.”

When Victoriano arrived it was near daylight, but Don Mariano was up and came out to meet him. Seeing the phÆton with only one occupant, he knew the sad truth. Victoriano gave him Clarence's letter, which he read with the keenest regret, feeling that if he had stayed at home, as Mercedes had begged, Clarence would not have felt compelled to go, but would have been made happy under that roof, as he deserved to be. Vain regrets now. He was gone, and there was nothing to be done but wait until he arrived at San Francisco. It would only be a matter of three days, Don Mariano tried to argue to himself, but the experiences of the last two days had taught him how much mischief might be effected in a very short space of time.

When he returned to Mercedes' room he found that she was sleeping, but her sleep was restless, and now a high fever had set in. Her cheeks were like red roses, and her pulse beat with telegraphic velocity. She moaned and moved her head, as if it pained her, but did not awake. It was evident that a doctor must be sent for immediately.

Victoriano never drove or rode past Darrell's house without looking at a certain window next to that of Clarence's room. As he came from town now, before driving into the court of his own house, he looked towards the well-known window. His heart beat with alarm, seeing a light through the shutters. Alice must be ill, he thought, and that light has been burning all night. The lover's heart had guessed the truth. Alice was ill with a raging fever, and when daylight came, instead of the fever passing off, as Mrs. Darrell had hoped, she became delirious.

Victoriano did not go to bed. He preferred to walk out to the front piazza and have another look at that window of Alice's room. Yes the light was still burning. He felt sure that she was ill. Was she to be sick, and he not able to see her? or inquire for her? How angry he felt at old Darrell. Poor Tano, he was a prey to contending emotions. He now wished to see Mercedes, and had told his father that he would lie in one of the hammocks in the veranda, instead of going to bed, so that he would be called to Mercedes' room as soon as she awoke.

Presently Don Mariano came and said to him: “Victoriano, Mercedes is awake, but so entirely out of her head that she does not know any one of us. We must send for a physician.”

“I will go at once,” Victoriano said, jumping to his feet.

“No, you have been up all night. We don't want too many sick to take care of. Gabriel will go.”

Victoriano looked towards the fascinating window, and hesitating a little, said:

“I am afraid Alice is sick too. Evidently a light has been burning in her room all night. She fainted when Clarence was leaving them, and for the last two days she has been so nervous, Everett says, that she was almost in convulsions.”

“There is some one going out in Clarence's buggy. Perhaps they are sending for a doctor,” Don Mariano said.

“I believe it,” Victoriano said, watching the buggy. “It is Everett. Alice is ill, I am sure. Retty is coming this way.”

Everett was driving fast, and in a very few minutes was at the gate, and coming to the piazza.

“I ventured to come up,” he said, “because I saw you here. It is a most unchristian hour to go into a neighbor's house.”

“Is Alice sick, Retty?” Victoriano asked, without heeding Everett's apology for coming.

“Yes, she has a high fever, and is very delirious. I am going for a doctor, but as she has been calling for Clarence most piteously, mother thought he would come to see her.”

Don Mariano and Victoriano turned several shades paler than they were before, but they related to Everett what had happened, as far as they knew. Still the reason why Clarence left must yet remain a mystery to them until Mercedes could explain it.

Everett was greatly disconcerted and pained. He had hoped to find Clarence, and as his father seemed moved and grieved at Alice's illness, all the family inferred that he would be only too glad to see Clarence restored to them.

“I must hurry for a doctor,” said Everett, with trembling lips, “and when Clarence arrives in San Francisco he will find a telegram awaiting him there.”

“He will find two,” said Don Mariano.

“He can never stay away if he knows that Miss Mercedes and Alice are sick—sick with grief at his going from us,” Everett said; adding: “are you not going to send for a physician for Miss Mercedes?”

“Yes; Gabriel will go very soon,” Don Mariano replied.

“Who is your doctor? Can't I call him for you?”

On being told the doctor's name, Everett said that he was the one he proposed to bring for Alice. Don Mariano then wrote a line asking the doctor to come, and Everett hurried off on his sad errand.

Clarence had passed the night on deck, walking about in the moonlight, or sitting down to muse by the hour, with no one near—no company but his thoughts. He felt ill and weary, but wakeful, and could not bear to lie down to rest. He must be moving about and thinking. He felt convinced that his father had some other cause of irritation than the mere fact of the land having been paid for, but what that cause could be he had not the remotest idea. Then his thoughts would go back to their center of attraction, and pass in review, over and over again, the last scene at the Alamar house, and every word that Mercedes had said. The more he reflected upon them, the clearer it seemed to him that Mercedes could not help thinking it would be humiliating to marry him, for how could a lady marry the son of a man who used such low language? And if she did, out of the purest devotion and tenderest love, could she avoid a feeling of loathing for such a man? Certainly not; and such a man was his father; and Clarence's thoughts traveled around this painful circle all night.

On arriving at Wilmington, he heard the puffing of the little tug boat, coming to ferry the passengers to Los Angeles. He had nothing to do at Los Angeles, but he would go with the passengers, rather than wait all day in the steamer at anchor, rolling like a little canoe, and whose fate was too much like his own—as he, too, was tossing over a broad expanse, a boundless ocean, like a block of wood, helpless, compelled to obey, as though he was an infant. He took a cup of coffee, and joined the passengers on the little tug boat, which was soon meandering over the shallow, muddy creek, or rather swamp, with its little crooked channels, which is to be made into an harbor, with time, patience and money.

At Los Angeles a surprise awaited Clarence, an incident which, coming after those of the previous night, was delightful, indeed. He was sauntering past a hotel, when he heard the well known voice of Fred Haverly, calling him.

“You are the very man I came to see. I am now expecting at any moment, a dispatch from Hubert in answer to my inquiry for your whereabouts,” Fred said, conducting Clarence to his room, where they could talk business without being interrupted.

The business which brought Fred up from the mines was soon explained, and in conclusion Fred said:

“I wish you could go with me, see the ores yourself, and talk with the men who wish to buy the mines. But the weather is frightfully hot, and you are not looking well. What is the matter? May I inquire?”

Clarence soon told Fred all that had happened at home, and how he was exiled, and did not care where he went. Fred was truly distressed, for he had never seen Clarence take anything so much to heart and be so cast down.

“I'll tell you what we had better do to-day. Let us take a carriage, and go for a drive among the orange groves. Then we will come back to dinner. After dinner we will kill time somehow for a couple of hours, then you go to bed. To-morrow you will decide what to do.”

“But to-morrow there will be no steamer to take me to San Francisco.”

“Then wait for the next. The matters you have under consideration are too important to decide hastily.”

“That is true. I wish some one had reminded me of that fact last evening. I'll let the steamer go, and if I do not decide to go with you, I'll take the next boat. But now, as to our drive, I think I would rather have it after I had some breakfast, because I begin to feel faint, having eaten nothing for twenty-four hours.”

Clarence sat down to a very nice breakfast, but did not succeed in eating it. He had no appetite. All food was distasteful to him. They had their drive and dinner, and he managed to get some sleep. This, however, did not refresh him, and he felt no better. Still, he decided to go to see his “bonanza,” and talk with the men who wished to buy the mines. If he did not sell them, Fred thought stamp mills ought to be put up, as the ore heaps were getting to be too high and too numerous and very rich.

Clarence devoted that day to writing letters. He wrote to his mother, Alice and Everett, to George, Gabriel and Victoriano; but his longest letters were to Mercedes and Don Mariano.

On the following day he and Fred took the stage for Yuma. When they reached that point, the river boat was about to start, thus Clarence and Fred lost no time in going up the river to their mines. But as the navigation up the Colorado River, above Fort Yuma, was rather slow, having to steam against the current following the tortuous channel of that crooked, narrow stream, and the mines were more than three hundred miles from Yuma (about thirty from Fort Mojave), they did not arrive as soon as they would have wished, and Clarence had been stricken down with typhoid fever before they reached their camp.