in possession of his whole history, barring the episode of his meeting
with Susy, since he had parted with them. He felt a strange satisfaction
in familiarly pouring out his confidences to this superior woman,
whom he had always held in awe. There was a new delight in her womanly
interest in his trials and adventures, and a subtle pleasure even in her
half-motherly criticism and admonition of some passages. I am afraid he
forgot Susy, who listened with the complacency of an exhibitor; Mary,
whose black eyes dilated alternately with sympathy for the performer and
deprecation of Mrs. Peyton's critical glances; and Peyton, who, however,
seemed lost in thought, and preoccupied. Clarence was happy. The softly
shaded lights in the broad, spacious, comfortably furnished drawing-room
shone on the group before him. It was a picture of refined domesticity
which the homeless Clarence had never known except as a vague,
half-painful, boyish remembrance; it was a realization of welcome that
far exceeded his wildest boyish vision of the preceding night. With that
recollection came another,--a more uneasy one. He remembered how that
vision had been interrupted by the strange voices in the road, and their
vague but ominous import to his host. A feeling of self-reproach came
over him. The threats had impressed him as only mere braggadocio,--he
knew the characteristic exaggeration of the race,--but perhaps he ought
to privately tell Peyton of the incident at once.
The opportunity came later, when the ladies had retired, and Peyton,
wrapped in a poncho in a rocking-chair, on the now chilly veranda,
looked up from his reverie and a cigar. Clarence casually introduced the
incident, as if only for the sake of describing the supernatural effect
of the hidden voices, but he was concerned to see that Peyton was
considerably disturbed by their more material import. After questioning
him as to the appearance of the two men, his host said: "I don't mind
telling you, Clarence, that as far as that fellow's intentions go he is
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