at the others, called him back. Confused and embarrassed, with a dread
of something impending, the boy tried to avert it by a hurried account
of his meeting with Susy, and his hopes of Father Sobriente's counsel
and assistance. Taking upon himself the idea of suggesting Susy's
escapade, he confessed the fault. The old man gazed into his frank eyes
with a thoughtful, half-compassionate smile. "I was just thinking
of giving you a holiday with--with Don Juan Robinson." The unusual
substitution of this final title for the habitual "your cousin" struck
Clarence uneasily. "But we will speak of that later. Sit down, my son;
I am not busy. We shall talk a little. Father Pedro says you are
getting on fluently with your translations. That is excellent, my son,
excellent."

Clarence's face beamed with relief and pleasure. His vague fears began
to dissipate.

"And you translate even from dictation! Good! We have an hour to spare,
and you shall give to me a specimen of your skill. Eh? Good! I will walk
here and dictate to you in my poor English, and you shall sit there and
render it to me in your good Spanish. Eh? So we shall amuse and instruct
ourselves."

Clarence smiled. These sporadic moments of instruction and admonition
were not unusual to the good Father. He cheerfully seated himself at
the Padre's table before a blank sheet of paper, with a pen in his hand.
Father Sobriente paced the apartment, with his usual heavy but noiseless
tread. To his surprise, the good priest, after an exhaustive pinch of
snuff, blew his nose, and began, in his most lugubrious style of pulpit
exhortation:--