or dead?"

"Living, when you first left your home," said the old man hurriedly,
seizing Clarence's hand, "for it was he who in the name of your cousin
sent for you. Living--yes, while you were here, for it was he who for
the past three years stood in the shadow of this assumed cousin, Don
Juan, and at last sent you to this school. Living, Clarence, yes; but
living under a name and reputation that would have blasted you! And
now DEAD--dead in Mexico, shot as an insurgent and in a still desperate
career! May God have mercy on his soul!"

"Dead!" repeated Clarence, trembling, "only now?"

"The news of the insurrection and his fate came only an hour since,"
continued the Padre quickly; "his complicity with it and his identity
were known only to Don Juan. He would have spared you any knowledge of
the truth, even as this dead man would; but I and my brothers thought
otherwise. I have broken it to you badly, my son, but forgive me?"

An hysterical laugh broke from Clarence and the priest recoiled before
him. "Forgive YOU! What was this man to me?" he said, with boyish
vehemence. "He never LOVED me! He deserted me; he made my life a lie.
He never sought me, came near me, or stretched a hand to me that I could
take?"

"Hush! hush!" said the priest, with a horrified look, laying his huge
hand upon the boy's shoulder and bearing him down to his seat. "You know
not what you say. Think--think, Clarence! Was there none of all those
who have befriended you--who were kind to you in your wanderings--to
whom your heart turned unconsciously? Think, Clarence! You yourself