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 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.