“No,” rejoined Merle. “I wish to speak to you. Come here, Tia Teresa; sit down by my side, and treat me once again as the little girl of the long ago whom you used to pet and fondle.” “That’s very easily done,” responded Tia Teresa, with a pleased smile, seating herself on the low sofa close to Merle. “Come to my heart, my darling, as in the long ago.” And the duenna drew the girl to her loving, protecting bosom. She noticed now that Merle was trembling under the influence of some deep emotion. “What is wrong with you, my dear?” she asked anxiously. “I have learned many things today, Tia Teresa,” replied Merle, taking her old nurse’s hands and softly stroking them. “First, that Mr. Robles is my father”—the duenna started, but Merle went quietly on—“and that he is really Don Manuel de Valencia, the famous outlaw.” “Whoever told you that?” fairly gasped Tia Teresa. “No one. I found everything out for myself. After I had looked into Mr. Robles’ eyes at our parting this afternoon, I knew the truth. It was impossible for mother to deny it, but it is not she who has told me anything. I have just returned from the little Mexican cemetery on the hillside where Mr. Robles, my father, had taken the flowers for which he asked me.” “And you saw his flowers—and my flowers, too?” faltered the duenna, realizing now how Merle had gleaned her knowledge. “Yes; I inferred that the wreaths were yours, and of course I knew that the scattered roses were from my father. He is Don Manuel. But I want you to tell me a little about Rosetta.” It was Merle now who put her arms around Tia Teresa and drew her affectionately to her. “You have always loved me, you know, my dear,” the girl went on coaxingly. “Now I understand why you were so deeply attached to Mr. Robles, for you told me once that you had nursed Don Manuel. And that is why I have been, perhaps, just a little closer to you than Grace”—the pressure of Tia Teresa’s arms told that Merle had correctly divined—“because I was of the blood of your old master. But why has there been all this secrecy toward me?” “Don Manuel’s name could not be revealed—he had been outlawed.” “And Rosetta—tell me about Rosetta?” “She was the real cause of the feud between Mr. Thurston and Don Manuel.” The duenna had spoken the words before she had realized how much they told. With unfaltering intuition Merle guessed their meaning. “You mean to tell me that Thurston wronged Rosetta—betrayed her?” Tia Teresa nodded assent—she was too deeply agitated to speak another word. “And this day—the eleventh of October—the day when you decorate her grave?” enquired Merle, in a tone and with a look that compelled an answer. “Is the day she was found dead on the rocks below Comanche Point,” replied Tia Teresa.