Dr. Hope flashed one rapid, comical look at Clover.  Western life sharpens the wits, if it does nothing else, and Westerners as a general thing become pretty good judges of character.  It had not taken ten minutes for the keen-witted little doctor to fathom the peculiarities of Clover’s “chaperone,” and he would most willingly have planted her in the congenial soil of the Shoshone House, which would have provided a wider field for her restlessness and self-occupation, and many more people to listen to her narratives and sympathize with her complaints.  But it was no use.  She was resolved to abide by the fortunes of her “young friends.”

While this discussion was proceeding, the carriage had been rolling down a wide street running along the edge of the plateau, opposite the mountain range.  Pretty houses stood on either side in green, shaded door-yards, with roses and vine-hung piazzas and nicely-cut grass.

“Why, it looks like a New England town,” said Clover, amazed; “I thought there were no trees here.”

“Yes, I know,” said Dr. Hope smiling.  “You came, like most Eastern people, prepared to find us sitting in the middle of a sandy waste, on cactus pincushions, picking our teeth with bowie-knives, and with no neighbors but Indians and grizzly bears.  Well; sixteen years ago we could have filled the bill pretty well.  Then there was not a single house in St. Helen’s,—­not even a tent, and not one of the trees that you see here had been planted.  Now we have three railroads meeting at our depot, a population of nearly seven thousand, electric lights, telephones, a good opera-house, a system of works which brings first-rate spring water into the town from six miles away,—­in short, pretty much all the modern conveniences.”

“But what has made the place grow so fast?” asked Clover.

“If I may be allowed a professional pun, it is built up on coughings.  It is a town for invalids.  Half the people here came out for the benefit of their lungs.”

“Isn’t that rather depressing?”

“It would be more so if most of them did not look so well that no one would suspect them of being ill.  Here we are.”

Clover looked out eagerly.  There was nothing picturesque about the house at whose gate the carriage had stopped.  It was a large shabby structure, with a piazza above as well as below, and on these piazzas various people were sitting who looked unmistakably ill.  The front of the house, however, commanded the fine mountain view.

“You see,” explained Dr. Hope, drawing Clover aside, “boarding-places that are both comfortable and reasonable are rather scarce at St. Helen’s.  I know all about the table here and the drainage; and the view is desirable, and Mrs. Marsh, who keeps the house, is one of the best women we have.  She’s from down your way too,—­Barnstable, Mass., I think.”