“I suppose your rooms are front ones?” went on Mrs. Watson, querulously.

“Mine isn’t.  It’s quite a little one at the side.  I think it must be just under this.  Phil’s is in front, and is a nice large one with a view of the mountains.  I wish there were one just like it for you.  The doctor says that it’s very important for him to have a great deal of air in his room.”

“Doctors always say that; and of course Dr. Hope, being a friend of yours and all—­It’s quite natural he should give you the preference.  Though the Phillips’s are accustomed—­but there, it’s no use; only, as I tell Ellen, Boston is the place for me, where my family is known, and people realize what I’m used to.”

“I’m so sorry,” Clover said again.  “Perhaps somebody will go away, and Mrs. Marsh have a front room for you before long.”

“She did say that she might.  I suppose she thinks some of her boarders will be dying off.  In fact, there is one—­that tall man in gray in the reclining-chair—­who didn’t seem to me likely to last long.  Well, we will hope for the best.  I’m not one who likes to make difficulties.”

This prospect, together with dinner, which was presently announced, raised Mrs. Watson’s spirits a little, and Clover left her in the parlor, exchanging experiences and discussing symptoms with some ladies who had sat opposite them at table.  Mrs. Hope came for a call; a pretty little woman, as friendly and kind as her husband.  Then Clover and Phil went out for a stroll about the town.  Their wonder increased at every turn; that a place so well equipped and complete in its appointments could have been created out of nothing in fifteen years was a marvel!

After two or three turns they found themselves among shops, whose plate-glass windows revealed all manner of wares,—­confectionery, new books, pretty glass and china, bonnets of the latest fashion.  One or two large pharmacies glittered with jars—­purple and otherwise—­enough to tempt any number of Rosamonds.  Handsome carriages drawn by fine horses rolled past them, with well-dressed people inside.  In short, St. Helen’s was exactly like a thriving Eastern town of double its size, with the difference that here a great many more people seemed to ride than to drive.  Some one cantered past every moment,—­a lady alone, two or three girls together, or a party of rough-looking men in long boots, or a single ranchman sitting loose in his stirrups, and swinging a stock whip.

Clover and Phil were standing on a corner, looking at some “Rocky Mountain Curiosities” displayed for sale,—­minerals, Pueblo pottery, stuffed animals, and Indian blankets; and Phil had just commented on the beauty of a black horse which was tied to a post close by, when its rider emerged from a shop, and prepared to mount.

He was a rather good-looking young fellow, sunburnt and not very tall, but with a lithe active figure, red-brown eyes and a long mustache of tawny chestnut.  He wore spurs and a broad-brimmed sombrero, and carried in his hand a whip which seemed two-thirds lash.  As he put his foot into the stirrup, he turned for another look at Clover, whom he had rather stared at while passing, and then changing his intention, took it out again, and came toward them.