Mrs. Hope consented, and Clover walked home as if treading on air.  Was this the St. Helen’s to which she had looked forward with so much dread,—­this gay, delightful place, where such pleasant things happened, and people were so kind?  How she wished that she could get at Katy and papa for five minutes—­on a wishing carpet or something—­to tell them how different everything was from what she had expected.

One thing only marred her anticipations for the morrow, which was the fear that Mrs. Watson might be hurt, and make a scene.  Happily, Mrs. Hope’s thoughts took the same direction; and by some occult process of influence, the use of which good wives understand, she prevailed on her refractory doctor to allow the old lady to be asked to join the party.

So early next morning came a very polite note; and it was proposed that Phil should ride the doctor’s horse, and act as escort to Miss Chase, who was to go on horseback likewise.  No proposal could have been more agreeable to Phil, who adored horses, and seldom had the chance to mount one; so every one was pleased, and Mrs. Watson preened her ancestral feathers with great satisfaction.

“You see, dear, how well it was to give that little hint about the Reveres and the Abraham Peabodys,” she said.  Clover felt dreadfully dishonest; but she dared not confess that she had forgotten all about the hint, still less that she had never meant to give one.  “The better part of valor is discretion,” she remembered; so she held her peace, though her cheeks glowed guiltily.

At three o’clock they set forth in a light roomy carriage,—­not exactly a carryall, but of the carryall family,—­with a pair of fast horses, Miss Chase and Phil cantering happily alongside, or before or behind, just as it happened.  The sun was very hot; but there was a delicious breeze, and the dryness and elasticity of the air made the heat easy to bear.

The way lay across and down the southern slope of the plateau on which the town was built.  Then they came to splendid fields of grain and “afalfa,”—­a cereal quite new to them, with broad, very green leaves.  The roadside was gay with flowers,—­gillias and mountain balm; high pink and purple spikes, like foxgloves, which they were told were pentstemons; painters’ brush, whose green tips seemed dipped in liquid vermilion, and masses of the splendid wild poppies.  They crossed a foaming little river; and a sharp turn brought them into a narrower and wilder road, which ran straight toward the mountain side.  This was overhung by trees, whose shade was grateful after the hot sun.