“What sort of bad news?”

“His sister’s dead.”

“Poor fellow!  In England too!  You said he was English, didn’t you?”

“Yes.  She was married.  Her husband was a clergyman down in Cornwall somewhere.  She was older than Geoff a good deal; but he was very fond of her, and the news cut him up dreadfully.”

“No wonder.  It is horrible to hear such a thing when one is far from home,” observed Clover.  She tried to realize how she should feel if word came to St. Helen’s of Katy’s death, or Elsie’s, or Johnnie’s; but her mind refused to accept the question.  The very idea made her shiver.

“Poor fellow!” she said again; “what could you do for him, Clarence?”

“Not much.  I’m a poor hand at comforting any one,—­men generally are, I guess.  Geoff knows I’m sorry for him; but it takes a woman to say the right thing at such times.  We sit and smoke when the work’s done, and I know what he’s thinking about; but we don’t say anything to each other.  Now let’s speak of something else.  I want to settle about your coming to High Valley.”

“High Valley?  Is that the name of your place?”

“Yes.  I want you to see it.  It’s an awfully pretty place to my thinking,—­not so very much higher than this, but you have to climb a good deal to get there.  Can’t you come?  This is just the time,—­raspberries ripe, and lots of flowers wherever the beasts don’t get at them.  Phil can have all the riding he wants, and it’ll do poor Geoff lots of good to see some one.”

“It would be very nice indeed,” doubtfully; “but who could we get to go with us?”

“I thought of that.  We don’t take much stock in Mrs. Grundy out here; but I supposed you’d want another lady.  How would it be if I asked Mrs. Hope?  The doctor’s got to come out anyway to see one of our herders who’s put his shoulder out in a fall.  If he would drive you out, and Mrs. Hope would stay on, would you come for a week?  I guess you’ll like it.”

“I ‘guess’ we should,” exclaimed Clover, her face lighting up.  “Clarence, how delightful it sounds!  It will be lovely to come if Mrs. Hope says yes.”

“Then that’s all right,” replied Clarence, looking extremely pleased.  “I’ll ride up to the doctor’s as soon as dinner’s over.”

“You’ll dine with us, of course?”

“Oh, I always come to Mother Marsh for a bite whenever I stay over the day.  She likes to have me.  We’ve been great chums ever since I had fever here, and she took care of me.”

Clover was amused at dinner to watch the cool deliberation with which Clarence studied Mrs. Watson and her tortuous conversation, and, as he would have expressed it, “took stock of her.”  The result was not favorable, apparently.

“What on earth did they send that old thing with you for?” he asked as soon as they went upstairs.  “She’s as much out of her element here as a canary-bird would be in a cyclone.  She can’t be any use to you, Clover.”