It was early in the afternoon when they started, and the sun was just dipping behind the mountain wall when they drove into the High Valley.  It was one of those natural parks, four miles long, which lie like heaven-planted gardens among the Colorado ranges.  The richest of grass clothed it; fine trees grew in clumps and clusters here and there; and the spaces about the house where fences of barbed wire defended the grass from the cattle, seemed a carpet of wild-flowers.

Clover exclaimed with delight at the view.  The ranges which lapped and held the high, sheltered upland in embrace opened toward the south, and revealed a splendid lonely peak, on whose summit a drift of freshly-fallen snow was lying.  The contrast with the verdure and bloom below was charming.

The cabin—­it was little more—­stood facing this view, and was backed by a group of noble red cedars.  It was built of logs, long and low, with a rude porch in front supported on unbarked tree trunks.  Two fine collies rushed to meet them, barking vociferously; and at the sound Clarence hurried to the door.  He met them with great enthusiasm, lifted out Mrs. Hope, then Clover, and then began shouting for his chum, who was inside.

“Hollo, Geoff! where are you?  Hurry up; they’ve come.”  Then, as he appeared, “Ladies and gentleman, my partner!”

Geoffrey Templestowe was a tall, sinewy young Englishman, with ruddy hair and beard, grave blue eyes, and an unmistakable air of good breeding.  He wore a blue flannel shirt and high boots like Clarence’s, yet somehow he made Clarence look a little rough and undistinguished.  He was quiet in speech, reserved in manner, and seemed depressed and under a cloud; but Clover liked his face at once.  He looked both strong and kind, she thought.

The house consisted of one large square room in the middle, which served as parlor and dining-room both, and on either side two bedrooms.  The kitchen was in a separate building.  There was no lack of comfort, though things were rather rude, and the place had a bare, masculine look.  The floor was strewn with coyote and fox skins.  Two or three easy-chairs stood around the fireplace, in which, July as it was, a big log was blazing.  Their covers were shabby and worn; but they looked comfortable, and were evidently in constant use.  There was not the least attempt at prettiness anywhere.  Pipes and books and old newspapers littered the chairs and tables; when an extra seat was needed Clarence simply tipped a great pile of these on to the floor.  A gun-rack hung upon the wall, together with sundry long stock-whips and two or three pairs of spurs, and a smell of tobacco pervaded the place.

Clover’s eyes wandered to a corner where stood a small parlor organ, and over it a shelf of books.  She rose to examine them.  To her surprise they were all hymnals and Church of England prayer-books.  There were no others.  She wondered what it meant.