The very pleasantest moment of the visit perhaps came on that last afternoon, when Geoff got her to himself for once, and took her up a trail where she had not yet been, in search of scarlet pentstemons to carry back to St. Helen’s.  They found great sheaves of the slender stems threaded, as it were, with jewel-like blossoms; but what was better still, they had a talk, and Clover felt that she had now a new friend.  Geoff told her of his people at home, and a little about the sister who had lately died; only a little,—­he could not yet trust himself to talk long about her.  Clover listened with frank and gentle interest.  She liked to hear about the old grange at the head of a chine above Clovelley, where Geoff was born, and which had once been full of boys and girls, now scattered in the English fashion to all parts of the world.  There was Ralph with his regiment in India,—­he was the heir, it seemed,—­and Jim and Jack in Australia, and Oliver with his wife and children in New Zealand, and Allen at Harrow, and another boy fitting for the civil service.  There was a married sister in Scotland, and another in London; and Isabel, the youngest of all, still at home,—­the light of the house, and the special pet of the old squire and of Geoff’s mother, who, he told Clover, had been a great beauty in her youth, and though nearly seventy, was in his eyes beautiful still.

“It’s pretty quiet there for Isabel,” he said; “but she has my sister Helen’s two children to care for, and that will keep her busy.  I used to think she’d come out to me one of these years for a twelvemonth; but there’s little chance of her being spared now.”

Clover’s sympathy did not take the form of words.  It looked out of her eyes, and spoke in the hushed tones of her soft voice.  Geoff felt that it was there, and it comforted him.  The poor fellow was very lonely in those days, and inclined to be homesick, as even a manly man sometimes is.

“What an awful time Adam must have had of it before Eve came!” growled Clarence, that evening, as they sat around the fire.

“He had a pretty bad time after she came, if I remember,” said Clover, laughing.

“Ah, but he had her!”

“Stuff and nonsense!  He was a long shot happier without her and her old apple, I think,” put in Phil.  “You fellows don’t know when you’re well off.”

Everybody laughed.

“Phil’s notion of Paradise is the High Valley and Sorrel, and no girls about to bother and tell him not to get too tired,” remarked Clover.  “It’s a fair vision; but like all fair visions it must end.”

And end it did next day, when Dr. Hope appeared with the carriage, and the bags and saddles were put in, and the great bundle of wild-flowers, with their stems tied in wet moss; and Phil, torn from his beloved broncho, on whose back he had passed so many happy hours, was forced to accompany the others back to civilization.

“I shall see you very soon,” said Clarence, tucking the lap-robe round Clover.  “There’s the mail to fetch, and other things.  I shall be riding in every day or two.”