Katy’s last gift to Clover was a pretty tea-pot of Japanese ware.  “I meant it for Cecy,” she explained.  “But as you have none I’ll give it to you instead, and take her the fan I meant for you.  It seems more appropriate.”

Phil and Clover moved into No. 13 the day before the Eastern party left, so as to be able to celebrate the occasion by having them all to an impromptu house-warming.  There was not much to eat, and things were still a little unsettled; but Clover scrambled some eggs on her little blazer for them, the newly-lit fire burned cheerfully, and a good deal of quiet fun went on about it.  Amy was so charmed with the minute establishment that she declared she meant to have one exactly like it for Mabel whenever she got married.

“And a spirit-lamp, too, just like Clover’s, and a cunning, teeny-weeny kitchen and a stove to boil things on.  Mamma, when shall I be old enough to have a house all of my own?”

“Not till you are tired of playing with dolls, I am afraid.”

“Well, that will be never.  If I thought I ever could be tired of Mabel, I should be so ashamed of myself that I should not know what to do.  You oughtn’t to say such things, Mamma; she might hear you, too, and have her feelings hurt.  And please don’t call her that,” said Amy, who had as strong an objection to the word “doll” as mice are said to have to the word “cat.”

Next morning the dear home people proceeded on their way, and Clover fell to work resolutely on her housekeeping, glad to keep busy, for she had a little fear of being homesick for Katy.  Every small odd and end that she had brought with her from Burnet came into play now.  The photographs were pinned on the wall, the few books and ornaments took their places on the extemporized shelves and on the table, which, thanks to Mrs. Hope, was no longer bare, but hidden by a big square of red canton flannel.  There was almost always a little bunch of flowers from the Wade greenhouses, which were supposed to come from Mrs. Wade; and altogether the effect was cosey, and the little interior looked absolutely pretty, though the result was attained by such very simple means.

Phil thought it heavenly to be by themselves and out of the reach of strangers.  Everything tasted delicious; all the arrangements pleased him; never was boy so easily suited as he for those first few weeks at No. 13.

“You’re awfully good to me, Clover,” he said one night rather suddenly, from the depths of his rocking-chair.

The remark was so little in Phil’s line that it quite made her jump.

“Why, Phil, what made you say that?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.  I was thinking about it.  We used to call Katy the nicest, but you’re just as good as she is. [This Clover justly considered a tremendous compliment.] You always make a fellow feel like home, as Geoff Templestowe says.”

“Did Geoff say that?” with a warm sense of gladness at her heart.  “How nice of him!  What made him say it?”