“I wonder why it is that I mind it so much?” she asked herself.  “Phil has got well here, to be sure; that would be enough of itself to make me fond of the place, and we have had a happy winter in this little house.  But still, papa, Elsie, John,—­it seems very queer that I am not gladder to go back to them.  I can’t account for it.  It isn’t natural, and it seems wrong in me.”

It was a rainy afternoon in which Clover made these reflections.  Phil, weary of being shut indoors, had donned ulster and overshoes, and gone up to make a call on Mrs. Hope.  Clover was quite alone in the house, as she sat with her mending-basket beside the fireplace, in which was burning the last but three of the pinon logs,—­Geoff Templestowe’s Christmas present.

“They will just last us out,” reflected Clover; “what a comfort they have been!  I would like to carry the very last of them home with me, and keep it to look at; but I suppose it would be silly.”

She looked about the little room.  Nothing as yet had been moved or disturbed, though the next week would bring their term of occupancy to a close.

“This is a good evening to begin to take things down and pack them,” she thought.  “No one is likely to come in, and Phil is away.”

She rose from her chair, moved restlessly to and fro, and at last leaned forward and unpinned a corner of one of the photographs on the wall.  She stood for a moment irresolutely with the pin in her fingers, then she jammed it determinedly back into the photograph again, and returned to her sewing.  I almost think there were tears in her eyes.

“No,” she said half aloud, “I won’t spoil it yet.  We’ll have one more pleasant night with everything just as it is, and then I’ll go to work and pull all to pieces at once.  It’s the easiest way.”

Just then a foot sounded on the steps, and a knock was heard.  Clover opened the door, and gave an exclamation of pleasure.  It was Geoffrey Templestowe, splashed and wet from a muddy ride down the pass, but wearing a very bright face.

“How nice and unexpected this is!” was Clover’s greeting.  “It is such a bad day that I didn’t suppose you or Clarence could possibly get in.  Come to the fire and warm yourself.  Is he here too?”

“No; he is out at the ranch.  I came in to meet a man on business; but it seems there’s a wash-out somewhere between here and Santa Fe, and my man telegraphs that he can’t get through till to-morrow noon.”

“So you will spend the night in town.”

“Yes.  I took Marigold to the stable, and spoke to Mrs. Marsh about a room, and then I walked up to see you and Phil.  How is he, by the way?”

“Quite well.  I never saw him so strong or so jolly.  Papa will hardly believe his eyes when we get back.  He has gone up to the Hopes, but will be in presently.  You’ll stay and take tea with us, of course.”

“Thanks, if you will have me; I was hoping to be asked.”