“Oh, we’re only too glad to have you.  Our time here is getting so short that we want to make the very most of all our friends; and by good luck there is a can of oysters in the house, so I can give you something hot.”

“Do you really go so soon?”

“Our lease is out next week, you know.”

“Really; so soon as that?”

“It isn’t soon.  We have lived here nearly eight months.”

“What a good time we have all had in this little house!” cried Geoff, regretfully.  “It has been a sort of warm little centre to us homeless people all winter.”

“You don’t count yourself among the homeless ones, I hope, with such a pleasant place as the High Valley to live in.”

“Oh, the hut is all very well in its way, of course; but I don’t look at it as a home exactly.  It answers to eat and sleep in, and for a shelter when it rains; but you can’t make much more of it than that.  The only time it ever seemed home-like in the least was when you and Mrs. Hope were there.  That week spoiled it for me for all time.”

“That’s a pity, if it’s true, but I hope it isn’t.  It was a delightful week, though; and I think you do the valley an injustice.  It’s a beautiful place.  Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to get supper.”

“Let me help you.”

“Oh, there is almost nothing to do.  I’d much rather you would sit still and rest.  You are tired from your ride, I’m sure; and if you don’t mind, I’ll bring my blazer and cook the oysters here by the fire.  I always did like to ‘kitch in the dining-room,’ as Mrs. Whitney calls it.”

Clover had set the tea-table before she sat down to sew, so there really was almost nothing to do.  Geoff lay back in his chair and looked on with a sort of dreamy pleasure as she went lightly to and fro, making her arrangements, which, simple as they were, had a certain dainty quality about them which seemed peculiar to all that Clover did,—­twisted a trail of kinnikinnick about the butter-plate, laid a garnish of fresh parsley on the slices of cold beef, and set a glass full of wild crocuses in the middle of the table.  Then she returned to the parlor, put the kettle, which had already begun to sing, on the fire, and began to stir and season her oysters, which presently sent out a savory smell.

“I have learned six ways of cooking oysters this winter,” she announced gleefully.  “This is a dry-pan-roast.  I wonder if you’ll approve of it.  And I wonder why Phil doesn’t come.  I wish he would make haste, for these are nearly done.”

“There he is now,” remarked Geoff.

But instead it was Dr. Hope’s office-boy with a note.

    DEAR C.,—­Mrs. Hope wants me for a fourth hand at whist, so I’m
    staying, if you don’t mind.  She says if it didn’t pour so she’d
    ask you to come too.  P.

“Well, I’m glad,” said Clover.  “It’s been a dull day for him, and now he’ll have a pleasant evening, only he’ll miss you.”