CHAPTER VI.

ST. HELEN’S.

Never in her life had Clover felt so small and incompetent and so very, very young as when the train with Car Forty-seven attached vanished from sight, and left her on the platform of the Denver station with her two companions.  There they stood, Phil on one side tired and drooping, Mrs. Watson on the other blinking anxiously about, both evidently depending on her for guidance and direction.  For one moment a sort of pale consternation swept over her.  Then the sense of the inevitable and the nobler sense of responsibility came to her aid.  She rallied herself; the color returned to her cheeks, and she said bravely to Mrs. Watson,—­

“Now, if you and Phil will just sit down on that settee over there and make yourselves comfortable, I will find out about the trains for St. Helen’s, and where we had better go for the night.”

Mrs. Watson and Phil seated themselves accordingly, and Clover stood for a moment considering what she should do.  Outside was a wilderness of tracks up and down which trains were puffing, in obedience, doubtless, to some law understood by themselves, but which looked to the uninitiated like the direst confusion.  Inside the station the scene was equally confused.  Travellers just arrived and just going away were rushing in and out; porters and baggage-agents with their hands full hurried to and fro.  No one seemed at leisure to answer a question or even to listen to one.

Just then she caught sight of a shrewd, yet good-natured face looking at her from the window of the ticket-office; and without hesitation she went up to the enclosure.  It was the ticket-agent whose eye she had caught.  He was at liberty at the moment, and his answers to her inquiries, though brief, were polite and kind.  People generally did soften to Clover.  There was such an odd and pretty contrast between her girlish appealing look and her dignified little manner, like a child trying to be stately but only succeeding in being primly sweet.

The next train for St. Helen’s left at nine in the morning, it seemed, and the ticket-agent recommended the Sherman House as a hotel where they would be very comfortable for the night.

“The omnibus is just outside,” he said encouragingly.  “You’ll find it a first-class house,—­best there is west of Chicago.  From the East?  Just so.  You’ve not seen our opera-house yet, I suppose.  Denver folks are rather proud of it.  Biggest in the country except the new one in New York.  Hope you’ll find time to visit it.”

“I should like to,” said Clover; “but we are here for only one night.  My brother’s been ill, and we are going directly on to St. Helen’s.  I’m very much obliged to you.”

Her look of pretty honest gratitude seemed to touch the heart of the ticket-man.  He opened the door of his fastness, and came out—­actually came out!—­and with a long shrill whistle summoned a porter whom he addressed as, “Here, you Pat,” and bade, “Take this lady’s things, and put them into the ’bus for the Sherman; look sharp now, and see that she’s all right.”  Then to Clover,—­