In a cordial, kindly place, like St. Helen’s, people soon make acquaintances, and Clover and Phil felt as if they already knew half the people in the town.  Every one had come to see them and deluged them with flowers, and invitations to dine, to drive, to take tea.  Among the rest came Mr. Thurber Wade, whom Phil was pleased to call Clover’s young man,—­the son of a rich New York banker, whose ill-health had brought him to live in St. Helen’s, and who had built a handsome house on the principal street.  This gilded youth had several times sent roses to Clover,—­a fact which Phil had noticed, and upon which he was fond of commenting.

“Speaking of young men,” went on Clover, “what do you suppose has become of Clarence Page?  He said he should come in to see us soon; but that was ever so long ago.”

“He’s a fraud, I suspect,” replied Phil, lazily, from his seat in the window.  He had a geometry on his knees, and was supposed to be going on with his education, but in reality he was looking at the mountains.  “I suppose people are pretty busy on ranches, though,” he added.  “Perhaps they’re sheep-shearing.”

“Oh, it isn’t a sheep ranch.  Don’t you remember his saying that the cattle got very wild, and they had to ride after them?  They wouldn’t ride after sheep.  I hope he hasn’t forgotten about us.  I was so glad to see him.”

While this talk went on, Clarence was cantering down the lower end of the Ute Pass on his way to St. Helen’s.  Three hours later his name was brought up to them.

“How nice!” cried Clover.  “I think as he’s a relative we might let him come here, Phil.  It’s so much pleasanter than the parlor.”

Clarence, who had passed the interval of waiting in noting the different varieties of cough among the sick people in the parlor, was quite of her opinion.

“How jolly you look!” was almost his first remark.  “I’m glad you’ve got a little place of your own, and don’t have to sit with those poor creatures downstairs all the time.”

“It is much nicer.  Some of them are getting better, though.”

“Some of them aren’t.  There’s one poor fellow in a reclining-chair who looks badly.”

“That’s the one whose room Mrs. Watson has marked for her own.  She asks him three times a day how he feels, with all the solicitude of a mother,” said Phil.

“Who’s Mrs. Watson?”

“Well, she’s an old lady who is somehow fastened to us, and who considers herself our chaperone,” replied Clover, with a little laugh.  “I must introduce you by-and-by, but first we want a good talk all by ourselves.  Now tell us why you haven’t come to see us before.  We have been hoping for you every day.”

“Well, I’ve wanted to come badly enough, but there has been a combination of hindrances.  Two of our men got sick, so there was more to do than usual; then Geoff had to be away four days, and almost as soon as he got back he had bad news from home, and I hated to leave him alone.”