nt 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."

"What sort of bad news?"

"His sister's dead."

"Poor fellow! In England too! You said he was English, didn't you?"

"Yes. She was married. Her husband was a clergyman down in Cornwall
somewhere. She was older than Geoff a good deal; but he was very fond of
her, and the news cut him up dreadfully."

"No wonder. It is horrible to hear such a thing when one is far from
home," observed Clover. She tried to realize how she should feel if word
came to St. Helen's of Katy's death, or Elsie's, or Johnnie's; but her
mind refused to accept the question. The very idea made her shiver.

"Poor fellow!" she said again; "what could you do for him, Clarence?"

"Not much. I'm a poor hand at comforting any one,--men generally are, I
guess. Geoff knows I'm sorry for him; but it takes a woman to say the
right thing at such times. We sit and smoke when the work's done, and I
know what he's thinking about; but we don't say any