ing homesick for Katy. Every small odd and end that she
had brought with her from Burnet came into play now. The photographs were
pinned on the wall, the few books and ornaments took their places on the
extemporized shelves and on the table, which, thanks to Mrs. Hope, was no
longer bare, but hidden by a big square of red canton flannel. There was
almost always a little bunch of flowers from the Wade greenhouses, which
were supposed to come from Mrs. Wade; and altogether the effect was cosey,
and the little interior looked absolutely pretty, though the result was
attained by such very simple means.

Phil thought it heavenly to be by themselves and out of the reach of
strangers. Everything tasted delicious; all the arrangements pleased him;
never was boy so easily suited as he for those first few weeks at No. 13.

"You're awfully good to me, Clover," he said one night rather suddenly,
from the depths of his rocking-chair.

The remark was so little in Phil's line that it quite made her jump.

"Why, Phil, what made you say that?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I was thinking about it. We used to call Katy the
nicest, but you're just as good as she is. [This Clover justly considered
a tremendous compliment.] You always make a fellow feel like home, as
Geoff Templestowe says."

"Did Geoff say that?" with a warm sense of gladness at her heart. "How
nice of him! What made him say it?"

"Oh, I don't know; it was up in the canyon one day when we got to
talking," replied Phil. "There are no flies on you, he considers. I asked
him once if he didn't think Miss Chase pretty, and he said not half so
pretty as you were."

"Really! You seem to have been very confidential. And what is that about
flies? Phil, Phil, you really mustn't use such slang."

"I suppose it is slang; but it's an awfully nice expression anyway."

"But what _does_ it mean?"

"Oh, you must see just by the sound of it what it means,--that there's no
nonsense sticking out all over you like some of the girls. It's a great
compliment!"

"Is it? Well, I'm glad to know. But Mr. Templestowe never used such a
phrase, I'm sure."

"No, he didn't," admitted Phil; "but that's what he meant."

So the winter drew on,--the strange, beautiful Colorado winter,--with
weeks of golden sunshine broken by occasional storms of wind and sand, or
by skurries of snow which made the plains white for a few hours and then
vanished, leaving them dry and firm as before. The nights