more nice people, just two or three, with pretty little houses, you
know, dotted here and there in the side canyons, whom we could ride up
to visit, and who would come down to see us, and dine and play whist and
dance Virginia reels and 'Sally Waters' on Christmas Eve. That would be
quite perfect. But I suppose it won't happen till nobody knows how
long."

"I suppose so, too," said Geoff in a tone of well-simulated sympathy.
"Poor Elsie, spoiling for people! Don't set your heart on them. High
Valley isn't at all a likely spot to make a neighborhood of."

"A neighborhood! I should think not! A neighborhood would be horrid. But
if two or three people wanted to come,--really nice ones, you know,
perfect charmers,--surely you and Clare wouldn't have the heart to
refuse to sell them building lots?"

"We are exactly a whist quartet now," said Clarence, patting his wife's
shoulder. "Cheer up, dear. You shall have your perfect charmers _when_
they apply; but meantime changes are risky, and I am quite content with
things as they are, and am ready to dance Sally Waters with you at any
time with pleasure. Might I have the honor now, for instance?"

"Indeed, no! Clover and I have to work like beavers on the Youngs'
house. And, Clare, _we_ are quite a complete party in ourselves, as you
say; but there are the children to be considered. Geoffy and Phillida
will want to play whist one of these days, and where is _their_ quartet
to come from?"

[Illustration: "Down they came, hand in hand, chattering as they
went."--PAGE 111]

"We shall have to consider that point when they are a little nearer the
whist age. Here they come now. I hear the nursery door slam. They don't
look particularly dejected about their future prospects, I must say."

Four pairs of eyes turned expectantly toward the staircase, down which
there presently came the dearest little pair of children that can be
imagined. Clover's boy of three was as big as most people's boys of
five, a splendid sturdy little Englishman in build, but with his
mother's lovely eyes and skin. Phillida, whose real name was Philippa,
was of a more delicate and slender make, with dark brown eyes and a mane
of ruddy gold which repeated something of the tawny tints of her
father's hair and beard. Down they came hand in hand, little Phil
holding tightly to the polished baluster, chattering as they went, like
two wood-thrushes. Neither of them had ever known any other child
playmates, and th