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.