Helen's, and where we had better go for the night."

Mrs. Watson and Phil seated themselves accordingly, and Clover stood for a
moment considering what she should do. Outside was a wilderness of tracks
up and down which trains were puffing, in obedience, doubtless, to some
law understood by themselves, but which looked to the uninitiated like the
direst confusion. Inside the station the scene was equally confused.
Travellers just arrived and just going away were rushing in and out;
porters and baggage-agents with their hands full hurried to and fro. No
one seemed at leisure to answer a question or even to listen to one.

Just then she caught sight of a shrewd, yet good-natured face looking at
her from the window of the ticket-office; and without hesitation she went
up to the enclosure. It was the ticket-agent whose eye she had caught. He
was at liberty at the moment, and his answers to her inquiries, though
brief, were polite and kind. People generally did soften to Clover. There
was such an odd and pretty contrast between her girlish appealing look and
her dignified little manner, like a child trying to be stately but only
succeeding in being primly sweet.

The next train for St. Helen's left at nine in the morning, it seemed, and
the ticket-agent recommended the Sherman House as a hotel where they would
be very comfortable for the night.

"The omnibus is just outside," he said encouragingly. "You'll find it a
first-class house,--best there is west of Chicago. From the East? Just so.
You've not seen our opera-house yet, I suppose. Denver folks are rather
proud of it. Biggest in the country except the new one in New York. Hope
you'll find time to visit it."