dinner and got settled a little. She sent those to you," indicating a vase
on the table, filled with flowers. They were of a sort which Clover had
never seen before,--deep cup-shaped blossoms of beautiful pale purple and
white.

"Oh, what are they?" she called after the doctor.

"Anemones," he answered, and was gone.

"What a dear, nice, kind man!" cried Clover. "Isn't it delightful to have
a friend right off who knows papa, and does things for us because we are
papa's children? You like him, don't you, Phil; and don't you like your
room?"

"Yes; only it doesn't seem fair that I should have the largest."

"Oh, yes; it is perfectly fair. I never shall want to be in mine except
when I am dressing or asleep. I shall sit here with you all the time; and
isn't it lovely that we have those enchanting mountains just before our
eyes? I never saw anything in my life that I liked so much as I do that
one."

It was Cheyenne Mountain at which she pointed, the last of the chain, and
set a little apart, as it were, from the others. There is as much
difference between mountains as between people, as mountain-lovers know,
and like people they present characters and individualities of their own.
The noble lines of Mount Cheyenne are full of a strange dignity; but it is
dignity mixed with an indefinable charm. The canyons nestle about its
base, as children at a parent's knee; its cedar forests clothe it like
drapery; it lifts its head to the dawn and the sunset; and the sun seems