drive. Some one cantered past every moment,--a lady alone, two or three
girls together, or a party of rough-looking men in long boots, or a single
ranchman sitting loose in his stirrups, and swinging a stock whip.

Clover and Phil were standing on a corner, looking at some "Rocky Mountain
Curiosities" displayed for sale,--minerals, Pueblo pottery, stuffed
animals, and Indian blankets; and Phil had just commented on the beauty of
a black horse which was tied to a post close by, when its rider emerged
from a shop, and prepared to mount.

He was a rather good-looking young fellow, sunburnt and not very tall, but
with a lithe active figure, red-brown eyes and a long mustache of tawny
chestnut. He wore spurs and a broad-brimmed sombrero, and carried in his
hand a whip which seemed two-thirds lash. As he put his foot into the
stirrup, he turned for another look at Clover, whom he had rather stared
at while passing, and then changing his intention, took it out again, and
came toward them.

"I beg your pardon," he said; "but aren't you--isn't it--Clover Carr?"

"Yes," said Clover, wondering, but still without the least notion as to
whom the stranger might be.

"You've forgotten me?" went on the young man, with a smile which made his
face very bright. "That's rather hard too; for I knew you at once. I
suppose I'm a good deal changed, though, and perhaps I shouldn't have made
you out except for your eyes; they're just the same. Why, Clover, I'm your
cousin, Clarence Page!"

"Clarence Page!" cried Clover, joyfully; "not really! Why, Clarence, I