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
never should have known you in the world, and I can't think how you came
to know me. I was only fourteen when I saw you last, and you were quite a
little boy. What good luck that we should meet, and on our first day too!
Some one wrote that you were in Colorado, but I had no idea that you lived
at St. Helen's."
"I don't; not much. I'm living on a ranch out that way," jerking his
elbow toward the northwest, "but I ride in often to get the mail.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115