Colorado
is the most beautiful place in the world. [N.B.--Clover had seen
but a limited portion of the world so far.] I only wish you
could all come out to observe for yourselves that I am not
fibbing, though it sounds like it!"
CHAPTER VIII.
HIGH VALLEY.
Clover was putting Phil's chamber to rights, and turning it into a
sitting-room for the day, which was always her first task in the morning.
They had been at St. Helen's nearly three weeks now, and the place had
taken on a very homelike appearance. All the books and the photographs
were unpacked, the washstand had vanished behind a screen made of a
three-leaved clothes-frame draped with chintz, while a ruffled cover of
the same gay chintz, on which bunches of crimson and pink geraniums
straggled over a cream-colored ground, gave to the narrow bed the air of a
respectable wide sofa.
"There! those look very nice, I think," she said, giving the last touch to
a bowl full of beautiful garden roses. "How sweet they are!"
"Your young man seems rather clever about roses," remarked Phil, who,
boy-like, dearly loved to tease his sister.
"My young man, as you call him, has a father with a gardener," replied
Clover, calmly; "no very brilliant cleverness is required for that."
In a cordial, kindly place, like St. Helen's, people soon make
acquaintances, and Clover and Phil felt as if they already knew half the
people in the town.
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