"
It was a rainy afternoon in which Clover made these reflections. Phil,
weary of being shut indoors, had donned ulster and overshoes, and gone up
to make a call on Mrs. Hope. Clover was quite alone in the house, as she
sat with her mending-basket beside the fireplace, in which was burning the
last but three of the pinon logs,--Geoff Templestowe's Christmas present.
"They will just last us out," reflected Clover; "what a comfort they have
been! I would like to carry the very last of them home with me, and keep
it to look at; but I suppose it would be silly."
She looked about the little room. Nothing as yet had been moved or
disturbed, though the next week would bring their term of occupancy to a
close.
"This is a good evening to begin to take things down and pack them," she
thought. "No one is likely to come in, and Phil is away."
She rose from her chair, moved restlessly to and fro, and at last leaned
forward and unpinned a corner of one of the photographs on the wall. She
stood for a moment irresolutely with the pin in her fingers, then she
jammed it determinedly back into the photograph again, and returned to
her sewing. I almost think there were tears in her eyes.
"No," she said half aloud, "I won't spoil it yet. We'll have one more
pleasant night with everything just as it is, and then I'll go to work and
pull all to pieces at once. It's the easiest way.
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