We have lived here nearly eight months."
"What a good time we have all had in this little house!" cried Geoff,
regretfully. "It has been a sort of warm little centre to us homeless
people all winter."
"You don't count yourself among the homeless ones, I hope, with such a
pleasant place as the High Valley to live in."
"Oh, the hut is all very well in its way, of course; but I don't look at
it as a home exactly. It answers to eat and sleep in, and for a shelter
when it rains; but you can't make much more of it than that. The only time
it ever seemed home-like in the least was when you and Mrs. Hope were
there. That week spoiled it for me for all time."
"That's a pity, if it's true, but I hope it isn't. It was a delightful
week, though; and I think you do the valley an injustice. It's a beautiful
place. Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to get supper."
"Let me help you."
"Oh, there is almost nothing to do. I'd much rather you would sit still
and rest. You are tired from your ride, I'm sure; and if you don't mind,
I'll bring my blazer and cook the oysters here by the fire. I always did
like to 'kitch in the dining-room,' as Mrs. Whitney calls it."
Clover had set the tea-table before she sat down to sew, so there really
was almost nothing to do. Geoff lay back in his chair and looked on with a
sort of dreamy pleasure as she went lightly to and fro, making her
arrangements, which, simple as they were, had a certain dainty quality
about them which seemed peculiar to all that Clover did,--twisted a trail
of kinnikinnick about the butter-plate, laid a garnish of fresh parsley on
the slices of cold beef, and set a glass full of wild crocuses in the
middle of the table.
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