T so much?” she asked herself. “Phil has got well here, to be sure;
that would be enough of itself to make me fond of the place, and we
have had a happy
winter in this little house. But still, papa, Elsie,
John,–it seems very queer that I am not gladder to go back to them. I
can’t
account for it. It isn’t natural, and it seems wrong in me.” 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
rest