try Bower." This is the name given to an enormous headland
which falls into the sea with a sheer descent of nearly four hundred
feet, and forms the western boundary of the Clovelly roadstead.

The path was charmingly laid out with belts of woodland and clumps of
flowering shrubs. Here and there was a seat or a rustic summer-house,
commanding views of the sea, now a deep intense blue, for the rain had
ceased as suddenly as it came, and broad yellow rays were streaming over
the wet grass and trees, whose green was dazzling in its freshness.
Imogen drew in a long breath of the salt wind, and looked wistfully
about her at the vivid turf, the delicate shimmer of blowing leaves, and
the tossing ocean, as if trying to photograph each detail in her
memory.

"I shall see nothing so beautiful over there," she said. "Dear old
Devonshire, there's nothing like it."

"Colorado is even better than 'dear old Devonshire,'" declared her
brother; "wait till you see Pike's Peak. Wait till I drive you through
the North Cheyenne Canyon."

But Imogen shook her head incredulously.

"Pike's Peak!" she answered, with an air of scorn. "The name is enough;
I never want to see it."

"Well, you girls are good walkers, it must be confessed;" said Lionel,
as they emerged on the crossing of the Bideford road where they must
separate. "Isabel looks as fresh as paint, and Moggy hasn't turned a
hair. I don't think Mrs. Geoff could stand such a walk, or any of her
family."

"Oh, no, indeed; Clover would feel half-killed if she were asked to
undertake a sixteen-mile walk. I remember, when she was here, we just
went down to the pier at Clovelly for a row on the Bay and back through
the Hobby, six miles in all, perhaps, and she was quite done up, poor
dear, and had to go on to the sofa. I can't think why American girls are
not better walkers,--though there _was_ that Miss Appleton we met at
Zermatt, who went up the Matterhorn and didn't make much of it. Good-by,
Imogen; I shall come over before you start and fetch mamma's parcels."

CHAPTER II.

MISS OPDYKE FROM NEW YORK.

THE next week was a busy one. Packing had begun; and what with Mrs.
Young's motherly desire to provide her children with every possible
convenience for their new home, and Imogen's rooted conviction that
nothing could be found in Colorado worth buying, and that it was
essential to carry out all the tapes and sewing-silk and buttons and
shoe-thread and shoes and statione