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 restlessly to and fro, and at last leaned forward and unpinned a corner of one of the photographs on the wall.