The minister stayed to dinner, of course; and, in spite of her interest in the sermon, Teresa had seen to it that the dinner was everything that one could ask of it. The minister had the place of honor at the table, and proved to be a most agreeable talker. Genevieve had not caught his name distinctly, but she thought it was "Jones." He lived in Bolo, he said, having recently moved there from a distant part of the state. He hoped that he might be able to do good work there. Certainly there was need that somebody do something. In response to Mr. Hartley's cordial invitation to stay a few days at the ranch, he answered with visible regret:
"Thank you, sir. Nothing would please me more, but it is quite out of the question. I must go back this afternoon. I have a service in Bolo this evening."
"You must be a busy man," observed Mr. Hartley, genially.
The minister sighed.
"I am—yet I can't do half that I want to. This outside work among the ranches I shall try to carry on as best I can. But you're all so afraid you'll have a neighbor nearer than a score of miles," he added with a whimsical smile, "that I can't get among you very often."
It was after dinner that the minister chanced to hear Genevieve speak of herself as a Happy Hexagon.
"Hexagon?—Hexagon?" he echoed smilingly. "And are you, too, a Happy Hexagon?" he asked, turning to the mistress of the Six Star Ranch.
"Why, yes. Do you mean you know another one?" questioned the girl, all interest immediately. "It's the name of our girls' club—the Hexagon Club."
"No, but I heard of one, once," rejoined the man. "And it isn't usual, you know, so it attracted my attention."
"But where was it? When was it? We supposed we were the only Happy Hexagons in the world," cried Genevieve.
The minister smiled.
"I found my Happy Hexagons at the bottom of a letter from the East."
"A letter from the East?" Genevieve's voice held now a curious note of wild unbelief.
"Yes. It came before we moved to Bolo. Myelder daughter was teaching in the East, and was taken ill. Some of her girls wrote to us."
Genevieve sprang to her feet.
"Are you—you can't be—the Rev. Luke Jones!" she cried.
"That is my name."
"And is Quentina your daughter?"
It was the minister's turn to look amazed.
"Why, yes; but—how do you know? Are you—you can't be—myHappy Hexagons!" he ejaculated.
She nodded laughingly. She spoke, too; but what she said was not heard. All of the Happy Hexagons were talking by that time. The Rev. Mr. Jones, indeed, found himself besieged on all sides with eager questions and amazed comments.
Under cover of the confusion, Mr. Hartley turned in puzzled wonder to Mrs. Kennedy.
"Willyou tell me what all this is about?" he begged.
Mrs. Kennedy smiled.
"Of course! I think perhaps it is all new to you. Last winter Miss Alice Jones, a Texas lady and the girls' Latin teacher, was taken ill. The girls were very attentive, and did lots of little things for her; but she grew worse and had to leave. Just before she went, the mother wrote a letter thanking the girls, and in the letter was a note signed 'Quentina Jones.' Quentina was a younger sister, it seemed,and she, too, wished to thank the girls. Of course the girls were delighted, and immediately answered it, signing themselves 'The Happy Hexagons.' The teacher went away then, and the girls heard nothing more. But they have talked of Quentina Jones ever since."
"But it's all so wonderful," cried Genevieve, her voice rising dominant at last. "Where is Miss Alice Jones, and how is she?"
"She is better, thank you, though not very strong yet. She is teaching in Colorado."
"Oh, I'm so glad," cried Genevieve, "but I wish we could see her, too. Only think, girls, of Quentina Jones being right here, only eighteen miles away!"
"One would think eighteen miles were a mere step!" laughed Tilly.
"They are—in Texas," retorted Genevieve. Then, to the minister she said: "Now tell us, please, Mr. Jones, what we can do. We want to see Quentina right away, quick. We can't wait! Can she come over?Can'tshe? We'd love to have her!"
The minister shook his head slowly.
"I'm afraid not, Miss Genevieve—thank you just the same. I'd love to have her. It would do her such a world of good, poor little girl, to have one happy time with all you young people! But my wife has a lame foot just now, and Quentina simplycannot be spared. You know she has several brothers, so we have quite a family. But, I'll tell you what—you young ladies must all come to see us."
"Oh, thank you! We'd love to—and we will, too." (Back in her ranch home, it was easy for Genevieve to slip into her old independent way of consulting no one's will but her own.) "When do you want us?"
"But, my dear," interposed Mrs. Kennedy, hastily, "if Mrs. Jones is not well, surely we cannot ask her to take in six noisy girls as guests!"
"Why, no—of course not," stammered Genevieve. The rest of the Happy Hexagons looked suddenly heartbroken. But the minister smiled reassuringly.
"My wife isn't ill—only lame; and she loves young people. She'll be just as eager for you to come as Quentina will be—and Quentina just simply won't take 'no' for an answer, I'm sure. She talked for days of the Happy Hexagons, after your letter came. You must come, only—" he hesitated, "only I'm afraid you'll be a little cramped for room. A village parsonage isn't a ranch, you know. But, if you don't mind sort of—picnicking, and having to stand up in the corner to sleep—" he paused quizzically.
"We adore standing up and sleeping in corners," declared Genevieve, promptly.
"Then shall we call it Tuesday?" smiled Mr. Jones.
"But how can they go?" questioned Mrs. Kennedy, in an anxious voice.
"Why, they might ride it," began Mr. Hartley, slowly; "still, that would hardly do—even should the ponies come in time—such a long trip when they haven't ridden any here, yet. I'll tell you. We'll let Carlos drive them over in the carriage early Tuesday morning. I reckon the seven of them can stow themselves away, somehow—it holds six with room to spare on every seat. Then, Wednesday afternoon, he can drive them back. Meanwhile, he can stay himself in the town and get some supplies that I'm needing."
"But seems to me that gives us a very short visit," demurred Mr. Jones, as he rose to take his leave.
"Quite long enough—for the good wife," declared Mrs. Kennedy, decisively. And thus the matter was settled.
Quite the most absorbing topic of conversation Monday was, of course, the coming visit to Quentina Jones.
"But whatisher name?" demanded Mr. Hartley at last, almost impatiently. "It isn't 'Quentina,' of course. Iknowthat man who was here Sunday would never have named a daughter of his 'Quentina.'"
"Her name is 'Clorinda Dorinda,'" replied Genevieve. "She told us so in her letter; but she said she was always called 'Quentina.' I don't know why."
"Whew! I should think she would be," laughed Mr. Hartley. "Only fancy having to be called 'Clorinda Dorinda' whenever you were wanted!"
"Sounds like a rhyming dictionary to me," chuckled Tilly. "'Clorinda, Dorinda, Lucinda, Miranda,'" she chanted.
Mr. Hartley laughed, and walked off.
"Well, I'll leave her to you, anyhow, whatever she is," he called back.
"I'll bet he's just dying to go with us, all the same," whispered Tilly, saucily.
Cordelia frowned, hesitated, then spoke.
"Auntie says ladies don't bet," she observed, in her severest manner.
"Oh, don't they?" snapped Tilly; then she, too, frowned, and hesitated. "All right, Cordy—Cordelia; see that you don't do it, then," she concluded good-naturedly.
Monday was a very quiet day for the girls at the ranch. Mrs. Kennedy had insisted from the first upon this. She said that the next two days would be quite exciting enough to call for all the rest possible beforehand. So, except for the usual watching of the boys' morning start to work, there was little but music, books, and letter-writing allowed.
Tuesday dawned clear, but very warm. The girls were all awake at sunrise, and were soon ready for the early breakfast. Almost at once, afterward, they stowed themselves—with little crowding but much giggling—in the carriage, and called gayly to Carlos: "We're all ready!"
"Yes, we're all aboard, Carlos," cried Genevieve.
"Good, Señorita! It is ver' glad I am to see you so prompt to the halter," grinned Carlos. "Quien sabe?—mebbe I didn't reckon on corrallin' the whole bunch of you so soon!"
Genevieve laughed, even while she made a wry face.
"I'm afraid Carlos remembers that I was never on time, girls," she pouted. "But you don't know, Carlos, what a marvel of promptness I've become back East—specially since somebody gave me a watch," she finished, smiling into the old man's face.
"All ready!" grinned Carlos, climbing into his seat.
"Let's give our Texas yell," proposed Tilly, softly, as she looked back to see Mrs. Kennedy, Mr. Hartley, and Mammy Lindy on the gallery steps. "Now count, Cordelia!"
And Cordelia did count. Once again her face expressed a tragedy of responsibility, and once again the resulting
"Texas, Texas, Tex—Tex—Texas!Texas, Texas, Rah! Rah! Rah!GENEVIEVE!"
was the glorious success it ought to have been. So to a responsive chorus of shouts, laughter, and hand-clapping, the Happy Hexagons drove away from the ranch house.
It was a pleasant drive, though a warm one. It did seem a little long, too, so anxious were they to reach their goal. The prairie sights and sounds, though interesting, were not so new, now. Even the two or three herds of cattle they met, and thegroups of cowboys they saw galloping across the prairies, did not create quite the excitement they always had created heretofore. Quentina and the minister's home were so much more interesting to think of!
"What do you suppose she'll be like?" asked Elsie.
"Quien sabe?" laughed Genevieve.
"There! what does that mean?" demanded Tilly. "I've heard it lots of times since I've been here."
"'Who knows?'" translated Genevieve, smilingly.
"Yes, who does know?" retorted Tilly, not understanding. "But what does it mean?"
Genevieve laughed outright.
"That's just what it means—'Who knows?' The Mexicans and the cowboys use it a lot here, and when I come back I get to saying it, too."
"I should think you did," shrugged Tilly. "Well, anyhow, let's talk straight English for a while. Let's talk of Quentina. What do you suppose she's like, girls?"
"Let's guess," proposed Genevieve. "We can, you know, for Miss Jones was too sick to tell us anything, and we haven't a thing to go by but Quentina's letter, and that didn't tell much."
"All right, let's guess. Let's make a game of it," cried Tilly. "We'll each tell what we think,and then see who comes the nearest. You begin, Genevieve."
"All right. I think she's quiet and tall, and very dark like a Spaniard," announced Genevieve, weighing her words carefully.
"I think she's bookish, and maybe stupid," declared Tilly. "Her letter sounded queer."
"I think she's little, and got yellow hair and light-blue eyes," said Bertha.
"I think she's got curls—black ones—and looks lovely in red," declared Elsie Martin.
"We can trust you, Elsie, to get in something about her clothes," chuckled Tilly.
"Well, I think she's got brown eyes like Genevieve's, and brown hair like hers, too," asserted Alma Lane.
"Now, Cordelia," smiled Genevieve, "it's your turn. You haven't said, yet."
"There isn't anything left for me to say," replied Cordelia, in a slightly worried voice. "You've got all the pretty things used up. I should just have to say I think she's fat and homely—and I don't think I ought to say that, for it would be a downright fib. I don't think she's that at all!"
There was a general laugh at this; then, for a time, there was silence while the carriage rolled along the prairie road.
Carlos had no difficulty in finding the home of the Rev. Mr. Jones in Bolo. It proved to be alittle house, unattractive, and very plain. It looked particularly forlorn with its bare little front yard, in which some one had made an attempt to raise nasturtiums and petunias.
"Mercy! I guess we'llhaveto stand up in corners to sleep," gurgled Tilly, as the carriage stopped before the side door.
"Sh-h!" warned Genevieve. "Tilly, isn't it awful? Only think of our Quentina's living here!"
At that moment the door of the little house opened, and Mr. Jones appeared. From around his feet there seemed literally to tumble out upon the steps several boys of "assorted sizes," as Tilly expressed it afterward. Then the girls saw her in the doorway—Quentina. She was slender, not very tall, but very pretty, with large, dark eyes, and fine yellow hair that fluffed and curled all about her forehead and ears and neck.
"O Happy Hexagons, Happy Hexagons, welcome, welcome, Happy Hexagons!" breathed the girl in the doorway ecstatically, clasping her hands.
"Sounds almost like our Texas yell," giggled Tilly, under her breath.
Genevieve was the first to reach the ground.
"Quentina—I know you're Quentina; and I'm Genevieve Hartley," she cried, before Mr. Jones had a chance to speak.
"Yes, this is Quentina," he said then, cordially shaking Genevieve's hand. "And now I'll let youpresent her to your young friends, please, because you can do it so much better than I."
They were all out now, on the ground, hanging back a little diffidently. It was this, perhaps, that made Cordelia think that something ought to be said or done. She came hurriedly forward as she caught Genevieve's eye and heard her own name called.
"Yes, I'm Cordelia, and I'm so glad to see you," she stammered; "and I'm so glad you're not fat and homely, too—er—that is," she corrected feverishly, "I mean—we didn't any of us get you right, you know."
"Get me—right?" Quentina opened her dark eyes to their fullest extent.
Cordelia blushed, and tried to back away. With her eyes she implored Tilly or Elsie to take her place.
It was Genevieve who came to the rescue.
"We'll have to own up, Quentina," she laughed. "On the way here we were trying to picture how you look; and of course we each had to guess a different thing, so we got all kinds of combinations."
"Yes, but we didn't get yours," chuckled Tilly, coming easily forward, with outstretched hand.
"Indeed we didn't," echoed Elsie, admiringly.
"Why, of course we couldn't," stammered Cordelia, still red of face. "We never, nevercouldthink of anything so pretty as you really are!"
Quentina laughed now, and raised hurried hands to hide the pretty red that had flown to her cheeks.
"Oh, you funny, funny Happy Hexagons!" she cried, in her sweet, Southern drawl.
Naturally there could be nothing stiff about the introductions, after that, and they were dispatched in short order, even to Mr. Jones's pulling the boys into line, and announcing:
"This is Paul, with the solemn face. And this grinning little chap is Edward—Ned, for short; and these are the twins, Bob and Rob."
"Are they both 'Robert'?" questioned Tilly, interestedly.
Mr. Jones smiled.
"Oh, no. Bob is Bolton, and Rob is Robert. The 'Rob and Bob' is Quentina's idea—she likes the sound of it."
"I told you!—sheisa rhyming dictionary," whispered Tilly, in an aside that nearly convulsed the two girls that heard her.
Inside the house they all met "mother."
Mother, in spite of her lame foot, was a very forceful personality. She was bright and cheery, too, and she made the girls feel welcome and at home immediately.
"It's so good of you to come!" she exclaimed. "Poor Quentina has been shut up with me for weeks. But I'm better, now—lots better; and I shall soon be about again."
"I think it was very good of you to let us come," returned Genevieve, politely, "specially when you aren't well yourself. But we'll try not to make you any more trouble than we can't help."
"Trouble, dear child! I reckon we don't callyoutrouble," declared the minister's wife, fervently, "after all your kindness to my daughter, Alice." Genevieve raised a protesting hand, but Mrs. Jones went on smilingly. "And then that letter to Quentina—she's never ceased to talk and dream of the girls who sent it to her."
"Oh, I did like it so much—indeed I did," chimed in Quentina. "Why, Genevieve, I made a poem on it—a lovely poem just like Tennyson's 'Margaret,' you know; only I put in 'Hexagons,' and changed the words to fit, of course."
Tilly nudged Elsie violently, and Elsie choked a spasmodic giggle into a cough; but Quentina unhesitatingly went on.
"It began:
"'O sweet pale Hexagons,O rare pale Hexagons,What lit your eyes with tearful power,Like moonlight on a falling shower?Why sent you, loves, so full and free,Your letter sweet to little me?'
That's just the first, you know," smiled Quentina, engagingly, "and of course when I wrote it I didn'tknow you weren't really 'pale,' at all; but then, we can just call that part poetic license."
Genevieve laughed frankly. Tilly giggled. Cordelia looked nervously from them to Quentina.
"I'm sure, that—that's very pretty," she faltered.
Mrs. Jones smiled.
"I'm afraid, for a little, you won't know just what to make of Quentina," she explained laughingly. "We're used to her turning everything into jingles, but strangers are not."
"Oh, mother, I don't," cried Quentina, reproachfully. "There's heaps and heaps of things that I never wrote a line of poetry about. But how could I help it?—that beautiful letter, and the Happy Hexagons, and all! It just wrote itself. I sent it East, too, to a magazine, two or three times—but they didn't put it in," she added, as an afterthought.
"Why, what a shame!" murmured Tilly.
Genevieve looked up quickly. Tilly was wearing her most innocent, most angelic expression, but Genevieve knew very well the naughtiness behind it. Quentina, however, accepted it as pure gold.
"Yes, wasn't it?" she rejoined cheerfully. "I felt right bad, particularly as I was going to send you all a copy when it was published."
"You can give us a manuscript copy, Quentina. We would love that," interposed Genevieve, hurriedly. Behind Quentina's back she gave Tilly thena frowning shake of the head—though it must be confessed that her dancing eyes rather spoiled the effect of it.
"Maybe it's because her name rhymes—'Clorinda Dorinda,'" suggested Tilly, interestedly; "maybe that's why she likes to write poetry so well."
Mrs. Jones laughed.
"That's what her father says. But Clorinda herself changed her own name about as soon as she could talk. She couldn't manage the hard 'Clorinda' very well, and I had a Mexican nurse girl, Quentina, whose name she much preferred. So very soon she was calling herself 'Quentina,' and insisting that every one else should do the same."
"But it's so much prettier," declared the minister's daughter, fervently. "Of course 'Clorinda Dorinda' are some pretty, because they rhyme so, but I like 'Quentina' better. Besides, there are lots more pretty words to make that rhyme with—Florena, Dulcina, Rowena, and verbena, you know."
"And 'you've seen her,'" suggested Tilly, gravely.
Quentina frowned a moment in thought.
"Y-yes," she admitted; "but I don't think that's a very pretty one."
It was Genevieve this time who choked a giggle into a cough, and who, a moment later, turned very eagerly to welcome an interruption in the person of the Rev. Mr. Jones.
Soon after this Quentina suggested a trip through the house.
"You see I want to show you where you're going to sleep," she explained.
"Oh, Mr. Jones told us that," observed Tilly, as the seven girls trooped up the narrow stairway. "He said we were to stand up in the corners." Tilly spoke with the utmost gravity.
Quentina turned, wide-eyed.
"Why, you couldn't! You'd never sleep a bit," she demurred concernedly. "Besides, it isn't necessary."
All but Tilly and Genevieve tittered audibly. Tilly still looked the picture of innocence. Genevieve frowned at her sternly, then stepped forward and put her arm around Quentina's waist.
"Tilly was only joking, Quentina," she explained. "When you know Tilly better you'll find she never by any chance talks sense—but always nonsense," she finished, looking at Tilly severely.
Tilly wrinkled up her nose and pouted; but her eyes laughed.
"There, here's my room," announced Quentina, a moment later. "We've put a couch in it, and if you don't mind my sleeping with you, three can be here. Then across the hall here is the twins' room, and two more can sleep in this; and Paul and Ned's room down there at the end of the hall will takethe other two. There! You see we've got it fixed right well."
"Oh, yes—well for us; but how about the boys?" cried Genevieve. "Where will they sleep?"
Quentina's lips parted, but before the words were uttered, a new thought seemed to have come to her. With an odd little glance at Tilly, she drawled demurely:
"Oh, they are going to sleep in the corners."
They all laughed this time.
"Well, now we've done the whole house, and we'll take the yard," proposed Quentina, as, a little later, she led the way down-stairs and out of doors. "There! aren't my nasturtiums beautiful?" she exulted, with the air of a fond mother displaying her first-born. She was pointing to a bed of straggling, puny plants, beautifully free from weeds, and showing here and there a few brilliant blossoms.
Tilly turned her back suddenly. Cordelia looked distressed. Bertha cried thoughtlessly:
"Oh, but you ought to see Genevieve's, Quentina, if you want to see nasturtiums!"
"Oh, but I have Carlos," cut in Genevieve, hurriedly, "and Carlos can make anything grow. What a pretty dark one this is," she finished, bending over one of the plants.
Quentina's face clouded.
"I don't suppose they are much, really," she admitted."But I've worked so hard over them! Father says the earth isn't good at all. I was so pleased when that big red one came out! I made a poem on it right off:
"'O nasturtium, sweet nasturtium,Did you blossom just for me?Where, oh, where did you unearth 'em—All those colors that I see?'
That's the way it began. Wasn't I lucky to think of that 'unearth 'em?' Besides, it's really true, you know. They do unearth 'em, and 'twas such a nice rhyme for nasturtium. Now there's petunia; I think that's a perfectly beautiful sounding word, but I've never been able to find a single thing that rhymed with it. I do love flowers so," she added, after a moment; "but we've never had many. They always burn up, or dry up, or get eaten up, or just don't come up at all. Of course we've never had a really pretty place. Ministers like us don't, you know," she finished cheerfully.
There was no reply to this. Not one of the Happy Hexagons could think of anything to say. For once even Tilly was at a loss for words. It was Quentina herself who broke the silence.
"Now tell me all about the East. Let's go up on the gallery and sit down. I do so want to go East to school; but of course I can't."
"Why not?" asked Bertha.
"Oh, it costs too much," returned Quentina. "You know ministers don't have money for such things." Her voice was still impersonally cheerful.
"How old are you?" asked Elsie, as they seated themselves on chairs and steps.
"Sixteen last month."
"Oh, I wish you could go," cried Genevieve. "Wouldn't it be just lovely if you could come to Sunbridge and go to school with us!"
"Where is Sunbridge? I always thought of it as just 'East,' you know."
"In New Hampshire."
"Oh," said Quentina, with a sigh of disappointment. "I hoped it was in Massachusetts, near Boston, you know. I thought Alice said it was near Boston."
"Well, we aren't so awfully far from Boston," bridled Tilly. "It only takes an hour and a half or less to go there. I go with mother every little while when I'm home."
Quentina sprang to her feet.
"Boston! Oh, girls, you don't know how I want to see Boston, and Paul Revere's grave, and the Common, and the old State House, and Bunker Hill, and that lovely North Church where they hung the lantern, you know.
'Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,'"
she began to chant impressively. "Oh, don't you just love that poem?"
"Who was Paul Revere?" asked Tilly, pleasantly.
"Paul Revere!" exclaimed Quentina, plainly shocked. "Who wasPaul Revere!"
"Tilly!" scolded Genevieve, as soon as she could command her voice. "Quentina, that's only some of Tilly's nonsense. Tilly knows very well who Paul Revere was."
"Yes, of course she does; and we all do," interposed Elsie Martin. "But I'll own right up, I don't know half as much about all those historical things and places as I ought to."
"Neither do I," chimed in Bertha. "Just because they're right there handy, and we can go any time, we—"
"Wedon'tgo any time," laughed Alma Lane, finishing the sentence for her.
"I know it," said Elsie. "We had a cousin with us for two weeks last summer, and she just doted on old relics and graveyards. She made us take her into Boston 'most every day, and she asked all sorts of questions which I couldn't answer."
"Yes, I know; but excuse me, please," put in Tilly, flippantly. "I don't want any graveyards and relics in mine."
"That's slang, Tilly," reproved Cordelia.
"Is it?" murmured Tilly, serenely.
"Besides, people come from miles and miles just to see those things that we neglect, right at our doors, almost."
"But how can you neglect them?" remonstrated Quentina. "Why, if I ever go to Boston, I sha'n't sleep nor eat till I've seen Paul Revere's grave!"
"Well, I shouldn't sleep nor eat if I did," shuddered Tilly.
"You mean you'veneverseen it?" gasped Quentina, unbelievingly.
"Guilty!" Tilly held up her hand unblushingly.
"Never you mind, Quentina," soothed Genevieve. "We are interested in those things, really."
"Then you have seen it?"
"Er—n-no, not that one," confessed Genevieve, coloring. "But I've seen heaps of other graves there," she assured her hopefully, as if graves were the only open door to Quentina's favor.
"Oh, you've had such chances," envied Quentina. "Just think—Boston! Yousaidyou were near Boston?"
"Oh, yes."
"Less than two hours away?"
"Why, yes," exclaimed Tilly, "I told you. We're less than an hour and a half away."
"And are you a D. A. R., and Colonial Dames, and Mayflower Society members, and all that?"
"Dear me! I don't know," laughed Genevieve. "Why?"
"And do you read theAtlantic Monthly, and eat beans Saturday night, and fishballs Sunday morning?" still hurried on Quentina. "You don't any of you wear glasses, and I don't think you speak very low."
"Anything else?" asked Tilly politely.
"Oh, yes, lots of things," answered Quentina, "but I've forgotten most of them."
"Quentina, whatareyou talking about?" laughed Genevieve.
Quentina smiled oddly, then she sighed.
"It wasn't true, of course. I knew it couldn't be."
"What wasn't true?"
"Something I found in one of father's church papers about Rules for Living in New England. I cut it out. Wait a minute—it's here, somewhere!" And, to the girls' amazement, she dived into a pocket at the side of her dress, pulling out several clippings which seemed, mostly, to be verse. One was prose, and it was on this she pounced. "Here it is. Listen." And she read:
"'Rules for Living in New England. You must be descended from the Puritans, and should belong to the Mayflower Society, or be a D. A. R., a Colonial Dame, or an S. A. R. You must graduate from Harvard, or Radcliffe, and must disdain all othercolleges. You must quote Emerson, read theAtlantic Monthly, and swear by theTranscript. You must wear glasses, speak in a low voice, eat beans on Saturday night, and fishballs on Sunday morning. Always you must carry with you a green bag, and you should be a professional man, or woman, preferably of the literary variety. You should live not farther away from Boston than two hours' ride, and of course you will be devoted to tombstones, relics, and antiques. You may tolerate Europe, but you must ignore the West. You must be slow of speech, dignified of conduct, and serene of temper. You must never be surprised, nor display undue emotion. Above all, you must becultured.'
"Now you see you haven't done all those things," she declared, as she finished the article.
"I reckon there are a few omissions—specially on my part," laughed Genevieve.
"But you are happy there?"
"Indeed I am!"
"How I do wish I could go," sighed Quentina. "I should love Boston, I know. Alice did—though she still liked Texas better."
"Well, I know Boston would love you," chuckled Tilly, unexpectedly. "Girls, wouldn't she be a picnic in Sunbridge? She'd be more of a circus than you were, Genevieve!"
"Thank you," bowed Genevieve, with mock stiffness.
"Oh, we loved you right away—and we should Quentina, of course."
"Thank you," bowed Quentina, in her turn, laughingly.
It was a merry afternoon and evening that the Happy Hexagons spent at Quentina's home, and it was still a merrier time that they had getting settled for the night. Even Tilly said at last:
"Well, Quentina, it's lucky a lame foot doesn't have ears. I don't know what your mother will say to us!"
"Only fancy if Miss Jane were here," shivered Genevieve.
It was just as the family were finishing breakfast the next morning that there came a knock at the door, and a man rolled in a large barrel.
"Oh, it's the missionary barrel—our barrel from the East!" cried Quentina. "I wonder now—what do you suppose there is in it?"
"There isn't anything, I reckon, except old things," piped up Rob, shrilly.
Mrs. Jones colored painfully.
"Robert, my son!" she remonstrated, in evident distress.
"Well, mother, youknowthere isn't—most generally," defended Robert.
"And if theyarenew, they're the sort of things we couldn't ever use," added Ned.
"Boys, boys, that will do," commanded the minister, quickly.
The minister, with Paul's help, had the barrel nearly open by this time.
"It isn't from Sunbridge, is it?" asked Genevieve.
"No—though we get them from there sometimes; but this is from a little town in Vermont," replied Mrs. Jones. "We had a letter last week from the minister. He—he apologized a little; said that times had been hard, and that they'd had trouble to fill it. As if it wasn't hard enough for us to take it, without that!" she finished bitterly, with almost a sob.
"Rita, my dear!" murmured her husband, in a low, distressed voice.
Mrs. Jones dashed quick tears from her eyes.
"I know; I don't mean to be ungrateful. But—times have been a little hard—withus!"
Silent, and a little awed, the Happy Hexagons stood at one side. Genevieve, especially, looked out from troubled eyes. Very slowly Genevieve was waking up to the fact that not every one in the world had luxuries, or even what she would call ordinary comforts of living. Mrs. Jones, seeing her face, spoke hurriedly.
"There, there, girls, please forget what I said!It was very kind of those good people to send the barrel—very kind; and I am sure we shall find in it just what we want."
"I know what you hope will be there," cried Bob, "a new coat for Father, and a dress for you, and some underclothes for us boys. I heard you say so last night."
"Yes; and Quentina wants a ribbon—not dirty ones," observed Rob.
"Robert!" cried Quentina, very red of face. "You know I don'texpectanything of the sort."
The barrel was open now, and eagerly the family gathered around it. Even Mrs. Jones's chair was drawn forward so that she, too, might peep into it.
First there was a great quantity of newspapers—the people had, indeed, found trouble to fill it, evidently. Next came a pincushion—faded pink satin, frilled with not over-clean white lace.
"I can use the lace for a collar," cried Quentina, taking prompt possession of the cushion. "I'm right glad of this!"
A picture came next in a tarnished gilt frame—evidently somebody's early attempts to paint nasturtiums in oil.
"There's a rival for your posies out in the yard," murmured Tilly in Quentina's ear.
A pair of skates was pulled out next, then three dolls, one minus an arm.
"These might be good—on ice," remarked Paul, who had picked up the skates.
"Do you ever have any ice to skate on, here?" asked Bertha.
"Not in the part of Texas I've ever been in," he sighed.
Mrs. Jones was ruefully smoothing the one-armed doll's flimsy dress.
"I—Itoldthem there were no little girls in the family," she said, her worried eyes seeking her husband's face. "It—it's all right, of course; only—only these dolls did take space."
Some magazines came next, and a few old books, upon which the boys fell greedily—though the books they soon threw to one side as if they were of little interest.
Undergarments appeared then, plainly much worn and patched. To Genevieve they looked quite impossible. She almost cried when she saw how eagerly Mrs. Jones gathered the motley pile into her arms and began to sort them out with little exclamations of satisfaction.
Next in the barrel were found an ink-stained apron, a bath-robe, nearly new—which plainly owed its presence to its hideous colors—two or three tin dishes (not new), a harmonica, a box containing a straw hat trimmed with drooping blue bows, several fans, a box of dominoes, a pocket-knife with a broken blade, several pairs of new hose,marked plainly "seconds," some sheets and pillow-cases (half-worn, but hailed with joy by Mrs. Jones), a kimono, an assortment of men's half-worn shoes—pounced upon at once by Paul and his father, and not abandoned until it was found that only two were mates, and only one of these good for much wear.
It was at this point that there came a muffled shout from Ned, whose head was far down in the barrel.
"Here's a package—a big one—and it's marked 'dress for Mrs. Jones.' Mother, you did get it, after all!" he cried, tumbling the package into his mother's lap.
Tremblingly half a dozen pairs of hands attempted to untie the strings and to unwrap the coverings; then, across Mrs. Jones's lap there lay a tawdry dress of pale-blue silk, spotted and soiled. Pinned to it was a note in a scrawling feminine hand: "This will wash and make over nicely, I think, if you can't wear it just as it is."
"We have so many chances to wear light-blue silk, too," was all that Mrs. Jones said.
In the bottom of the barrel were a few new towels, very coarse, and some tablecloths and small, fringed napkins, also very coarse.
"Well, I'm sure, these are handy," stammered the minister, who had not found his coat.
"Oh, yes," answered his wife, wearily; "only—well, it so happens that every box for the last five years has held tea-napkins—and I don't give many teas, you know, dear."
Genevieve choked back a sob.
"I—I never saw such a—a horrid thing in all my life, as that barrel was," she stormed hotly. "I don't see what folks were thinking of—to send such things!"
"They weren't thinking, my dear, and that's just what the trouble was," answered Mrs. Jones, gently. "They didn't think, nor understand. Besides, there are very many nice things here that we can use beautifully. There always are, in every box, only—of course, some thingsaren'tso useful."
"I should say not!" snapped Genevieve.
"Well, I didn't suppose anything could make me glad because Aunt Kate makes over the girls' things for me," spoke up Elsie Martin; "but something has now. She can't send them in any missionary boxes, anyhow!"
Mrs. Jones laughed, though she looked still more disturbed.
"But, girls, dear girls, please don't say such things," she expostulated. "We are very, very grateful—indeed we are; and it is right kind of them to remember us far-away missionaries with boxes and barrels!"
"'Missionary'!" sputtered Genevieve. "'Missionary'! I should think somebody had better bemissionary to them, and teach them what to send. Dolls and skates, indeed!"
"But, my dear," smiled Mrs. Jones, "those might have been just the things—in some places; and besides, some of the boxes are—are better than this. Indeed they are!"
It was at this point that Cordelia came forward hurriedly, and touched Mrs. Jones's arm. Her face was a little white and strained looking.
"Mrs. Jones," she faltered, "I think I ought to tell you. I'm a minister's niece, and I've seen lots of missionary boxes packed. I know just how they do it, too. I know just how thoughtless they—I mean we—are; and I just wanted to say that I'm very, very sure the next time we pack a box for any missionary, we'll—we'll see that our old shoes are mates, and that we don't send dolls to boys!"
There was a shout of gleeful appreciation from the boys, but there were only troubled sighs and frowns on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Jones.
"Dear me! I—I wish the barrel hadn't come when you were here," regretted the minister's wife; "for indeed the things are all very, very nice. Indeed they are!"
"And now let's go out to the flowers," proposed Quentina. "Maybe a new nasturtium has blossomed."
All but one of the girls had left the room when Mr. Jones felt a timid touch on his arm.
"Mr. Jones, could I speak to you—just a minute, please?" asked a low voice. "I'm Cordelia Wilson, you know."
"Why, certainly, Miss Cordelia! What can I do for you?" he answered genially, leading the way to the tiny study off the sitting room.
"Well, I'm not sure you can do anything," replied Cordelia, with hesitating truthfulness. "But I wanted to ask:doyou know anybody in Texas by the name of Mr. John Sanborn, or Mrs. Lizzie Higgins, or Mr. Lester Goodwin, or Mr. James Hunt?"
The minister looked a little surprised.
"N-no, I can't say that I do," he said, slowly.
Cordelia's countenance fell.
"Oh, I'm so sorry! You see I thought—being a minister out here, so,—you might know them."
"But—Texas is quite a large state," he reminded her, with a smile.
"I know," sighed the girl. "I've found that out."
"Are these people friends of yours?"
"Oh, no; they're just a son, and a brother, and a cousin, and a runaway daughter that I'm looking up for Sunbridge people."
"Oh, indeed!" The minister hoped his voice was politely steady.
"Yes, sir. Of course I haven't had a chance to ask many people, yet—only one or two of the cowboys. One of them was named 'John,' but he wasn'tmy John—I mean, he wasn't the right John," corrected Cordelia with a pink blush.
The minister coughed a little spasmodically behind his hand. As he did not speak Cordelia went on, her eyes a little wistful.
"Would you be willing, please, to take those names down on paper, Mr. Jones?"
"Why, certainly, Miss Cordelia," agreed the man, reaching for his notebook.
"You see youarea minister, and you do meet people, so you might find them. I'd be so glad if you could, or if I could. They're all needed very much—indeed they are. You see, Hermit Joe is so lonesome for his son, and Mrs. Snow so worried about Lizzie, and Mrs. Granger has lost her husband, so she hasn't anybody left but her cousin, now, and Miss Sally is so very poor and needs her brother so much."
"Of course, of course," murmured the minister.
A few moments later his notebook bore this entry, which had been made under Cordelia's careful direction: