"'THERE, NOW—LOOK!' SHE ADDED""'THERE, NOW—LOOK!' SHE ADDED"
"That's all right, Tilly, and I think I know whatyou mean," laughed Genevieve; "but I wouldn't advise you to give that sentence to Miss Hart as your best example of logic."
"Well, I was talking about Texas," retorted Tilly, saucily, "and there isn't anything logical about Texas, that I can see. There, now—look!" she added, as they reached the street. "Just tell me if there's anything logical in that scene!" she finished, with a wave of her hand toward the passing throng.
Genevieve laughed, but her eyes, too, widened a little as she stepped one side with the others, for a moment, to watch the curious conglomeration of humanity and vehicles before them.
In the street a luxurious limousine was tooting for a ramshackle prairie schooner to turn to one side. Behind the automobile plodded a forlorn mule dragging a wagon-load of empty boxes. Behind that came an army ambulance followed by an electric truck. A handsome soldier on a restive bay mare came next, and behind him a huge touring car with a pompous black chauffeur. On either side of the touring car rode a grinning boy on a mustang, plainly to the discomfort of the pompous negro and the delight of two pretty girls in white who were in the low phaeton that followed. A bicycle bell jangled sharply for a swarthy Mexican in a tall peaked hat to get out of the way, and farther down the street two solid-looking men in business suitswere waiting for a pretty Mexican woman with a rebosa-draped head to precede them into a car. Behind them a huge negro woman wearing a red bandana about her head, waited her turn. And still behind her a severe-faced young woman in a tailored suit was drawing her skirts away from two almost naked pickaninnies.
"Well, no; perhaps it isn't really logical," laughed Genevieve. "But it's awfully interesting!"
"I chose one of the older hotels," said Mr. Hartley, a little later, as he piloted his party through the doorway of a fine old building.
"You couldn't have chosen a lovelier one, I'm sure, Father," declared Genevieve, as she looked about her with shining eyes.
Genevieve was even more convinced of this when, just before dinner, in response to a summons from Tilly's voice she stepped out on to the little balcony leading from her room. The balcony overlooked an inner court, and was hung with riotous moon-vines. Down in the court a silvery fountain played among palms and banana trees. Here and there a cactus plant thrust spiny arms into the air. Somewhere else queen's wreath and devil's ivy made a tiny bower of loveliness. While everywhere were electric lights and roses, matching one against the other their brilliant hues.
"Genevieve, I—I think I'm going to c-cry,"wailed Tilly's sobbing voice from the adjoining balcony.
"Cry!—when it's all so lovely!" exclaimed Genevieve.
Tilly nodded.
"Yes. That's why I want to," she quavered. "Honestly, Genevieve, if I stay here long I shall be writing poetry like Quentina—I know I shall!"
"If you do, just let me read it, that's all," retorted Genevieve, saucily. "Where's Cordelia?"
"Off somewhere with Elsie and Bertha. She got dressed early—but I sha'n't get dressed at all if I don't go about it."
At that moment there was the sound of a scream, then the patter of running feet in the court below.
"Why, there they are now," cried Genevieve, leaning over the railing. "Girls, girls!" she called, regardless of others in the court. "Look up here! What's the matter?"
The girls stopped, and looked up. Cordelia, only, cast an apprehensive glance over her shoulder.
"It's an alligator in the fountain in the other court," explained Elsie. "Bertha said she heard there was one there, and so we went to see—and we found out."
"I should say we did," shuddered Cordelia, still with her head turned backward. "I sha'n't sleep a wink to-night—I know I sha'n't!"
"An alligator—really?" cried Tilly. "ThenI'm going to hurry and get ready so I can see him before dinner," she finished, as she whisked into her room.
Dinner that night, in the brilliantly lighted, flower-decked dining-room was an experience never to be forgotten by the girls.
"I didn't suppose there were such bea-u-tiful dresses in the world," sighed Elsie, looking about her.
Mr. Hartley smiled.
"I reckon you'd think so, Miss Elsie," he said, "if you could see the place when it's in full swing. It's too early yet for the real tourist season, I imagine. Anyhow, there aren't so many people here as I've always seen before."
"Well, I shouldn't ask it to be any nicer, anyway," declared Bertha; and the rest certainly agreed with her.
Bright and early the next morning the Happy Hexagons and Mr. Hartley started out sight-seeing. Mrs. Kennedy was too tired to go, she said.
"I'll let business slip for an hour or two," Mr. Hartley remarked as they left the hotel; "at all events, until I get you young people started."
"Hm-m; you mean, to—the Alamo?" hinted Genevieve, with merry eyes.
"Sure, dearie! The Alamo it shall be," smiled her father. "Then to-morrow I'll take you to Fort Sam Houston where there arelivesoldiers."
"Oh, is there an army post here, truly?" cried Tilly.
"Only the largest in the country," answered the Texan, proudly.
"Really? Oh, how splendid! I just love soldiers!"
"Really?" mimicked Mr. Hartley, mischievously. "They'll be pleased to know it, I'm sure, Miss Tilly."
The others laughed. Tilly blushed and shrugged her shoulders; but she asked no more questions about Fort Sam Houston for at least five minutes.
"Now where's the place—the really, truly place?" demanded Cordelia, in an awed voice, when the party had reached the Alamo Plaza.
"The place—the real place, Miss Cordelia," replied Mr. Hartley, "where the fight occurred, was in a court over there; and the walls were pulled down years ago. But this little chapel was part of it, and this is what everybody always looks at and talks about. The relics are inside. We'll go in and see them, if you like."
"If we like!" cried Genevieve, fervently. "Just as if we didn't want to see everything—every single thing there is to see!" she finished, as her father led the way into the dim interior under the watchful eyes of the caretaker.
Even Tilly, for a moment, was silenced in thehush and somberness of the place. Genevieve stole to her father's side. Mr. Hartley, with bared head, was wearing a look of grave reverence.
"You appreciate it, don't you, Father?" she said softly. "You have always talked such a lot about it."
He nodded.
"I don't see how any one can help appreciating it," he rejoined, after a moment, looking up at the narrow, iron-barred windows. "Why, Genevieve, this is our Bunker Hill, you know."
"I know," she said soberly. "How many was it? I've forgotten."
"About one hundred and eighty on the inside—here; and all the way from two to six thousand on the outside—accounts differ. But it was thousands, anyway, against one hundred and eighty—and it lasted ten days or more."
Genevieve shuddered.
"And they all—died?"
"Every one—of the soldiers. There was a woman and a young child and a negro servant left to tell the tale."
"That's what it means on the monument, isn't it?" murmured Genevieve. "'Thermopylæ had its messenger of defeat: the Alamo had none.'"
"Yes," said her father. "I've always wondered what Davy Crockett would have said to that. You know he was here."
"Wasn't he the one who said, 'Be sure you are right, then go ahead'?"
"Yes. And he went ahead—straight to his death, here."
Genevieve's eyes brimmed with tears.
"Oh, it does make one want to be good and brave and true, doesn't it, Father?"
"I reckon it ought to, little girl," he smiled gently.
"It does," breathed Genevieve. A moment later she crossed to Tilly's side.
Tilly welcomed her with subdued joyousness.
"Genevieve, please,pleasemayn't we get out of this?" she begged. "Honestly, I feel as if I were besieged myself in this horrid tomb-like place. And—and I like live soldiers so much better!"
Genevieve gave her a reproachful glance, but in a moment she suggested that perhaps they had better go.
"Oh, but that was lovely," she sighed, as they came out into the bright sunshine. "The caretaker told me they call it the 'Cradle of Liberty,' here; and I don't wonder."
Tilly uptilted her chin—already the sunshine had brought back her usual gayety of spirits.
"Dear me! what a lot of cradles Liberty must have had! You know Faneuil Hall in Boston isone. Only think how far the poor thing must havetraveled between naps if she tried to sleep in all her cradles!"
Even Genevieve laughed—but she sighed reproachfully, too.
"Oh, Tilly, how you can turn poetry into prose—sometimes!" Then she added wistfully: "How I wish I could see this Plaza on San Jacinto Day!"
"What is that?" demanded Tilly.
"The twenty-third of April. They have the Battle of the Flowers in the Plaza here, in front of the Alamo. I've always wanted to see that."
"Hm-m; well, I might not mind that kind of a battle myself," laughed Tilly.
In the afternoon the young people again started out to explore the town. This time Mr. Hartley was not with them.
"But are you quite sure you won't get lost?" Mrs. Kennedy demurred anxiously, as Genevieve was putting on her hat.
"No, ma'am," returned Genevieve, with calm truthfulness and a merry smile. "But, dearie, it's daylight and there are six of us. What if we do get lost? We've got tongues in our heads, and we know the name of our hotel and of the street it's on."
"Very well," sighed Mrs. Kennedy. Then, with sudden spirit she added: "Dear me, Genevieve! I shall be glad if ever we get back to Sunbridge and I have you to myself all quiet again. I'm afraid you'll never, never settle down to just plain living after these irresponsible weeks of one long playday."
It was Genevieve's turn now to sigh.
"I know, Aunt Julia. It will be hard, won't it?" she admitted. Then, with a quick change of manner,she observed airily: "As if anything could be nicer than learning to cook, and keeping my stockings mended! Why, Aunt Julia!" The next moment, with a breezy kiss, she was gone.
It was a delightful afternoon that the girls spent rambling about the curiously interesting old town, which—Cordelia impressively informed them—was the third oldest in the United States. They tried to see it all, but they did not succeed in this, of course. They did stand in delighted wonder before the San Fernando Cathedral with its square, cross-tipped towers; and they did wander for an entrancing hour in the old Mexican Quarter, with its picturesque houses and people, its fascinating chili and tamale stands, and its narrow, twisting streets, which Genevieve declared were almost as bad as Boston.
"Boston!" bridled Tilly, instantly. "Why, Boston's tiniest, crookedest streets are great wide boulevards compared to these! Besides, when we are in Boston we don't have to cross a river every time we turn around."
"I don't know about that," retorted Genevieve, warmly. "Just try to go over to Cambridge or Charlestown and see. I'm sure I think Boston's got lots of bridges."
Tilly sniffed her disdain.
"Pooh! You'releavingBoston when you cross those bridges, Genevieve Hartley, and you know it.But just look at them here! We haven't stirred once out of San Antonio, and I think I've crossed five bridges in the last seven minutes. I can imagine those old fellows who built this town getting tired of building houses, and saying: 'And now let's stop and build a bridge for the fun of it!'"
Genevieve laughed heartily.
"You've won, Tilly. I'll give up," she chuckled. "I hadn't meant to tell you; but therearethirteen miles of river twisting in and out through the city, and—thereareseventeen bridges."
"Where did you find out all that?" demanded Tilly, suspiciously.
"In a guidebook that I saw last night at the hotel. It's the same one, I reckon, that Cordelia's been giving all her information from," said Genevieve.
"Hm-m;" commented Tilly. "Now IknowI've crossed five bridges in the last seven minutes!"
"Well, I wouldn't care if there were forty miles of river and fifty bridges," retorted Genevieve, "if they'd all have such lovely green banks and dear little boats!"
"Nor I," agreed two or three emphatic voices.
Everywhere and at every turn the girls found something of interest, something to marvel at. When tired of walking they boarded a car; and when tired of riding, they got off and walked.
"Well, anyhow, folks seem to have a choice ofhouses to live in," observed Tilly, her eyes on a quaint little white bungalow surrounded by heuisach and mesquite trees.
"Yes, they do," laughed Genevieve—Genevieve was looking at the next one to it: an old-fashioned colonial mansion set far back from the street, with a huge pecan tree standing guard on each side.
"Well, seems to me just now a hotel would look the nicest of anything," moaned Cordelia, wearily. "Girls, I just can't go another step—unless it's toward home," she finished despairingly.
"Me, too," declared Tilly. "I'm just plum locoed, I'm that tired! Say we hit the trail for the hotel right now. Come on; I'm ready!"
Genevieve laughed, but she eyed Tilly a little curiously.
"What do you suppose Sunbridge will say to your new expressions à la the wild and woolly West?" she queried.
"Just exactly what they said to you, Miss Genevieve," bantered Tilly.
"Oh, but Genevieve's werenatural," cut in Bertha, with meaning emphasis.
"All the more reason why mine should be more interesting, then," retorted Tilly, imperturbably. And with a laugh Bertha and Genevieve gave it up, as with tired but happy faces, they set out for the hotel.
At breakfast the next morning, Mr. Hartley announced cheerily:
"We'll do the parks, to-day, and the Hot Sulphur Well and Hotel; and finish with dress parade at Fort Sam Houston."
"But—what about your business?" asked Genevieve.
Mr. Hartley laughed.
"Oh, that's all—done," he answered; then, as the puzzled questioning still remained in her eyes, he added, a little shamefacedly: "You see, there wasn't much business, to tell the truth, dearie. I reckon my real business was to show off the state of Texas to our young Easterners here."
"You darling!" cried Genevieve, rapturously, while all the rest of the Happy Hexagons stumbled and stuttered over their vain attempts at thanking him.
"I declare! I wish we could give him our Texas yell, right here," chuckled Tilly, turning longing eyes about the dining-room. "We would end with 'Mr. Hartley,' of course."
"Tilly!" gasped Cordelia, in open horror.
"What is the Hot Sulphur Well, Mr. Hartley, please?" asked Elsie, who had not heard Tilly's remark.
"You'll have to ask some one who's been cured by it," laughed the man. "They say there are plenty that have been."
"Do you suppose it looks any like an oil well?" ventured Cordelia.
"Sounds a bit hot, seems to me, for to-day," giggled Tilly. "I think I shall like the parks better."
"All right; we'll let you do the parks—allof them," cooed Genevieve, wickedly. "There are only twenty-one, you know, my dear."
"Genevieve Hartley, if you remember your lessons next year one half as well as you have that abominable guidebook, you'll be at the head of your class!" remarked Tilly, severely, as the others rose from the table, with a laugh.
It was another long, happy day. The parks, as Tilly had predicted, proved to be cooler than the Hot Sulphur Well, and they certainly were more enjoyable, even though only two of Genevieve's announced twenty-one were visited—Brackenridge Park, and San Pedro Park. It was the former that Cordelia enjoyed the most, perhaps, for it was there that she saw her much-longed-for buffalo. Tired, but still enthusiastic, they reached the hotel in time to dress for the visit to Fort Sam Houston, upon which Mrs. Kennedy was to accompany them.
Getting dressed was, however, a grand flurry of excitement, for time and space were limited; and there was not one of the Happy Hexagons who did not feel that on this occasion, at least, every curland ribbon and shoe-tie must display a neatness that was military in its precision.
Perhaps only Elsie of all the girls wept over the matter. Her eyes were red when she knocked at Genevieve's door.
"Why, Elsie!"
"Genevieve, I've come to say—I can't go," choked Elsie.
"Why, Elsie, are you sick?"
"Oh, no; it's—clothes. Genevieve, I simply haven't anything to wear."
"Nonsense, dear, of course you have! We don't have to dress much for this thing. Where's your white linen or your tan or your blue?"
"The white is too soiled, and the other two have worn places that show."
"But there's your chambray—that isn't worn."
Elsie shook her head.
"But I can't—that, truly, Genevieve. It's got worse and worse every day, until nowanybodycan tell Cora and Clara apart!"
Genevieve choked back a laugh. She was frowning prodigiously when Elsie looked up.
"I'll tell you, Elsie, I've got just the thing," she cried. "Wear my white linen—it's perfectly fresh, and 'twill fit you, I'm sure."
Elsie's face turned scarlet.
"Oh, Genevieve! I wouldn't—I couldn't! I'd never, never do such an awful thing," she gasped."Why, whatwouldAunt Kate say?—my wearing your clothes like that! Oh, I never thought of your taking it that way! Never mind—I'll fix something," she choked, as she turned and fled down the hall, leaving a distressed and almost an angry Genevieve behind her.
For some minutes Genevieve busied herself with her own toilet, jerking hooks and ribbons into place with unnecessary force; then she turned despairingly to Mrs. Kennedy, whose room she was sharing.
"Aunt Julia, what's the use of having anything to give, if folks won't take it when you give it?" she demanded, irritably.
"Not having followed your thoughts for the last five minutes, my dear, I fear I'm unable to give you a very helpful answer," smiled Mrs. Kennedy, serenely. And Genevieve, remembering Elsie's shamed, red face, decided suddenly that Elsie's secret was not hers to tell.
Half an hour later Mr. Hartley marshaled his party for the start.
"You're a brave sight," he declared, smiling into the bright faces about him. "You're a mighty brave sight; and I'll leave it to anybody if even the boys in line to-day will make a finer show!"
The Happy Hexagons laughed and blushed and courtesied prettily; and only Genevieve knew that the smile on Elsie's face was a little forced—Elsie was wearing the green chambray.
There was an awed "Oh-h!" of wonder and admiration when Mr. Hartley's party came in sight of the great parade grounds at Fort Sam Houston. There was a still deeper, longer, louder "Oh-h-h!" when, sitting at one end of the grounds, the girls heard the first stirring notes of the band.
To the Hexagon Club it was a most wonderful sight—those long lines of men moving with such perfect precision. Fresh from the Alamo as the girls were, with the story of that dreadful slaughter in their ears—to them it almost seemed that there before them marched the brave men who years ago had given up their lives so heroically in the little chapel.
It was Tilly who broke the silence.
"Oh, I do just love soldiers," she cried, with a hurried glance sideways to make sure that Mr. Hartley in the next carriage could not hear her. "Don't you, Genevieve?" But Genevieve was too absorbed to answer.
A little later the band played "The Star-spangled Banner," and there sounded the signal gun for the lowering of the colors. In the glorious excitement of all this, even Tilly herself forgot to talk.
After dress parade a certain Major Drew, who knew Mr. Hartley, came up and was duly presented to the ladies. He in turn presented the officer of the day, who looked, to the Happy Hexagons, veryhandsome and imposing in sword and spurs. After this, at Major Drew's invitation, there was a visit to the officers' quarters, and on the Major's broad gallery there was a cooling refreshment of lemonade and root beer before the drive back to the hotel.
It had been decided that the party would go to New Orleans from San Antonio, and then from there by boat to New York.
"It'll make a change from car-riding, and a very pleasant one, I'm thinking," Mr. Hartley had said; and the others had enthusiastically agreed with him.
It was on the five-hundred-and-seventy-two mile journey from San Antonio to New Orleans that something happened. In the Chronicles of the Hexagon Club it fell to Genevieve to tell the story; and this is what she wrote:
"It seems so strange to me that we should have traveled so many thousands of miles on the railroad without anything happening; and then, just on the last five hundred (we are going to take the boat at New Orleans)—to have it happen.
"We have had all sorts of amusing experiences, of course, losing trains, and missing connections; but nothing like this. Even when we had to take that little bumpy accommodation for a few hours, and it was so accommodating it stopped every fewminutes 'to water the horses,' as dear Tilly said, nothing happened—though, to be sure, we almost did get left that time we all (except Aunt Julia) got off and went to pick flowers while our train waited for a freight to go by. But we didn't get quite left, and we did catch it. (Dear Tilly says we could have caught it, anyway, even if it had started, and that we shouldn't have had to walk very fast, at that! Tilly does make heaps of fun of all our trains except the fast ones on the main lines. And I don't know as I wonder, only I'd never tell her that, of course—that is, Iwouldn'thave told her before, perhaps.)
"Well, where was I? Oh, I know—on the sidetrack. (I had to laugh here, for it occurred to me that that was just where I was in the story—on a sidetrack! I'm not telling what I started out to tell at all. It's lucky we can each take all the room we want, though, in these Chronicles.)
"Well, I'll tell it now, really, though I'm still so shaky and excited my hand trembles awfully. It was in the night, a little past twelve o'clock that it happened. I was lying in my berth above Elsie's, and was wide-awake. I had been thinking about Father. He has been such a dear all the way. I was thinking what a big, big dear he was, when IT happened.
"Yes, I put IT in capitals on purpose, and I reckon you would, if suddenly the car you wereriding in began to sway horribly and bump up and down, and then stop right off short with a bang that flung you into the middle of the aisle! And that's what ours did.
"For a minute, of course, I was too dazed to know what had happened. But the next moment I heard a scared voice wail right in my ear:
"'Girls, it's an accident—I know it's an accident! I told you we should have an accident—and to think I took off my shoes to-night for the very first time!'
"I knew then. It was Bertha, and it was an accident. And, do you know? I'm ashamed to tell it, but the first thing I did right there and then was to laugh—it seemed so funny about Bertha's shoes, and to hear her say her usual 'I told you so!' But the next minute I began to realize what it all really meant, and I didn't laugh any more.
"All around me, by that time, were frightened cries and shouts, and I was so worried for Father and all the rest. I struggled, and tried to get up; and then I heard Father's voice call: 'Genevieve, Genevieve, where are you? Are you all right?' Oh, nobody will ever know how good that dear voice sounded to me!
"We called for Aunt Julia, then, and for the girls; but it was ever so long before we could find them. We weren't all together, anyway, and the crash had separated us more than ever. Besides,everybody everywhere all over the car was crying out by that time, and trying to find folks, all in the dark.
"We found Aunt Julia. She was almost under the berth near me; but she was so faint and dazed she could not answer when we first called. I was all right, and so were Cordelia and Bertha, only Bertha bumped her head pretty hard afterwards, looking for her shoes. Elsie Martin and Alma Lane were a little bruised and bumped, too; but they declared they could move all their legs and arms.
"We hadn't any of us found Tilly up to that time; but when Elsie said that (about being able to move all her legs and arms), I heard a little faint voice say 'You talk as if you were a centipede, Elsie Martin!'
"'Tilly!' I cried then. 'Where are you?' The others called, too, until we were all shouting frantically for Tilly. We knew it must be Tilly for nobody but Tilly Mack could have made that speech!
"At last we found her. She was wedged in under a broken seat almost at our feet. It was at the forward end of the car—the only part that seemed to be really smashed. She could not crawl out, and we could not pull her out. She gave a moaning little cry when Father tried to.
"'I guess—some of my legs and arms don'tgo,' she called out to us with a little sob in her voice.
"We were crazy then, of course—all of us; and we all talked at once, and tried to find out just where she was hurt. The trainmen had come by this time with lanterns, and were helping every one out of the car. Then they came to us and Tilly.
"And we were so proud of Tilly—she was so brave and cheery! I never found out before what her nonsense was for, but I did find it out then. It was the only thing that kept us all from going just wild. She said such queer little things when they were trying to get her out, and she told them if there was any one hurt worse than she to get them out first. She told Father that she knew now just how Reddy felt when his broncho went see-saw up in the air, because that was what her berth did.
"Well, they got the poor dear out at last, and a doctor from the rear car examined her at once. Her left arm was broken, and she had two or three painful bruises. Of course that was bad—but not anywhere near so bad as it might have been, and we were all so relieved. The doctor did what he could for her, then we all made ourselves as comfortable as possible while we waited for the relief train.
"We found out then about the wreck, and the chief thing we could find out anywhere was what a 'fortunate' wreck it was! The engine and six cars went off the track on a curve. Just ahead was asteep bank with a river below it, and of course itwasfortunate that we did not go down that. No one was killed, and only a few much injured. The car ahead and ours were the only ones that were smashed any. Yes, I suppose it was a 'fortunate wreck'—but I never want to see an unfortunate one. Certainly we all felt pretty thankful that we had come out of it as well as we did.
"The relief train came at last, and took us to the next city, and to-day we are started on our journey once again. We expect to reach New Orleans to-night, and take the boat for New York Saturday. We all feel a little stiff and sore, but of course dear Tilly feels the worst. But she tries to be just as bright and smiling as ever. She looks pretty white, though, and what the storybooks call 'wan,' I reckon. She says, anyhow, she wishes shewerea centipede—inarms—because perhaps then she wouldn't miss her left one so much, if she had plenty more of them. There seems to be such a lot of things she wants her left arm to do. The doctor says it wasn't abadbreak—as if any break could begood!
"And here endeth my record of 'Bertha's accident'—as Tilly insists upon calling it, until she's made Bertha almost ready to cry over it."
Owing to the delay of the accident, Mr. Hartley and his party had only one day in New Orleans beforethe boat sailed; but they made the most of that, for they wanted to see what they could of the quaint, picturesque city.
"We'll take carriages, dearie. We won't walk anywhere," said Mr. Hartley to Genevieve that morning. "In the first place, Mrs. Kennedy and Miss Tilly couldn't, and the rest of us don't want to. We can see more, too, in the short space of time we have."
So in carriages, bright and early Friday morning, the party started out to "do" New Orleans, as Genevieve termed it. Leaving the "American portion," where were situated their hotel and most of the other big hotels and business houses of American type, they trailed happily along through Prytania Street and St. Charles Avenue to the beautiful "Garden District" which they had been warned not to miss. They found, indeed, much to delight them in the stately, palatial homes set in the midst of exquisitely kept lawns and wonderful groves of magnolia and oak. Quite as interesting to them all, however, was the old French or Latin Quarter below Canal Street, where were the Creole homes and business houses. Here they ate their luncheon, too, in one of the curious French restaurants, famous the world over for its delicious dishes.
With the disappearance of the last mouthful on her plate, Tilly drew a long breath.
"I've always heard Creoles were awfully interesting,"she sighed. "Do you know—I don't think I'd mind much being a Creole myself!"
"You look so much like one, too," laughed Genevieve, affectionately, patting the soft, fluffy red hair above the piquant, freckled little face.
At five o'clock that afternoon a tired but happy party reached the hotel in time to rest and dress for dinner.
"Well," sighed Genevieve, "I'd have liked a week here, but a day has been pretty good. We've seen enough 'Quarters' to make a 'whole,' and the Cathedral, and dozens of other churches, and we've driven along those lovely lakes with the unpronounceable names; and now I'm ready for dinner."
"And we saw a statue—the Margaret Statue," cut in Cordelia, anxiously. "You know it's thefirststatue ever erected to a woman's memory in the United States. We wouldn't want to forget that!"
"Well, I should like to," retorted Genevieve, perversely. "It's only so much the worse for the United States—that it wasn't done before!"
"I think Genevieve is going to be a suffragette," observed Tilly, cheerfully, as they trooped into the hotel together.
It was from New Orleans that Cordelia Wilson wrote a letter to Mr. William Hodges. She had decided that it would be easier to write her bad news than to tell it. Then, too, she disliked to keepthe old man any longer in suspense. She made her letter as comforting as she could.
"Mr. William Hodges, Sir:—" she wrote. "I am very sorry to have to tell you that I have looked, but cannot find your oil well anywhere. I did find a man who had heard about it, but he said there wasn't any well at all like what the Boston man told you there was. He said it was a bad swindle and he knew many others who had lost their money, too, which I thought would please you. O dear, no, I don't mean that, of course. I only mean that you might like to know that others besides you hadn't known any more than to put money in it, too. (That doesn't sound quite right yet, but perhaps you know what I mean.)"I hope you won't feel too bad about it, Mr. Hodges. I saw some oil wells when we came through Beaumont, and I am quite sure you would not like them at all. They are not one bit like Bertha's aunt's well on her farm, with the bucket. In fact, they don't look like wells at all, and I never should have known what they were if Mr. Hartley had not told me. They are tall towersstanding upout of the ground instead of stone holes sunk down in the ground. (It is just as if you should call the cupola on your house your cellar—and you know how queer that would be!) I saw a lot of them—oil wells, not cupolas, I mean—and they lookedmore like a whole lot of little Eiffel Towers than anything else I can think of. (If you will get your grandson, Tony, to show you the Eiffel Tower in his geography, you will see what I mean.) Mr. Hartley says theydobore for them—wells, I mean, not Eiffel Towers—and so I suppose they do go down before they go up."I saw the wells on the way between San Antonio and New Orleans. One was on fire. (Just think of a well being on fire!) Of course we were riding through a most wonderful country, anyway. We saw a great many things growing besides oil wells, too, as you must know—rice, and cotton, and tobacco, and sugar cane, and onions, and quantities of other things. I picked some cotton bolls. (I spelt that right. This kind isn't b-a-ll.) I am sending you a few in a little box. It takes 75,000 of them to make one bale of cotton, so I'm afraid you couldn't make even a handkerchief out of these."I am so sorry about the oil well, but I did the best that I could to find it."Respectfully yours,"Cordelia Wilson."
"Mr. William Hodges, Sir:—" she wrote. "I am very sorry to have to tell you that I have looked, but cannot find your oil well anywhere. I did find a man who had heard about it, but he said there wasn't any well at all like what the Boston man told you there was. He said it was a bad swindle and he knew many others who had lost their money, too, which I thought would please you. O dear, no, I don't mean that, of course. I only mean that you might like to know that others besides you hadn't known any more than to put money in it, too. (That doesn't sound quite right yet, but perhaps you know what I mean.)
"I hope you won't feel too bad about it, Mr. Hodges. I saw some oil wells when we came through Beaumont, and I am quite sure you would not like them at all. They are not one bit like Bertha's aunt's well on her farm, with the bucket. In fact, they don't look like wells at all, and I never should have known what they were if Mr. Hartley had not told me. They are tall towersstanding upout of the ground instead of stone holes sunk down in the ground. (It is just as if you should call the cupola on your house your cellar—and you know how queer that would be!) I saw a lot of them—oil wells, not cupolas, I mean—and they lookedmore like a whole lot of little Eiffel Towers than anything else I can think of. (If you will get your grandson, Tony, to show you the Eiffel Tower in his geography, you will see what I mean.) Mr. Hartley says theydobore for them—wells, I mean, not Eiffel Towers—and so I suppose they do go down before they go up.
"I saw the wells on the way between San Antonio and New Orleans. One was on fire. (Just think of a well being on fire!) Of course we were riding through a most wonderful country, anyway. We saw a great many things growing besides oil wells, too, as you must know—rice, and cotton, and tobacco, and sugar cane, and onions, and quantities of other things. I picked some cotton bolls. (I spelt that right. This kind isn't b-a-ll.) I am sending you a few in a little box. It takes 75,000 of them to make one bale of cotton, so I'm afraid you couldn't make even a handkerchief out of these.
"I am so sorry about the oil well, but I did the best that I could to find it.
"Respectfully yours,"Cordelia Wilson."
Long before ten o'clock Saturday morning—the hour for sailing—Mr. Hartley and his party were on board the big steamship which was to take them to New York. Here, again, new sensations and new experiences awaited the Happy Hexagons, not one of whom had ever been on so large a boat.
"I declare, I do just feel as if I was going abroad," breathed Cordelia, in an awestruck voice, as she crossed the gangplank.
"Well, I'm sure weare, almost," exulted Genevieve. "We're going to have a hundred hours of it. You know that little pamphlet that told about it called it 'a hundred golden hours at sea.' Oh, Cordelia, only think—one hundred golden hours!"
"You'll think it's a thousand, if you happen to be seasick," groaned Tilly. (Tilly was looking rather white to-day.) "And they won't be golden ones, either—they'll beleadones. I know because I've been to Portland when it's rough."
"Well, we aren't going to be seasick," retorted Genevieve, with conviction. "We're just going to have the best time ever. See if we don't!"
"Now, dearie," said Mr. Hartley, hurrying up at that moment, "I engaged one of the suites for Mrs. Kennedy, and I think Miss Tilly had better be with her. The bed will be much more comfortable for her poor arm than a berth would be, and Mrs. Kennedy can look after her better, too, in that way. The little parlor of the suite will give us all a cozy place to meet together. There are two berths there which they turn into a lounge in the daytime. I thought perhaps you and Miss Cordelia could sleep there. Then I have staterooms for the rest of us—I engaged them all a week ago, of course. Now if you'll come with me I reckon we can set up housekeeping right away," he finished with a smile.
"Setting up housekeeping" proved to be an absorbing task, indeed. It included not only bestowing their belongings in the chosen places, but interviewing purser and stewards in regard to rugs, steamer chairs, and other delightfully exciting matters. Then there was the joy of exploring the great ship that was to be their home for so many days. The luxurious Ladies' Parlor, the Library with its alluring books and magazines, the Dining Saloon with its prettily-laid tables and its revolving chairs (like piano stools, Tilly said), the decks with their long, airy promenades, all came in for delighted exclamations of satisfaction which increased to a chorus of oh's and ah's when the trip really began,and the stately ship was wending its way down the Great River to the Gulf of Mexico.
First there was to be seen the city itself, nestled beyond its barricade of levees.
"Dear me!" shuddered Cordelia. "I don't believe I'd have slept a wink last night if I'd realized howmuchbelow the river we were. Only fancy if one of those levees had sprung a leak!"
"Why, they'd have sent for the plumber, of course," observed Tilly, gravely.
"Of course! Still—they don't look very leaky, to me," laughed Genevieve.
"Was it here, or somewhere else, that a man (or was it a child?) put his arm (or was it a finger?) in a little hole in the wall and stopped the leak, and so saved the town?" mused Bertha aloud dreamily.
"Of course it was," answered Tilly with grave emphasis; and not until the others laughed did Bertha wake up enough to turn her back with a shrug.
"Well, it was somewhere, anyhow," she pouted.
"As if we could doubt that—after what you said," murmured Tilly.
"But they have had floods here, haven't they?" questioned Alma Lane.
Genevieve gave a sudden laugh. At the others' surprised look she explained:
"Oh, I'm not laughing at the real floods, thewaterfloods they've had, of course. It's just that Ihappened to think of something I read some time ago. They had one flood here of—molasses."
"Mo—lass—es!" chorused several voices.
"Yes. A big tank that the city used to have for a reservoir had been bought by a sugar company and turned into a storage for molasses. Well, it burst one day, and a little matter of a million gallons of molasses went exploring through the streets. They say some poor mortals had actually to wade to dry land."
"Genevieve! what a story," cried Elsie.
"But it's true," declared Genevieve. "A whole half-mile square of the city was flooded, honestly. At least, the newspapers said it was."
"How the pickaninnies must have gloried in it," giggled Tilly, "—if they liked 'bread and perlashes' as well as I used to. Only think of having such abigsaucerful to dip your bread into!"
"Tilly!" groaned Genevieve.
They were at Port Chalmette, now. The Crescent City lay behind them, and beyond lay the shining river-roadway, with its fertile, highly-cultivated plantations bordering each side, green and beautiful.
"How perfectly, perfectly lovely!" cried Elsie. "And I'm not sick one bit."
"Naturally not—yet," laughed Tilly. "But you just wait. We don't sail the Mississippi all the way to New York, you know."
"I wish we did," said Genevieve, her eyes dreamily following the shore line. "But we're only on it for a hundred miles."
"I don't," disagreed Elsie. "I want to see the Gulf Stream. They say it's a deep indigo blue, and that you can see it plainly. I think a blue river in a green sea must be lovely—like a blue ribbon trailing down a light green gown, you know."
"Well, I want to see the real ocean, 'way out—out. I want to see nothing but water, water everywhere," declared Alma Lane.
"'And not a drop to drink,'" quoted Tilly. "Well, young lady, you may see the time when you'd give your eyes for a bit of land—and just any old land would do, too, so long as itstayed put!"
"What does it feel like to be seasick?" asked Cordelia, interestedly.
"It feels as if the bottom had dropped out of everything, and you didn't much care, only you wished you'd gone with it," laughed Tilly.
"Who was it?—wasn't it Mark Twain who said that the first half-hour you were awfully afraid you would die, and the next you were awfully afraid you wouldn't?" questioned Elsie.
"I don't know; but whoever said it knew what he was talking about," declared Tilly. "You just wait!"
"We're waiting," murmured Genevieve, demurely.
"You young ladies don't want to forget your exercise," said Mr. Hartley smilingly, coming up at that moment with Mrs. Kennedy. "We've just been five times around the deck."
"It's eleven laps to the mile," supplemented Mrs. Kennedy with a smile.
"What's a lap?" asked Cordelia.
"Sounds like a kitten on a wager with a saucer of milk," laughed Tilly, frowning a little as she tried to adjust her sling more comfortably.
"Well, young ladies, we'll show you just what a lap is, if you'll come with us," promised Mr. Hartley; and with alacrity the girls expressed themselves as being quite ready to be shown.
On and on, mile after mile, down the great river swept the great ship until Forts Jackson and St. Philip were reached and left behind; then on and on for other miles to the narrow South Pass where on either side the Eads Jetties called forth exclamations of wonder.
"Well, you'd better 'ah' and 'um,'" laughed Genevieve. "They happen to be one of the greatest engineering feats in the world; that's all."
"How do you know that?" demanded Bertha.
"Don't worry her," cut in Tilly, with mock sympathy. "Poor thing! it's only a case of another guidebook, of course."
"Well, all is, just keep your weather eye open," laughed Genevieve, "for when we make the South Pass Lightship, then ho! for the—"
"Broad Atlantic," interposed Tilly.
"Well, not until you've passed through the little matter of the Gulf of Mexico," rejoined Genevieve; while a chorus of laughing voices jeered:
"Why, Tilly Mack, where's your geography?"
"Don't know, I'm sure," returned Tilly, imperturbably. "Haven't seen it since I studied up Texas," she finished as she turned away.
The first night aboard ship was another experience never to be forgotten by the Happy Hexagons. In the parlor of the suite Genevieve and Cordelia kept up such an incessant buzz of husky whispering and tittering that Mrs. Kennedy came out from the bedroom to remonstrate.
"My dears, you mean to be quiet, I know; but I'm sure you don't realize how it sounds from our room. Tilly is nervous and feverish to-night—the day has been very exciting for her."
"And she has tried so hard to keep up, and seem as usual, too," cried Genevieve, contritely. "Of course we'll keep still! Cordelia, I'm ashamed of you," she finished severely. Then, at Cordelia's amazed look of shocked distress, she hugged her spasmodically. "As if it wasn't all my fault," she chuckled.
In other parts of the boat the rest of the partyexplored their strange quarters to the last corner; then made themselves ready to be "laid on the shelf," as Elsie termed going to bed in the narrow berth.
"I shall take off my shoes to-night," announced Bertha with dignity, after a long moment of silence. "If anything happens here we'll get into the water, of course, and I think shoes would only be a nuisance."
For a moment Elsie did not answer; then, almost hopefully she asked,
"I suppose if anything did happen we'd lose our clothes—even if we ourselves were saved, wouldn't we?"
"Why, I—I suppose so."
"Yes, that's what I thought," nodded Elsie, happily. Elsie, at the moment, was engaged in taking off a somewhat unevenly faded green chambray frock.
It was on the second day of the trip that Cordelia took from her suit-case a sheet of paper, worn with much folding and refolding, and marked plainly, "Things to do in Texas."
"I suppose I might as well finish this up now," she sighed. "I'm out of Texas, and what is done is done; and what is undone can't ever be done, now." And carefully she spread the paper out and reached into her bag for her pencil.
When she had finished her work, the paper read as follows:
See the blue bonnet—the Texas state flower. Find out if it really is shaped like a bonnet. Didn't.
Bring home a piece of prairie grass. Did.
See a real buffalo. Did. (But it was in a park.)
Find Hermit Joe Sanborn's son, John, who ran away to Texas twenty years ago. Didn't.
See an Osage orange hedge. Did.
See a broncho bursted (obviously changed over from "busted"). Did.
Find out for Mrs. Miller if cowboys do shoot at sight, and yell always without just and due provocation. Did. They do not. Cowboys are good, kind gentlemen; but they are noisy, and some rough-looking.
See a mesquite tree. Did.
Inquire if any one has seen Mrs. Snow's daughter, Lizzie, who ran away with a Texas man named Higgins. Did. (But could not find any one who had.)
Pick a fig. Didn't.
See a rice canal. Did.
Find out what has become of Mrs. Granger's cousin, Lester Goodwin, who went to Texas fourteen years ago. Did.
See cotton growing, and pick a cotton boll, called "Texas Roses." Did.
See peanuts growing. Did.
Inquire for James Hunt, brother of Miss Sally Hunt. Did. (But could not find him.)
See a real Indian. Did.
Look at oil well for Mr. Hodges, and see if there is any there. Did. (But there wasn't any there like the one he wanted.)
The paper completed, Cordelia looked at it with troubled eyes.
"It doesn't sound quite right," she thought. "Somehow, the thingsIwanted to do are 'most all done, but I didn't find but just one of those people, and seems as if I ought to have done better than that. Besides, I'm not at all sure Mrs. Granger will be satisfied with what I did find for her—a cowboy, so!" And she sighed as she put the paper away.
The trip across the Gulf of Mexico to Dry Tortugas Light was nothing but a rest and a joy to everybody. It was still delightful and wonderfully interesting all the way around the City of Key West and up by the southeastern coast of Florida with its many lights and coral reefs.
Here Genevieve's guidebook came again into prominence.
"The Sand Key Light 'way back there is our most southern possession, and only fifty-seven miles from the line of the Tropics," she announced glibly one day. "We're coming to the American ShoalsLight, the Sombrero Light, Alligator Light, Carysfort Light and Fowey Rock Light."
"Mercy! Didn't you sleepanylast night?" inquired Tilly, sympathetically.
"I suppose you mean you think it must have taken all night to learn all that," laughed Genevieve. "But it didn't."
"Maybe you know some more, now," hazarded Tilly.
"Certainly. After we strike Jupiter Light, we veer off into the Atlantic out of sight of land."
"I thought lighthouses were put up so you wouldn't 'strike' them," observed Tilly, with smooth politeness; "but then, of course if you do strike them, it is quite to be expected that you veer off into the Atlantic, and never see land again. Besides, I found all those lighthouses and things on a paper last night, but it was the southern trip that did all that. Maybe we, going north, don't do the same things at all. I sha'n't swallow all you say, anyhow, till I know for sure."
"Children, stop your quarreling," commanded Bertha Brown, sternly. "Now I've been learning something worth while.Iknow the saloon deck from the promenade deck, and I can rattle off 'fore' and 'aft' and 'port' and 'starboard' as if I'd been born on shipboard!"
"Pooh! You wait," teased Tilly. "There'll come a time when you won't think you're born onshipboard, and you won't know or care which is fore or aft—any of you. And it will come soon, too. Those were porpoises playing this morning—when Cordelia thought she saw the sea serpent, you know. I heard a man say he thought it meant a storm was coming. And if it does—you just wait," she finished laughingly.
"Oh, I'm waiting," retorted Bertha. "I like waiting. Besides, I don't think it's coming, anyhow!"
But it did come. Off the coast of South Carolina they ran into a heavy storm, and the great ship creaked and groaned as it buffeted wind and wave.
In the little parlor of the suite the entire party, banished from wet, slippery decks, made merry together, and declared it was all fun, anyway. But gradually the ranks thinned. First Mrs. Kennedy asked to be excused, and went into the bedroom. Alma Lane went away next. She said she wanted a drink of water—but she did not return, and very soon Elsie Martin, looking suspiciously white about the lips, said she guessed she would go and find Alma. She, too, did not return.
Tilly went next. Tilly, naturally, had not been her usual self since the accident, in spite of her brave attempts to hide her suffering. She slipped away now without a word; though just before she had made them all laugh by saying a little shakily:
"I declare, I wish Reddy were here! He'd think he was riding his broncho, sure."
Just when Mr. Hartley disappeared, no one seemed to know. One moment he had been singing lustily "Pull for the Shore"; the next moment he was gone. There was left then only Bertha with Genevieve and Cordelia in the little parlor; and certainly the last two were anything but sorry when Bertha rose a little precipitately to go, too, saying:
"I—I think, Genevieve, if you don't mind, I'll go and take off my shoes. They sort of—hurt me."
"Honestly, Cordelia," moaned Genevieve, when they had the room to themselves, "I reckon we're not caring just now, whether we're fore or aft!"
It was not really a serious storm, after all, and not any of the party was seriously ill. They were all on deck again, indeed, smiling and happy, even if a little white-faced, long before the journey was ended.
It was during the very last of the "golden hours" that Tilly, her eyes on Bartholdi's wonderful Statue of Liberty just ahead of them, in the New York Bay, choked:
"I declare, I'd just like to give that lady our Texas yell. Only think, girls, our Texas trip is almost over!"
There was not quite so large a crowd at the Sunbridge station to welcome the Texas travelers as there had been to see them off; but it was fully large enough to give a merry cheer of greeting, as the train pulled into the little station.
"They're all here, with their 'sisters and their cousins and their aunts,'" laughed Tilly, stooping to look through the window as she passed down the narrow aisle behind Genevieve.
"I should say they were," answered Genevieve a little wistfully. "We haven't got any one, I'm afraid, though. Miss Jane's been 'down in Maine,' as you call it, visiting, and she doesn't come till next week."
"Oh, yes, you have," chuckled Tilly, as she caught sight of an eager face in the crowd. "There's Harold Day."
"Pooh! He didn't come to welcome me any more than he did the rest of you," retorted Genevieve severely, as she neared the door.
And what a confusion and chatter it all was, when "their sisters and their cousins and their aunts"—tosay nothing of their fathers and mothers and brothers—all talked and laughed at once, each trying to be first to kiss and hug theonereturning traveler, before bestowing almost as cordial a welcome on all the others. At last, however, in little family groups, afoot or in carriages, the crowd began to leave the station, and Genevieve found herself with Mrs. Kennedy in the family carriage with the old coachman sitting sedately up in front. Mr. Hartley had left the party in New York, after seeing them safely aboard their Boston train.
"Well, it's all over," sighed Genevieve, happily, "and hasn't it been just lovely—with nothing but poor Tilly's arm to regret!"
"Yes, it certainly has been a beautiful trip, my dear, and I know every one has enjoyed it very much. And now comes—school."
Genevieve made a wry face; then, meeting Mrs. Kennedy's reproving eye, she colored.
"There, forgive me, Aunt Julia, please. That wasn't nice of me, of course, when you're so good as to let me come another year. But school is so tiresome!"
"Tiresome! Oh, my dear!"
"Well, it is, Aunt Julia," sighed the girl.
"But I thought you liked it now, dear. You took hold of it so bravely at the last." Mrs. Kennedy's eyes were wistful.
"Oh, of course I wanted to pass and go on withthe rest of the girls, Aunt Julia. I couldn't help wanting that. But as for reallylikingit—I couldn't like it, you know; just study, study, study all day in hot, poky rooms, when it's so much nicer out of doors!"
Mrs. Kennedy shook her head. Her eyes were troubled.
"I'm afraid, my dear, that this triphasn'thelped any. I was fearful that it wouldn't be easy for you to settle down after such a prolonged playday."
"Oh, but I shall settle, Aunt Julia, I shall settle," promised Genevieve with a merry smile. "I know I've got to settle—but I can't say yet I shall like it," she finished, as the carriage turned in at the broad driveway, and Nancy and Bridget were seen to be waiting in respectful excitement to welcome them.
There would be five days to "get used to it"—as Genevieve expressed it—before school began; but long before noon of the first of those five days, Genevieve had planned in her mind enough delightful things to occupy twice that number of days. Immediately after dinner, too, came something quite unexpected in the shape of a call from Cordelia.
Cordelia looked worried.
"Genevieve, I've come to ask a favor, please. I'm sure I don't know as you'll want to do it, but—but I want you to go with me to see Hermit Joe."
"To see—Hermit Joe!"
"O dear, I knew you'd exclaim out," sighed Cordelia; "but it's just got to be done. I suppose I ought not to have told you, anyway, but I couldn't bear to go up to that dismal place alone," she finished, tearfully.
"Why, of course not, dear; and I'm sure you did just right to tell me," soothed Genevieve, in quick response to the tears in Cordelia's eyes. "Now wait while I get my hat and ask Aunt Julia. She'll let me go, I know;—she'd let me go to—to London, withyou."
"Just please say it's an errand—an important one," begged Cordelia, nervously, as Genevieve darted into the house.
In two minutes the girl had returned, hat in hand.
"Now tell me all about it," she commanded, "and don't look so frightened. Hermit Joe isn't cross. He's only solemn and queer. He won't hurt us."
"Oh, no, he won't hurt us," sighed the other. "He'll only look more solemn and queer."
"Why?"
"Because of what I've got to tell him. I—I suppose I ought to have written it, but I just couldn't. Besides, I hadn't found out anything, and so I didn't want to write until I was sure I couldn't find anything. Now it's done, and I haven't found out anything. So I've got to tell him."
"Tell him what, Cordelia?" demanded Genevieve,a little impatiently. "How do you suppose I can make anything out of that kind of talk?"
"O dear! you can't, of course," sighed Cordelia; "and, of course, if I've told you so much I must tell the rest. It's Hermit Joe's son. I can't find him."
"His son! I didn't know he had a son."
"He has. His name is John. He ran away to Texas twenty years ago."
"And you've been hunting forhim, too—besides that Lester Goodwin who turned out to be Reddy?"
Cordelia nodded. She did not speak.
Genevieve laughed unexpectedly.
"Of all the funny things I ever heard of! Pray, how many more lost people have you been looking for in the little state of Texas?"
Cordelia moved her shoulders uneasily.
"I—I'd rather not tell that, please, Genevieve," she stammered, with a painful blush.
Genevieve stared dumbly. She had not supposed for a moment that Cordelia had been looking for any more lost people. She had asked the question merely as an absurdity. To have it taken now in this literal fashion, and evidently with good reason—Genevieve could scarcely believe the evidence of her senses. Another laugh was almost on her lips, but the real distress in Cordelia's face stopped it in time.
"You poor dear little thing," she cried sympathetically."What a shame to bother you so! I wonder you had any fun at all on the trip."
"Oh, but I did, Genevieve! You don't know how beautiful it all was to me—only of course I felt sorry to be such a failure in what folks wanted me to do. You see, Reddy was the only one I found, and I'm very much worried for fear he won't be satisfactory."
Genevieve did laugh this time.
"Well, if he isn't, I don't see how that can be your fault," she retorted. "Come, now let's forget all this, and just talk Texas instead."
"Aunt Mary says I do do that—all the time," rejoined Cordelia, with a wistful smile. "Aunt Sophronia is there, too, andshesays I do. Still, she likes to hear it, I verily believe, else she wouldn't ask me so many questions," concluded Cordelia, lifting her chin a little.
"I'd like to take Miss Jane there sometime," observed Genevieve, with a gravity that was a little unnatural.
"Oh, mercy!" exclaimed Cordelia—then she stopped short with a hot blush. "I—I beg your pardon, I'm sure, Genevieve," she went on stammeringly. "I ought not to have spoken that way, of course. I was only thinking of Miss Jane and—and the cowboys that day they welcomed us."
"Yes, I know," rejoined Genevieve, her lips puckered into a curious little smile.
"I don't believe I'm doing any more talking, anyway, than Tilly is," remarked Cordelia, after a moment's silence. "Of course, Tilly, with her poor arm, would make a lot of questions, anyway; but sheistalking a great deal."
"I suppose she is," chuckled Genevieve, "and we all know whatshe'llsay."
"But she says such absurd things, Genevieve. Why, Charlie Brown—you know he calls us the 'HappyTexagons' now—well, he told me that Tilly'd been bragging so terribly about Texas, and all the fine things there were there, that he asked her this morning real soberly—you know how Charlie Browncanask questions, sometimes—"
"I know," nodded Genevieve.
"Well, he asked her, solemn as a judge, 'Do these wondrous tamales of yours grow on trees down there?'
"'Oh, yes,' Tilly assured him serenely. And when Charlie, of course, declared that couldn't be, she just shrugged her shoulders and answered: 'Well, of course, Charlie, I'll own I didn'tseetamales growing on trees, but Texas is a very large state, and while I didn't, of course, see anywhere near all of it, yet I saw so much, and it was all so different from each other, that I'm sure I shouldn't want to say that Iknewthey didn't have tamale trees somewhere in Texas!' And then she marched off in that stately way of hers, andCharlie declared he began to feel as if tamale trees did grow in Texas, and that he ought to go around telling folks so."
"What a girl she is!" laughed Genevieve. "But, Cordelia, she isn't all nonsense. We found that out that dreadful night of the accident."
"Indeed we did," agreed Cordelia, loyally; then, with a profound sigh she added: "O dear! for a minute I'd actually forgotten—Hermit Joe."
Hermit Joe lived far up the hillside in a little hut surrounded by thick woods. A tiny path led to his door, but it was seldom trodden by the foot of anybody but of Hermit Joe himself—Hermit Joe did not encourage visitors, and visitors certainly were not attracted by Hermit Joe's stern reticence on all matters concerning himself and every one else.
To-day, as the girls entered the path at the edge of the woods, the sun went behind a passing cloud, and the gloom was even more noticeable than usual.
"Mercy! I'm glad Hermit Joeisn'tdangerous anddoesn'tbite," whispered Genevieve, peering into the woods on either side. "Aunt Julia says he is really a very estimable man—Cordelia, if I was a man I just wouldn't be an 'estimable' one."
"Genevieve!" gasped the shocked Cordelia.
Genevieve laughed.
"Oh, I'dbeit, of course, my dear, only I wouldn't want to becalledit. It's the word—it always makes me think of side whiskers and stupidity."
"Oh, Genevieve!" cried Cordelia, again.
"Well, as I was saying, Aunt Julia told me that Hermit Joe was really a very nice man. She used to know him well before a great sorrow drove him into the woods to live all by himself."
Cordelia nodded sadly.
"That was his son that ran away. Aunt Mary told me that long ago. She told us children never to tease him, or worry him, but that we needn't be afraid of him, either. He wouldn't hurt us. I heard once that he was always stern and sober, and that that was why his son ran away. But that it 'most killed him—the father—when he did go. And now I couldn't find him! Isn't it terrible, Genevieve?" Cordelia's eyes were full of tears.
"Yes," sighed Genevieve. "But you aren't to blame, dear."
It was very beautiful in the hushed green light of the woods, with now and then a bird-call, or the swift scampering of a squirrel's feet to break the silence. But the girls were not noticing birds or squirrels to-day, and they became more and more silent as they neared the end of their journey. The little cabin was almost in sight when Genevieve caught Cordelia's arm convulsively.
"Cordelia, sh-h-h! Isn't that some one—talking?" she whispered.
Cordelia held her right foot suspended in the air for a brief half minute.