breakfast was an early matter at the six star ranch. it came almost with the sunrise, in fact. genevieve had assured her guests, on the night of their arrival, however, that their breakfast might be hours later—that it might, indeed, be at any hour they pleased. but on this first morning at the ranch, there was not one guest that did not promptly respond to the breakfast-bell except mrs. kennedy. the stir of life out of doors had proved an effectual rising-bell for all; and it was anything but a sleepy-looking crowd of young people that tripped into the dining-room to find the boys already waiting for them—a little quiet and shy, to be sure, but very red and shiny-looking as to face and hands, speaking loudly of a vigorous use of soap and water.
before the meal was half over, mrs. kennedy came in, only to meet a chorus of remonstrances that she should have disturbed herself so early.
genevieve, however, assumed a look of mock severity.
"aunt julia," she began reprovingly in so perfect an imitation of miss jane chick's severest manner that mrs. kennedy's lips twitched; "didn't you hear the rising-bell, my dear? how often must i ask you not to be late to your meals?"
for one brief moment there was a dazed hush about the table; then, at sight of cordelia's horrified face, genevieve lost her self-control and giggled.
"oh, but that was such a good chance," she chuckled. "please, aunt julia, i just couldn't help it. i had to!"
"i don't doubt it," smiled back mrs. kennedy; and at the meaning emphasis in her voice there was a general laugh.
"well, what shall we do first?" demanded tilly, when breakfast was over.
genevieve put her finger to her lips.
"i wonder, now. oh, i know! let's go out and see if they've driven in the saddle band yet; then we'll watch the boys rope them and start to work."
"what's a saddle band?—sounds like a girth," frowned tilly.
"humph! i reckon it isn't one, all the same," laughed genevieve. "it's the horses the boys ride. each one has his own string, you know."
"no, i don't know," retorted tilly, aggrievedly. "and you needn't use all those funny words—'string' and 'saddle band' and 'rope them'—without explaining them, either, genevieve hartley. you've been talking like that ever since we came. just as if we knew what all that meant!"
genevieve laughed again.
"no, you don't, of course," she admitted, "any more than i understood some of your terms back east. but come; let's go out and watch the boys. one of the sheds has a lovely low, flat roof, and we can see right over into the horse corral from there. it's easy; there's a ladder. come on!"
"why, what a lot of horses!" cried tilly, a moment later, as they stepped out of doors. "do they ride all those?"
"not this morning," laughed genevieve. "you see, each man has his own string of horses, and he picks out some one of the bunch, and lets the rest go. that's reddy, now, driving them into the corral. the other boys will be here pretty quick now, and the fun will begin. you'll see!"
the horse corral was high and circular, and there was a fine view of it from the shed roof. a snubbing post was in the middle of the corral, and a wing was built out at one side from the entrance gate, so that the horses could be driven in more easily; yet reddy quite had his hands full as it was. at last they were all in, and a merry time they were having of it, racing in a circle about the enclosure, heads up, and tails and manes flying.
"regular merry-go-round, isn't it?" giggled tilly. but cordelia clutched genevieve's arm.
"genevieve, look—they've got ropes! genevieve, what are they going to do?" she gasped, her eyes on the boys who were running from all directions now, toward the corral. "why, genevieve, they're going in there, with all those horses!"
"i reckon they are," rejoined the mistress of the six star ranch. "now watch, and you'll see. there!—see there?—in the middle by that post! each man will pick out one of his own horses and rope him; then he'll lead him out and saddle him, and the deed's done."
"i guess that's easier to say than to do," observed bertha, dryly. "i notice there aren't any of those horses just hanging 'round waiting to be caught!"
"no, there aren't, to-day," laughed genevieve; "though some of the horses will do just that, at times—specially long john's. they're pretty lively now, however, and it does take some skill to make a nice job of it when they're jamming and jostling like that. but the boys are equal to it. we've got some splendid ropers!" this time there was a note of very evident pride in the voice of the mistress of the six star ranch.
it was a brief but exciting time that followed, filled, as it was, with the shouts of the boys—the jeers at some failure, the cheers at some success—the thud of the horses' hoofs, the swirl of the skillfully flung ropes. it was almost as exciting when the boys, their horses once caught, led out, and saddled, rode off for their morning's work. to cordelia, especially, it was an experience never to be forgotten.
"going to turn cowboy, miss cordelia?" asked mr. hartley, with a smile, as he met the girl coming into the house a little later. mr. hartley, in his broad-brimmed hat, and his gray tweed trousers tucked into his high boots, looked the picture of the prosperous ranchman at home.
cordelia showed a distinctly shocked face.
"oh, no, sir!" she cried.
"don't think you could learn to swing the rope—eh?" he teased.
"mercy, no!"
a half-proud, wholly-gratified smile crossed the man's face.
"it isn't as easy as it looks to be," he said. "once in a while we get a tenderfoot out here, though, who thinks he's going to learn it all in a minute—or, rather, do it without any learning. but to be a good roper, one has to give it long, hard practice. the best of 'em begin young. reddy, the crack roper in my outfit, tells me he began with his mother's clothes-line at the age of four years, with his rocking-horse for a victim. it seems there was a picture in one of his books of a cowboy roping a pony, and—"
mr. hartley stopped, as if listening. from the rear of the house had sounded the creak of the windmill crank. the man turned, entered the hall, and crossed to the window. then he shook his head with a smile.
"i'm afraid genevieve is up to her old tricks," he said. "she's stopping the windmill so she can climb to the top of the tower, i reckon."
"genevieve!—at the top of that tower!" exclaimed cordelia.
mr. hartley's lips twitched.
"yes. that used to be a daily stunt of hers, and—i let her," added the man, a little doggedly. "it made her well and strong, anyhow, and helped to develop her muscle. you see, we—we don't have gymnasiums on the ranch," he concluded whimsically, as they stepped together out on to the back gallery.
a babel of gleeful shouts and laughter greeted their ears. a moment later mr. hartley and cordelia came in sight of the windmill. at its base four chattering, shrieking girls were laughing and clapping their hands. above their heads, genevieve, in a dark blue gymnasium suit, was swinging herself gracefully from cross-piece to cross-piece in the tower.
"you see," smiled mr. hartley; but he was interrupted by a shocked, frightened voice behind him.
"genevieve, my dear!" gasped mrs. kennedy, hurrying forward.
genevieve did not hear, apparently. to the girls she waved a free hand, joyously. she was almost at the top.
"it's fine—mighty fine up here," she caroled. "i can see 'way, 'way over the prairie!"
"genevieve! genevieve hartley, come down this instant," commanded mrs. kennedy. then her voice shook, and grew piteously frightened, as she stammered: "no, no—don't come down, dear! genevieve, how can you come down?" mrs. kennedy was wringing her hands now.
this time genevieve heard.
"why, aunt julia, what is it? what is the matter?" the girl's voice expressed only concerned surprise.
"what is the matter?" echoed mrs. kennedy, faintly. "genevieve, how can you come down?"
"come down? why, that's easy! but i don't want to come down."
mrs. kennedy's lips grew stern.
"genevieve," she said, with an obvious effort to speak quietly; "if you can come down, i desire you to do so at once."
genevieve came down. her eyes flashed a little, and her cheeks were redder than usual. she did not once glance toward the girls, clustered in a silent, frightened little group. she did not appear to notice even her father, standing by. she went straight to mrs. kennedy.
"i've come down, aunt julia."
mrs. kennedy had been seriously disturbed, and genuinely frightened. to her, genevieve's climb to the top of the windmill tower was very dangerous, as well as very unladylike. yet it was the fright, even more than the displeasure that made her voice sound so cold now in her effort to steady it.
"thank you, genevieve. please see that there is no occasion for you to come down again," she said meaningly. then she turned and went into the house.
just how it happened, genevieve did not know, but almost at once she found herself alone with her father on the back gallery. the girls had disappeared.
genevieve was very angry now.
"father, it wasn't fair, to speak like that," she choked, "before the girls and you, when i hadn't done a thing—not a thing! why, it—it was just like miss jane! i never knew aunt julia to be like that."
for a moment her father was silent. his face wore a thoughtful frown.
"i know it, dearie," he said at last. "but i don't think mrs. kennedy quite realized, quite understood—how you'd feel. she didn't think it just right for you to be there."
"but i was in my gym suit, father. i skipped in and put it on purposely, while the others were doing something else; then i climbed the tower. i'd planned 'way ahead how i'd surprise them."
the man hesitated.
"i know, dearie," he nodded, after a moment; "but i reckon it was just a little too much of a surprise for mrs. kennedy. you know she isn't used to the west; and—do boston young ladies climb windmill towers?"
in spite of her anger, genevieve laughed. the mention of boston had put her in mind of some boston friends of mrs. kennedy's, whom she knew. she had a sudden vision of what mr. and mrs. thomas butterfield's faces would have been, had their stern, sixty-year-old eyes seen what mrs. kennedy saw.
"i reckon, too," went on mr. hartley, with a sigh, "that i have sort of spoiled you, letting you have your own way. and maybe mammy lindy and i, in our anxiety that you should be well and strong, and sit the saddle like a texas daughter should, haven't taught you always just the dainty little lady ways—that you ought to have been taught."
"you've taught me everything—everything good and lovely," protested the girl, hotly.
he shook his head. a far-away look came into his eyes.
"i haven't, dearie—and that's why i sent you east."
genevieve flushed.
"but i didn't want to go east, in the first place," she stormed. "i wanted to stay here with you. besides, aunt julia isn't really any relation,—nor miss jane, either. they haven't any right to—to speak to me like that."
a dull red stole to john hartley's cheek.
"tut, tut, dearie," he demurred, with a shake of the head. "you mustn't forget how good they've been to you. besides—they have got the right. i gave it to them. i told them to make you like themselves."
there was a long silence. genevieve's eyes were moodily fixed on the floor. her father gave her a swift glance, then went on, softly:
"i suspect, too, maybe we're both forgetting, dearie. after all, mrs. kennedy did it every bit through—love. she was frightened. she was so scared she just shook, dearie."
"she—was?" genevieve's voice was amazed.
"yes. i reckon that's more than half why she spoke so stern, and why she's in her room crying this minute—as i'll warrant she is. i saw her eyes, and i saw how her hands shook. and i saw it was all she could do to keep from falling right on your neck—because she had you back safe and sound. maybe you didn't see that, dearie."
there was no answer.
"you see, their ways back east, and ours, aren't alike," resumed the man, after a time; "but i reckon their—love is."
genevieve drew a long breath. her brown eyes were not clear.
"i reckon maybe i'll go and find—aunt julia," she said in a low voice.
the next moment her father sat alone on the back gallery.
