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, you know there isn't—most generally," defended robert.
"and if they are new, 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—with us!"
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't expect anything 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—i told them 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 things aren't so 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 be missionary 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: do you 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't my 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 you are a 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:
"wanted:—information about—
john sanborn whose father is lonesome,
mrs. lizzie higgins " mother " worried,
lester goodwin " cousin " a widow,
and
james hunt " sister " very poor."
"if i find any of these people i'll convey all your messages to the best of my ability," promised the minister.
"thank you. then i'll go out now to the nasturtiums," sighed the girl, contentedly.
all too soon the visit came to a close, and all too soon carlos appeared with the carriage. then came hurried good-byes, full of laughter, tears, and promises, with all the jones family except the mother, grouped upon the steps—and the mother's chair was close to the window.
"oh, happy hexagons, happy hexagons,
come again another day.
oh, don't forget me, happy hexagons,
when you are so far away!"
chanted quentina, waving one handkerchief, and wiping her eyes with another.
"girls, quick!—give her the texas yell," cried genevieve in a low voice; "only say 'quentina' at the end instead of my name. now, remember—'quentina'!" she finished excitedly.
"good!" exulted tilly. "of course we will! now count, cordelia."
a moment later, quentina's amazed, delighted ears heard:
"texas, texas, tex—tex—texas!
texas, texas, rah! rah! rah!
quentina!"
then, amidst a chorus of shouts and laughter, the carriage drove away.
"well, young ladies," demanded mr. hartley, when the tired but happy hexagon club trooped up the front steps of the ranch house late that afternoon, "how about it? what did you think of the fair quentina?"
"think of her! o quentina, you should 'seen her!" sang tilly, in so perfect an imitation of the minister's daughter that the girls broke into peals of laughter.
"she's lovely, father—honestly, she is," declared genevieve, as soon as she could speak.
"and so pretty!" added cordelia, "and has such a sweet, slow way of speaking!"
"such lovely dark eyes!"—this from alma.
"and such glorious hair—all golden and kinky!" breathed bertha.
"and she looks just as pretty in her high-necked apron as she does in her white dress," cried elsie.
"well, well, upon my soul! what is this young lady—a paragon?" laughed mr. hartley, raising his eyebrows.
"i'll tell you just what she is, sir," vouchsafed tilly, confidentially. "she is a rhyming dictionary, mr. hartley, just as i said in the first place; and i'd be willing to guarantee any time that she'd find a rhyme for any word in this or any other language within two seconds after the gun is fired. if you don't believe it, you should hear her 'unearth 'em' on the 'nasturtium.'"
"tilly, tilly!" choked genevieve, convulsively.
"oh, but she said she couldn't find one for petunia," broke in the exact cordelia.
"you don't mean she actually writes—poetry!" ejaculated mrs. kennedy.
"writes it!—my dear lady!" (tilly had assumed her most superior air.) "if that were all! but she talks it, day in and day out. everything is a poem, from a letter to a scraggly nasturtium. she carries an unfailing supply of her own verses in her head, and of other people's in her pocket. if you ask for the butter at the table, you're never sure she won't strike an attitude, and chant:
"'butter, butter, oh, good-by!
better butter ne'er did—er—fly.'"
"i think i should like to see this young person," observed mrs. kennedy, when the laughter at tilly's sally had subsided.
"maybe you will sometime. she wants to go east," rejoined tilly.
"she does? what for?"
"principally to see paul revere's grave, i believe; incidentally to go to school."
"oh, i wish she could come east to school!" exclaimed genevieve.
"so do i—if she'd come to sunbridge," laughed tilly. "she takes things even more literally than cordelia does. sometime i'm going to tell her the moon is made of green cheese, and ask her if she doesn't want a piece. ten to one if she won't answer that she doesn't care for cheese, thank you. oh, i wouldn't ask to go to another show for a whole year if she should come to sunbridge!"
"tilly! i don't think you ought to talk like that," remonstrated cordelia. "one would think that quentina was a—a vaudeville show."
tilly considered this gravely.
"why, cordelia, do you know?—i believe that is just what she is. thank you so much for thinking of it."
"tilly!" gasped cordelia, horrified.
genevieve frowned.
"honestly, tilly, i don't think you are quite fair," she demurred. "quentina isn't one bit of a show. she's sweet and dear and lovely, with just some funny ways to make her specially interesting."
"all right; we'll let it go at that, then," retorted tilly, merrily. "she's just specially interesting."
"she must be," smiled mrs. kennedy. "in fact, i should very much like to see her, and—i don't believe tilly means her comments to be quite so unkind as perhaps they sound," she finished with a gentle emphasis that was not lost on her young audience.
