school, in an amazingly short time, fell into its customary routine. genevieve, it is true, did not cease to pine for long, free hours out of doors; but with as good grace as she could muster she submitted to the inevitable.
miss hart was still not a favorite in the school, and no one seemed to realize this more keenly than did miss hart herself. at all events, as the days passed, she grew thinner and paler looking, and more nervous and worried in her manner. while none of the happy hexagons deliberately set herself to making trouble, certainly none of them tried to cause matters to be any easier for her. the girls themselves had long since forgotten their brief day of unpleasantness regarding o. b. j. holmes, and were more devoted than ever, after this, their first quarrel.
in the kennedy home, too, matters had settled into their usual routine. miss jane had returned, and the days, for genevieve, were full of study, practice, and the usual number of lessons in cooking and sewing.
as the crisp october days came, every pleasant saturday afternoon found the hexagon club off for a long walk or ride, sometimes by themselves, sometimes with harold, charlie, o. b. j. holmes, or some of the other boys and girls as invited guests.
o. b. j. holmes had long since ceased to be the "new boy." he was not, indeed, exactly a favorite with some of the young people, but he was included frequently in their merrymakings—chiefly because genevieve declared openly that she thought he ought to be. he was not called "oliver" except in the classroom. outside he was known usually as "o. b. j." slurred into "obejay." sometimes, it is true, tilly's old "o be joyful" was heard, but not often—perhaps because the lad appeared not to care if they did call him that, specially if genevieve were near to join in the good-natured laugh with which he greeted it.
undeniably, this frank friendliness of the most popular girl in school had much to do with the way the others regarded him; though they were at a loss, sometimes, to account for a certain quality in that friendship, which they could not fathom.
"it's for all the world as if you'd known each other before," harold explained it a little aggrievedly one day to genevieve, when o. b. j. holmes had just thrown her one of his merry glances at a sudden revival of tilly's "o be joyful" name. "say, have you known him before?"
genevieve laughed—but she shook her head.
"no; but maybe i do know him now—a little better than you do," she answered demurely, thinking of the name that harold did not even suspect.
school this year, for genevieve, was meaning two new experiences. one was that for the first time class officers were elected; the other, that a school magazine was started. in both of these she bore a prominent part. in the one she was unanimously elected president; in the other she was appointed correspondent for her class by the editor-in-chief. by each, however, she was quite overwhelmed.
"but i don't think i can do them—not either of them," she declared to mrs. kennedy and miss jane chick when she had brought home the news. "to be class president you have to be awfully dignified and conduct meetings and know parliamentary law, and all that."
"i'm not afraid of anything there hurting you," smiled miss jane. "in fact, it strikes me that it will do you a great deal of good."
"y-yes, i suppose you would think so," smiled genevieve, a little dubiously.
"and i'm sure it's an honor," mrs. kennedy reminded her.
genevieve flushed.
"i am glad they wanted me," she admitted frankly.
"and what is this magazine affair?" asked miss jane.
"yes, and that's another thing," sighed genevieve. "i can't write things. if it were only quentina, now—she could do it!"
"but you have written for the chronicles, my dear," observed mrs. kennedy. "have you given those up?"
"oh, no; we still keep them, only we have entries once a week now instead of every day. there isn't so much doing here as there was in texas, you know."
"then you do write for that," said miss jane.
"oh, but that's just for us," argued genevieve. "i don't mind that. but this has got to be printed, miss jane—printed right out for everybody to read! if it were only quentina, now—she'd glory in it. and—oh, miss jane, how i wish you could see quentina," broke off genevieve, suddenly. "dear me! wouldn't she just hit on your name, though! she'd be rhyming it in no time, and have 'miss jane at the window-pane,' before you could turn around!"
"quite an inducement for me to know her, i'm sure," observed miss jane, dryly.
genevieve laughed, but she sighed again, too.
"well, anyhow, she would do it lovely—this correspondence business; but i can't, i'm sure."
"what are you supposed to do?"
"why, just hand in things—anything that's of interest in my class; but i don't know what to say."
"perhaps the others can help you," suggested aunt julia.
genevieve gave a sudden laugh.
"they'd like to—some of them. tilly's tried already. she gave me two items this noon, all written down. one was that o. b. j. had a new freckle on the left side of his nose, and the other that bertha hadn't said 'i told you so' to-day."
"genevieve!" protested the shocked miss jane. "you wouldn't—" she stopped helplessly.
"oh, no, miss jane, i wouldn't," laughed genevieve, merrily, as she rose from the dinner-table.
perhaps it was her duties as president, and her new task as correspondent, or perhaps it was just the allurement of the beautiful out-of-doors that made it so hard for genevieve to spend time on her lessons that autumn. perhaps, too, her lack of enthusiasm for miss hart had something to do with it. whatever it was, to concentrate her attention on latin verbs and french nouns grew harder and harder as the days passed, until at last—in the frenzied rush of a study-hour one day—she did what she had never done before: wrote the meaning of some of the words under the latin version in her book.
it was, apparently, a great success. her work in class was so unusually good that miss hart's tired eyes brightened, and her lips spoke a word of high praise—praise that sent to genevieve's cheek a flush that genevieve herself tried to think was all gratification. but—the next day she did not write any words in the book. the out-of-doors, however, was just as alluring, and the outside duties were just as pressing; so there was just as little time as ever for the latin verbs. they suffered, too, in consequence. so, also, did genevieve; for this time, miss hart, stung into irritation by this apparently unnecessary falling back into carelessness, said a few particularly sharp words that sent genevieve out of the class with very red cheeks and very angry eyes.
"i just hate miss hart and school, and—and everything," stormed genevieve hotly, five minutes later, as she met cordelia and tilly in the corridor after school was dismissed.
"oh, genevieve," remonstrated cordelia, faintly.
"well, i do. i didn't have time to get that lesson—but a lot miss hart cared for that!"
"why don't you use a pony?" twittered tilly, cheerfully.
"a—pony?" genevieve's eyes were puzzled.
tilly laughed.
"oh, it isn't one of your bronchos," she giggled, "and it's easier to ride than they are! it's just a nice little book that you buy—a latin translation, you know, all done by somebody else—and no bother to you."
"but—is that quite—fair?" frowned genevieve.
"hm-m; well, i presume miss hartless wouldn't call it—good form," she shrugged.
"why, tilly mack! of course it isn't fair, and you know it," cried cordelia. "it's worse than cribbing."
"what's cribbing?" demanded genevieve.
"it's the only way out when you haven't got your lesson," answered tilly, promptly.
"it's writing the translation under the words in the book," explained elsie martin, who, coming up at the moment, had heard genevieve's question.
"it's just plain cheating—and it's horrid," declared cordelia, with emphasis.
genevieve's face turned a sudden, painful red, for some unapparent reason.
"y-yes, it must be," she murmured faintly, as she turned to go.
on the walk home that noon, harold, as was frequently the case, overtook her.
"well, what part of the world would you like changed to-day?" he asked, with a smiling glance at her frowning face.
"chiefly, i reckon i'd like no school," sighed genevieve; "but if i can't have that, i'd like another[285] box of teachers opened so we could have a new one."
"what's the trouble now?"
"oh, i reckon the trouble is with me," admitted genevieve, ruefully. "anyhow, miss jane would say it was. i flunked in cæsar—but that's no reason why miss hart should have been so disagreeable! but then, i suppose she has to be. she came out of that kind of a box, you know."
harold laughed, though a little gravely.
"you still think they come all boxed, sorted, and labeled, do you?" he said. "and that they aren't 'just folks' at all?"
"yes, i still think so. they never seem a bit like 'folks' to me. it's their business to sit up there stiff and solemn and stern, and see that you behave and learn your lessons. i never saw one that i liked, except miss palmer and miss jones—but then, they came out of a jolly box, anyhow."
"lucky ladies!"
genevieve laughed rebelliously.
"oh, i know i'm horrid," she admitted; "but—well, i went off for a ride with tilly yesterday after school, instead of paying attention to his imperial highness, cæsar; and that's what was the trouble. but, harold, it was so perfectly glorious out i had to—i just had to! i tell you, every bit of me was tingling to go! now what do you suppose miss hart knows of a feeling like that? she simply couldn't understand it."
"but—miss hart doesn't look very old—to me."
genevieve stopped short, and turned half around.
"old! why, she's a teacher, harold!"
harold chuckled, as they started forward again.
"i should like to see some teachers' faces if they could hear you say 'teacher' in that tone of voice, young lady!"
"pooh! i reckon it would take considerable to make me think of any teacher as young," retorted genevieve, with emphasis.
"all right; but—aren't you coming out, later, for a walk or—or something?" asked harold, a little anxiously, as they reached the kennedy driveway.
she shook her head.
"no, little boy," she answered, with mock cheerfulness. "i'm going to practise, then i'm going to study my algebra, then i'm going to study my latin, then i'm going to study my french, then i'm going to study my english history, then—"
"good-by!" laughed harold, clapping his hands to his ears, and hurrying away.
unhesitating as was genevieve's assertion of her intentions, those intentions were not carried out, even to the practising, first on the list; for, in putting down her books, genevieve dropped some loose papers to the floor. the papers were some that had that day been returned by miss hart; and, as the girl gathered them up now, a sheet of note paper, covered with handwriting entirely different from her own, attracted her attention.
she recognized the writing at once as that of miss hart, and she supposed at first that the paper must contain some special suggestions or criticisms in regard to her own work. with a quick frown, therefore, she began to read it.
she had not read five lines before she knew that the paper did not contain criticism or suggestions. but so dazed, so surprised, and so absorbed was she, by that time, that she quite forgot that she was reading something most certainly never meant for her eyes to see.
the paper was evidently the second sheet of a letter. the writing—fine, but plain—began close to the top of the first page, in what was apparently the middle of a sentence.
"speak freely, i am sure.
"things are not getting any better, but rather worse. i cannot seem to win them. of course i understood that my task would be difficult, following, as i did, two such popular teachers. i think, perhaps, that this very fact has made me nervous; and so—i have not appeared even at my best. but, oh, i have tried!—you cannot know how i have tried!
"i am nearly sick with terror for fear i shall lose my position—and of course that doesn't help me to be the cool, calm, judicious person in the chair i ought to be. but it means so much to me—this place—and if i should lose it, there would be poor annie deprived of her comforts again; for, of course, a failure here would mean that not for a long time (if ever!) could i get another like it.
"forgive me for burdening you with all this, but it had got to the point where i must speak to some one. then, too, i did not know but you could perhaps tell me why i have failed—i have tried so hard myself to understand!
"sometimes i think i'm too lenient. sometimes i think i'm too strict. sometimes i'm so worried for fear they'll think me too young and inexperienced, that i don't dare to act myself at all—then i'm stiffly dignified in a way that i know must be horrid.
"after all, i think the whole secret of the matter is—that i'm afraid. if once i could have a confident assurance that i am doing well, and that i am winning out—i think i should win out. i do, truly!
"and now i must stop and go to work. i'm in the grove, back of the schoolhouse. i often bring my papers here to correct. i have them with me to-night; but—i've been writing to you instead of working. i'll finish this later. but, really, already i feel a little better. it's done me good, just to say things to you. of course, to no one else could i—"
there was a little more, but genevieve stopped here. not until she read that last sentence did she realize in the least what she was doing. then, hurriedly, with flushed cheeks and shamed eyes, she thrust the letter out of sight under the papers. but there was something besides shame in her eyes; there was a very real, and a very tender sympathy for—folks.
"and to think that i—read it," she breathed. then, suddenly, she snatched up the papers again. "but she mustn't know—she mustn't know," choked the girl. "maybe, if i run, i can get there in time and tuck it into her desk. i must get there in time," she declared aloud, darting out of the house and up the street without once looking back toward an amazed miss jane, watching her from the window.
as genevieve hoped would be the case, the janitor had not finished his nightly duties. the great front door stood wide open, and genevieve made short work of reaching her own room. as she opened that door, however, she paused in dismay.
miss hart was in her chair. her arms lay folded on the desk before her, and her face was hidden in them.
the knob under genevieve's nerveless fingers clicked sharply, and miss hart raised her head with a start.
during the one brief moment that genevieve gazed into her teacher's startled eyes, wild plans raced through her mind: she would run; she would go to her own desk and leave the papers, then destroy the fateful letter to-morrow; she would walk up and hand the letter to miss hart now, and confess that she had read it; she would—
"why, genevieve!" cried miss hart, a little huskily. "did you—forget something?"
"no, miss hart; yes—well, i mean—it isn't that i forgot exactly. i—i didn't know," she faltered, realizing more than ever the meaning of the letter she had just read, now that the wistful-eyed writer of it sat before her, bearing plain evidence of tears.
"can i do anything for you?" miss hart asked.
genevieve went, then, straight to the desk. the papers—with the letter—were rolled tightly in one hand.
"no, miss hart, thank you; but—isn't there something that—that i can do for—you?" she faltered.
what happened next was, to genevieve, certainly, most disconcerting. miss hart gave one look into genevieve's eyes, then dropped her face into her hands and burst into tears. at genevieve's aghast exclamation, however, she raised her head determinedly and began to wipe her eyes.
"there, there, my dear," she smiled brightly, winking off the tears. "that was very foolish and very silly of me, and you must forget all about it. i was a little homesick, i'm afraid, and perhaps a bit blue; and your eyes looked into mine so frankly and honestly, and with such a courageous 'i'll-try-to-help-you' look, that—that—well, you know what i did. but come—let us talk no more of this, my dear! let us get out of this stifling room, and into the blessed out-of-doors. we'll go into the grove for a little walk. these four walls have been just smothering me all day!"
genevieve opened wide her eyes.
"why, do you feel that way—too?" she asked incredulously.
miss hart colored a little.
"i'm afraid i do, my dear—though probably i ought not to have said just that—to you," she sighed constrainedly. "but—to tell the truth, i've never been able quite to see what houses were made for, i suspect, since i used to ask that question as a little girl. i imagine 'twas in summer, however, not winter, when i asked it," she finished a little tremulously, as they passed through the hall to the outer door.
once again genevieve opened wide her eyes.
"did you ask that—really? why, father says that was one of my questions, too," she breathed rapturously. "why, you are—you are just like—" with a little cough genevieve choked off the "folks" before it was spoken. the word was "me" when it finally left her lips.
it was a wonderful half-hour that genevieve spent then in the grove. over in the west the sun was low, and the shadows were long under the trees. the air was crisp, but not too crisp, if one were walking—and she and miss hart were walking. they were talking, too.
they talked of birds and beasts and flowers. they talked of school and study, and latin lessons that were so hard to learn when the out-of-doors called. they talked of the days and lessons to come; and they spoke—at least, miss hart did—of what fine work genevieve was sure to do before the year was through. they did not talk, however, of miss hart's tears in the classroom, nor of miss hart's letter still tightly clutched in genevieve's hand.
genevieve, however, had not forgotten the letter; and when she walked alone toward home, a little later, she wondered what she should do with it. to give it openly back to miss hart, she felt was not to be thought of; at the same time she doubted if in any other way she could return it to her now. the letter certainly had already accomplished two things: never again would she so misjudge miss hart; never again, too, would she let the others so misjudge her, if she could help it—and she believed she could help it. she should try, certainly. as for the letter—
"well, miss," broke in harold's slightly aggrieved voice behind her, "is this the way you practise, and study your latin and your french and your algebra and your english history?"
genevieve was too absorbed even to notice the taunt, much less to reply to it.
"harold," she sighed, "i wish you'd tell me something."
"certainly! you have only to command me," bowed the lad, with mock pomposity, as he fell into step with her.
genevieve was frowning. she did not even smile.
"harold, if you had something that belonged to somebody else, and they didn't know you had it and would feel dreadfully if they found out you had it, do you think you ought to give it back to them, and so let them know you had it, when all the time if they didn't know you had it, they wouldn't care at all?"
"w-w-well!" whistled harold. "do you mind—er—giving me that again, now—say, in pieces a foot long this time? if i were cordelia i might give you my answer right off the handle, but—i'm not cordelia, you see."
genevieve laughed a little ruefully.
"there wouldn't anybody know, of course, unless i told the rest; and i can't tell the rest."
"maybe not," smiled harold, oddly; "but i'll wager you'll have to be telling something to miss jane pretty quick now. i saw you when you flew out of the yard an hour ago, and i fancy miss jane must have seen you, too. at any rate, she's been to the door three times since, to my knowledge, to look for you."
genevieve clapped her hand to her lips.
"mercy! i never thought to tell them a word. i just ran."
"yes, i noticed you—ran," observed harold, dryly.
"and they always want to know just where i am," sighed genevieve. "o dear! if you do something bad in order to do something good, which is it—bad or good?"
harold shook his head.
"that's not in mine, either," he retorted whimsically. "really, miss, your questions on ethics this afternoon do you credit—but they're too much for me."
"well, i reckon this one is for me," sighed genevieve again, as she came in sight of the house and saw miss jane chick at the window. "but the other one—i know the answer to that. i shall burn it up," she said decisively, clutching even more tightly the roll of papers in her hand, as she turned in at the kennedys' front walk.
