october passed and november came. school was decidedly more bearable now, in the opinion of genevieve, perhaps because it was a rainy month; but genevieve preferred to think it was because of miss hart. it was strange, really, how much miss hart had improved as a teacher!—all the school agreed to that. even tilly ceased to call her "hartless."
"maybe she came in a jolly box, after all," harold said one day to genevieve; but genevieve tossed her head.
"pooh! she wasn't in any box at all, harold. she's—folks!" and harold saw that, in spite of the lightness of her words, there were almost tears in genevieve's eyes.
presidential duties, too, were easier for genevieve now. they proved to be, in fact, very far from arduous; and, as tilly declared, they were, indeed, "dreadfully honorable."
as correspondent for the school magazine genevieve did not feel herself to be a success. she wrote few items, and sent in even fewer.
those she did write represented hours of labor, however; for she felt that the weight of nations lay on every word, and she wrote and rewrote the poor little sentences until every vestige of naturalness and of spontaneity were taken out of them. such information as she could gather seemed always, in her eyes, either too frivolous to be worth notice, or too serious to be of interest. and ever before her frightened eyes loomed the bugbear of print.
it was during the short vacation of three days at thanksgiving time that nancy, the second girl at the kennedys', came to the parlor door one afternoon and interrupted genevieve's practising.
"miss genevieve, i do be hatin' ter tell ye," she began indignantly, "but there's a man at the side door on horseback what is insistin' on seein' of ye; and mis' kennedy and miss jane ain't home from town yet."
"why, nancy, who is the man?"
"i ain't sayin' that i know, miss, but i do say that he is powerful rough-lookin' to come to the likes o' this house a-claimin' he's mis' granger's cousin, as he does."
"reddy! why, of course i'll see reddy," cried genevieve, springing to her feet.
a minute later, to nancy's vast displeasure, genevieve was ushering into the sitting room a sandy-haired[298] man in full cowboy costume from broad-brimmed hat and flannel shirt to chaparejos and high-heeled boots.
reddy evidently saw the surprise in genevieve's face.
"yes, i know," he smiled sheepishly, as nancy left the room with slow reluctance, "i reckon you're surprised to see me in this rig, and i'll own i hain't wore 'em much since i came; but to-day, to come to see you, i just had to. you see, miss genevieve, it's what this 'ere rig stands for that i want to see you about, anyhow."
"about—this—rig?"
"well, yes—in a way. it's about the west."
"what is it?"
"it's martha—mis' granger, my cousin. i want her to go back with me. she's all alone, and so am i. and she'd come in a minute, but she's—afraid."
"what of?"
reddy's lips twitched.
"indians and prairie fires and bucking bronchos and buffaloes. she thinks all of 'em run 'round loose all the time—in texas."
genevieve laughed merrily.
"the idea! haven't you told her they don't?"
"oh, yes; and i've come to see if you won't tell her."
"i!"
"yes. she thinks i'm a man and rough anyhow, so i don't count. would you be willing to come and talk texas to her?"
"why, of course i will," cried genevieve. "i'll come right away to-day, after i've finished my hour."
"thank you," sighed reddy, rising to his feet. "now i'll hit the trail for texas inside of a month—you see if i don't! what you say will go."
"oh, but don't be too sure of that, reddy," frowned genevieve, anxiously.
"i ain't. i'm just sure—and that's all right," retorted reddy, cheerfully. "and mighty glad i shall be to get there, too! i'd be plum locoed here in another month. you see, i've got some money now, and i know a nice little place i can buy cheap, to start in for myself. martha'll take jim small's girl, 'mandy, for company and to help. you see we've got her already roped."
"she wants to go, then?"
"dyin' to. it all depends on you now, miss genevieve."
"all right; i'll be there," promised the girl, laughingly, as reddy, watched by nancy's disapproving eyes from the kitchen window, swung himself into the saddle and galloped down the driveway.
a little later genevieve met mrs. kennedy and miss chick at the foot of the front walk.
"i've taken my music lesson and done my hour, and i'm off on missionary work now," she beamed brightly. "i knew you'd let me go, so i didn't wait till you came home."
"missionary work?" frowned miss chick.
"why, what do you mean?" questioned mrs. kennedy.
genevieve chuckled.
"it's to teach mrs. granger that texas has something besides bucking bronchos and prairie fires. you see, reddy wants to take her west, and she's afraid. she thinks those things, and indians and buffaloes, are all that grow there. so i'm going to tell her a thing or two," she finished with a nod and a smile.
just how successful genevieve was with her missionary work perhaps she herself did not realize until nearly a fortnight later, when cordelia wilson overtook her on the way to school one morning.
"genevieve, genevieve, please," panted cordelia. "i want you to do some missionary work for me! will you?"
genevieve turned in surprise.
"'missionary work!' what do you mean?"
cordelia laughed and colored.
"well, it's what you did for mrs. granger. reddy told me. he said you called it missionary work—and that 'twas missionary work, too. you know they're to start next week, and they're all so happy over it!"
"yes, i know," nodded genevieve; "and i'm so glad!"
"so am i," sighed the other, fervently. "you see, reddy being my find, so, i felt responsible; and of course i ought to feel that way, too. just think—what if they weren't happy over it!"
"but they are," smiled genevieve. "what's the use of 'if-ing' a thing when it just is already?"
"what?" cordelia's eyes were slightly puzzled. "oh, i see," she laughed. "what a funny way you do have of putting things, genevieve hartley! why don't you say such things as that in your notes for the magazine?"
"in the magazine?—mercy! why, cordelia, they're printed!"
"well, what of it?" maintained cordelia.
"what of what?" chirped a new voice; and tilly mack hurried up from behind them.
cordelia looked plainly disappointed; but genevieve turned with a light laugh.
"my magazine notes, tilly. cordelia doesn't like them," she explained.
"oh, but genevieve, it's only that i want you to write as you talk," supplemented cordelia, in distress.
"well, i don't know. i'm sure—aren't they true?" bridled genevieve.
"true!" giggled tilly, suddenly. "oh, yes, they're true, just as 'c-a-t spells cat' is true—and they sound just about like that, too, genevieve hartley, and you know it."
"humph! i like that," bridled genevieve, again.
"oh, tilly, she writes lovely notes—you know she does," championed cordelia, almost tearfully.
"no, i don't write lovely notes," disputed genevieve, with unexpected frankness. "they're just like tilly says they are, and they're horrid. i do say 'c-a-t spells cat' every time—but i simply can't seem to say anything else!"
"but why don't you write as you talk?" argued tilly.
"or as you do in the chronicles?" added cordelia. "you write just beautifully there."
"but, cordelia, that isn't printed," cried genevieve, again, as they came in sight of the school building and saw elsie martin coming to meet them.
at the doorway of the classroom cordelia whispered to genevieve:
"please wait after school for me. i'll tell you then—about the missionary work, you know." and genevieve nodded assent.
once or twice during the day, genevieve wondered what cordelia's missionary work could be; but for the most part study and recitation filled her thoughts and time. mid-year examinations were approaching, and, in spite of the fact that she had been doing much better work for the last month, she felt by no means sure of herself for the dreaded ordeal. it was of this she was thinking when she met cordelia according to agreement at the close of the short afternoon session.
"here i am, dear," she sighed; "but, really, i reckon i'm the one that needs the missionary work if any one does—with those horrid exams looming up before me."
"oh, but you've been doing such splendid work—lately!" cried cordelia.
"thank you," retorted genevieve, wrinkling up her nose saucily at the pause before the "lately." "i perceive you still know how to tell the truth, miss!"
"genevieve!" protested cordelia.
"oh, then you mean it wasn't the truth," bantered her friend.
"genevieve!" groaned cordelia, hopelessly.
"there, there, never mind," laughed the other. "come, we must be running along; then you shall tell me all about this wonderful missionary work of yours. what is it?"
"well, it—it's about another of my—my finds."
"oh, your lost people?"
"yes. it's john sanborn, hermit joe's son, you know. he wants to go west and take his father."
"well, can't he? or doesn't his father want to? maybe you want me to go and tell hermit joe not to be afraid of bronchos and buffaloes," laughed genevieve.
a swift color stole into cordelia's face.
"no; hermit joe wants to go."
"then what is it?"
cordelia laughed shyly.
"well, it—it's a lady, genevieve."
"a lady! why, hermit joe and his son haven't any—any women or cousins, have they?"
"no; but—but they want one," admitted cordelia, a little breathlessly.
genevieve stopped short.
"cordelia, what are you talking about?" she demanded.
cordelia laughed softly, but she grew suddenly very pink indeed, and she clasped her hands rapturously.
"i'll tell you, genevieve. i've been just longing to tell you, every minute. it's the loveliest thing—just like a book! it seems hermit joe's son, years ago, before he ran away, had a sweetheart, miss sally hunt."
"that little old maid on hunt's hill? she's a dear, i think!"
"yes; but she wasn't old then, you know. she was young, and so pretty! she showed me her picture, once—how she looked then."
"yes, yes—go on!"
"well, they were sweethearts, but they had a quarrel or something, and—anyhow, mr. john sanborn ran away."
"how long ago?"
"twenty years; and now he's back, and they've made everything all up lovely, and he wants to marry her and take her west."
"oh-h!" breathed genevieve. "it is just like a story; isn't it? and didn't it turn out lovely!"
"y-yes, only it hasn't turned out yet."
"what's the matter? i thought you said they'd made it all up!"
"they have. she'll marry him; but she—she's afraid of texas, too, just as mrs. granger was, i guess."
"oh, i see," cried genevieve. "pooh! we'll fix that in no time," finished the texas "missionary," with confidence.
"there, i knew you would," sighed her friend, blissfully. "you see, i specially wanted miss sally to be happy, because i couldn't find—" cordelia caught herself up in time. she must not, of course, tell genevieve about sally hunt's lost brother whom she had failed to find. "well, you know, anyway, sally hunt is very poor," she explained hastily; "and everybody said, when we went to texas last summer, that she'd have to go to the poor farm soon, if something wasn't done. so i'm specially glad to have her happy, and—" cordelia stopped, and turned to genevieve with a new look in her eyes.
"genevieve, i've just remembered," she cried. "at the ranch last summer, when i was talking to mr. jonathan edwards and didn't know his name was 'sanborn'—i've just remembered that i told him about miss sally, and how she'd have to go to the poor farm. genevieve, i'm sure—i just know that's one reason why he came home!"
"of course it was," agreed genevieve, excitedly; "and we'll go straight up there now, if aunt julia'll let us; only—" her face fell—"cordelia, when shall i get in my studying?"
"to-night, genevieve; you must study to-night," answered cordelia, firmly. "you mustn't sacrifice your studies, even for missionary work. uncle always says it isn't right to send money to the heathen when your own child is hungry; and i'm sure this is the same thing. maybe we can go saturday morning, though," she finished hopefully.
"i'm sure we can," declared genevieve; "and i'm just as excited as i can be. i just love missionary work," she exulted, as she waved her hand in farewell, at her street corner.
