"And here we are at the Six Star ," cried Mr. Hartley, as he leaped from the carriage before the wide-open door of the ranch house. "Well, Mammy Lindy," he added, as the , wrinkled old face of a colored woman appeared in the , "I've corralled the whole bunch and brought them West with me!"  
A little stiffly the girls got down from their seats—all but Genevieve. She, in the space of a breath, seemingly, had leaped to the ground and run up on to the wide gallery where the negress, with adoring eyes, awaited her.
 
"Laws, chil'e," Tilly, who was nearest, heard a tenderly crooning voice say, "but I am jes' pow'ful glad to see ye, honey!"
 
"Mammy, you old darling!" cried Genevieve, giving the rotund, gayly-clad figure a bear-like hug. "You look just as good as you used to—and my, my! just see all this new finery to welcome me," she added, holding off her beaming-faced old nurse at arms' length. "I reckon you'll think something has come, Mammy Lindy, when we all get settled," she added laughingly, as she turned to present the old woman to Mrs. Kennedy and the girls.
 
A little later, Tilly, in the wide, center hallway, was looking wonderingly about her.
 
"Well, Genevieve Hartley, I didn't think you could have room enough for us all," she declared; "but I'll give it up. I should think you might entertain the whole state of Texas in this house!"
 
"We try to, sometimes," laughed Genevieve. "You know we Texans pride ourselves on always having room for everybody."
 
"Well, I should think you did—and, only think, all on one floor, too!"
 
Genevieve did not answer. She was looking around her with a thoughtful little frown between her as if she saw something she did not quite understand.
 
The girls were in the wide center hallway that ran straight through the house. On one side, through a wide archway, could be seen a large living-room with piano, bookshelves, comfortable chairs, a couch, and a good-sized table. Beyond that there was a narrow hall with two large rooms leading from it. From the other side of the center hall opened another narrow hall at right angles, from which led the six remaining rooms of the house.
 
"This is more fun than getting settled in the sleepers," declared Elsie Martin, as Genevieve began to fly about arranging her guests.
 
The boys made quick work of bringing in the trunks and bags; and then for a brief half-hour there was quiet while eight pairs of hurried hands attempted to remove part of the dust of travel and to fresh blouses and clean from long-packed trunks.
 
It was a hungry, merry crowd, a little later, that trooped through the long covered way leading to the dining-room.
 
"Now I know why this house has got so much room in it," declared Tilly. "We could have room in the East if we our dining-rooms and kitchens and pantries to the neighbors like this!"
 
Genevieve did not answer. They had reached the long narrow room with the big table running lengthwise of it. Only one end of the table was set with places for eight.
 
"Why, where are the boys?" questioned Genevieve.
 
Mammy Lindy shook her head.
 
"Dey ain't here, chil'e."
 
"But, Mammy, you are mistaken. They are here. They came home with us."
 
"Yas'm, dey done come home, sure 'nuf, but dey ain't eatin' now, honey."
 
"Why not?"
 
Again the old woman shook her head. She did not answer. She turned troubled eyes first on the two young Mexican maids by the doorway, then on Mr. Hartley.
 
"Father, do you know what this means?" demanded Genevieve.
 
"No, dearie, I must say I don't," frowned Mr. Hartley.
 
"Then I shall find out," the mistress of the Six Star Ranch. "Mammy Lindy, please seat my guests, and have the supper served right away. I'll find Mr. Tim."
 
"But, my dear," Mrs. Kennedy, gently, "wouldn't it be better if you ate your own supper first—with your guests?"
 
Genevieve shook her head. Her face flushed painfully.
 
"I know, Aunt Julia, of course, what you mean. You don't think it's civil in me to run off like this. But it's the boys—something is the matter. They always eat with us. Why, they may be thinking we don't want them, Aunt Julia. Please, please excuse me, everybody," she , as she ran from the room.
 
to the house Genevieve met the ranch foreman.
 
"Why, Mr. Tim, supper is ready. Didn't you know?" she called, hurrying toward him. "Where are the boys?"
 
An odd expression crossed the man's kindly, weather-beaten face.
 
"Oh, they're 'round—in spots."
 
"Why don't they come to supper?"
 
Mr. Tim's eyebrows went up.
 
"Well, as near as I can make out, that's part of the welcome they're giving you."
 
"Welcome!—to stay away from supper!"
 
Mr. Tim laughed.
 
"I reckon maybe I'll have to explain," he replied. "Long John told me they'd got it all up that, after your fine doings back East, you wouldn't take to things on the ranch very well. So for two days the whole bunch has been slicking things up, including themselves. They hunted up every stiff hat and b'iled shirt in this part of Texas, I reckon, for that splurge at Bolo; and Mammy Lindy says they've been the life out of her, slicking up the house."
 
Genevieve drew in her breath with a little cry.
 
"There! That's what was the matter with the rooms," she ejaculated. "Nothing looked natural—but some things weren't exactly 'slicked up,' Mr. Tim. I couldn't turn around without finding a book at my elbow. There's scarcely one left on the shelves!"
 
"Maybe I can explain that," returned the man, with a twinkle in his eyes. "Reddy said the East was strong on books and culturing, so I s'pose he thought he'd have 'em 'round handy. It's lucky your father had all them books come out while you was studying, or else I reckon the boys would have hit the trail for the nearest book-store and roped every book in sight."
 
Genevieve laughed appreciatively.
 
"But, the supper?" she frowned again.
 
"Oh, that's part of the outfit—and Reddy said it was 'dinner,' too. He said that he was raised back East, and that he knew; and that 'twas more seemly that you ate it without their company."
 
"Humph! Well, it isn't, and I sha'n't," settled Genevieve, emphatically. "Where is Reddy? Go in to supper," she laughed, "and I'll round up the boys—I mean, I'll find them," she corrected . "Miss Jane doesn't like me to say 'round up,' Mr. Tim."
 
Mr. Tim smiled, but his eyes grew tender—almost anxious.
 
"I reckon they haven't spoiled you back East, after all, little girl. You're the same true blue, like you was, before."
 
Genevieve laughed and colored a little.
 
"Of course I am," she declared. "Now I'm going for the boys."
 
Mr. Tim laid a detaining hand on her arm.
 
"Not to-night; it's late, and it would make no end of fuss all around. But I'll tell them. They'll be on hand for breakfast, all right. Now go back to your own supper, yourself."
 
"All right," agreed Genevieve, reluctantly. "But—to-morrow, remember!"
 
"I ain't forgetting—to-morrow," nodded the man.
 
In the dining-room Genevieve was greeted with a merry clamor, under cover of which she said hurriedly to her father:
 
"It's all right. They'll come to-morrow."
 
"I guess you won't find we've left you much to eat," gurgled Elsie Martin, her mouth full of fried chicken.
 
"Oh, yes, I shall—in Texas," retorted Genevieve.
 
"But I'm so ashamed," apologized Cordelia. "I don't think we ought to eat so much."
 
"I do," disagreed Tilly, "when everything is so lovely as this is. They are just the nicest things! And just guess how many hot biscuits I've eaten with this delicious plum sauce! Mr. Hartley says they're wild—the plums, I mean, not the biscuits."
 
"And it's all such a surprise, too," interposed Alma Lane; "milk, and butter, and all."
 
Genevieve stared .
 
"Surprise!—milk and butter!" she exclaimed. "Didn't you suppose we had milk and butter?"
 
Alma blushed.
 
"Why, Genevieve, I—I didn't mean anything, you know, truly I didn't," she . "It's only that—that don't usually have them, you know."
 
"Don't usually have them!" frowned Genevieve. "Alma Lane, what are you talking about?"
 
"Why, we read it, you know, in a book," explained Cordelia, hastily, coming to the rescue. "They said in spite of there being so many cows all around everywhere, there wasn't any butter or milk, and that the cowboys wouldn't like to be asked to milk, you know."
 
"You read it? Where?" Genevieve's forehead still wore its frown.
 
Mr. Hartley gave a laugh.
 
"I reckon Genevieve doesn't know much about such ranches," he observed. "As I was telling you, Miss Cordelia, coming out this afternoon, there's just as much difference in ranches as there is in folks; and ours happens to be the kind where we like all the comforts of home pretty well. To be sure, I wouldn't just like to ask Reddy or Long John to milk, maybe," he added, with a whimsical smile; "but I don't have to, you see. I've got Carlos for just such work. He looks after the vegetable garden, too, and Genevieve's flowers. By the way, dearie,"—he turned to his daughter—"Tim says Carlos has been putting in his prettiest work on your garden this summer. Be sure you don't forget to notice it."
 
"As if I could help noticing it," returned Genevieve. She was about to say more when there came an earnest question from Cordelia.
 
"Mr. Hartley, please, what did you call those two men?"
 
"What men?"
 
"The ones you—you wouldn't wish to ask to milk."
 
"Oh, the boys? I don't remember—I reckon 'twas Reddy and Long John that I mentioned, maybe."
 
"Yes, sir; that's the one I mean—the John one. What is his other name, please?"
 
"His surname? Why, really, Miss Cordelia, I reckon I've forgotten what it is. The boys all go by their first names, mostly, else by a nickname. Why? Found a long-lost friend?"
 
"Oh, no, sir. Well, I mean—that is—he may be lost, but he isn't mine," stammered Cordelia, who was always very literal.
 
"Then don't blush so, Cordy," Tilly, wickedly, "else we shall think he is yours."
 
Cordelia blushed a still deeper pink, but she said nothing; and in the confusion of leaving the dining-room she managed to place herself as far from Tilly as possible. On the back gallery she saw the ranch foreman. As the others went through the hall to the gallery beyond, she lingered timidly.
 
"Mr. Nolan, would—would you please tell me Mr.—Mr. John's other name?"
 
"John? Oh, you mean 'Long John,' Miss?"
 
"Yes; but—'John' what?"
 
Tim Nolan frowned.
 
"Why, let me see,"—he bit his lip in thought—"'Pierce'—no, 'Proctor.' Yes, that's it—'John Proctor.'"
 
A look of disappointment and relief crossed Cordelia's face.
 
"Thank you, Mr. Nolan, very much," she , as she hurried after her companions.
 
"I don't know whether I'm glad or sorry," she was thinking. "Of course 'twould have been nice if he'd been John Sanborn, only I'm afraid Joe wouldn't like a cowboy for a son, as there wouldn't be anything for him to do in Sunbridge at his trade."
 
Mrs. Kennedy announced soon after supper that she should take matters in hand very sternly that night and insist upon an early bedtime hour.
 
"It has been a long, hot, day," she said, "but you are all so excited you'd sit up half the night asking questions and telling stories; so I shall take advantage of my position as chaperon, and send you to bed very soon."
 
"O dear!" sighed Tilly. "If only it would come morning quick! Just think, we've got to wait a whole night before we can do any of the things we're dying to do!"
 
"Never mind; there are lots of days coming," laughed Mr. Hartley. "What a fine family of young folks I have, to be sure," he gloried, looking around him .
 
They were all about him on the front gallery, in hammocks and chairs, or sitting on the steps; and a very attractive group they made, indeed.
 
"I think it would help the waiting if Genevieve would go in and sing to us," suggested Bertha, after a moment's silence. "It will be so heavenly to sit out here and listen to it!"
 
"Oh, sing that lovely Mexican 'Swallow Song,'" Elsie. "'La Gol—' —Gol-something, anyhow."
 
"Don't swear, Elsie," reproved Tilly, with becoming dignity.
 
"'La Golondrina'?" laughed Genevieve.
 
"Yes, it's a dear," sighed Elsie.
 
"I'd rather have that Creole Love Song that you say Mammy Lindy taught you," breathed Cordelia. "That would be perfect for such a scene as this."
 
"Pooh! I'd rather have one of those little where you can hear the banjos and the ," Tilly.
 
"Indeed! At this rate I don't see how I'm going to sing at all," laughed Genevieve, "with so many[97] conflicting wishes. Anything different anybody wants?"
 
"Yes," declared Mr. Hartley, . "I want them all."
 
"Of course!" cried half a dozen voices.
 
"All right!" rejoined Genevieve, laughingly, springing to her feet.
 
And so while everybody watched the stars in the far-reaching sky, Genevieve, in the living room, played and sang till the back gallery and the long covered way at the rear of the house were full of the moving shadows of soft-stepping Mexican servants and cowboys. And everywhere there was the of perfect content while from the living room there floated out the clear, sweet tones, the , dreamy melodies, and the of the tambourines.
 
One by one, an hour later, the lighted windows in the long, low ranch house became dark. The last to change was the one behind which sat Cordelia Wilson in the room she shared with Tilly.
 
"Cordelia, why don't you put out that light and go to bed?" demanded Tilly at last, . "Morning will never come at this rate!"
 
"Yes, Tilly, I'm going to bed in just a minute," promised Cordelia, as carefully she wrote in the space opposite Mrs. Miller's name on her list of "things to do":
 
"Cowboys are good, kind gentlemen; but they are noisy, and some rough-looking."
 
Five minutes later, Cordelia, from her little bed on one side of the room called a soft "good night" across to Tilly. But Tilly was already asleep.