"We're going to have church to-morrow," Genevieve had announced on the first Saturday night at the . "A minister is coming from Bolo, and he holds the service out of doors. Everybody on the place comes, and we sing, and it's lovely!"  
As it happened, Cordelia had not been present when Genevieve made this announcement. It was left for Tilly, therefore, to tell her.
 
"Oh, Cordelia, I forgot. We're going to have church to-morrow," she said that night, as she was brushing her hair in their room.
 
Cordelia, who was taking off her shoes, looked up delightedly.
 
"Oh, Tilly—church? We're going to church?"
 
Tilly laughed; then an odd little twist came to her mouth.
 
"Yes, Cordelia; we're—going to church," she answered.
 
"What time?"
 
"Eleven o'clock, Genevieve said."
 
"Oh, won't that be fun—I mean, I'm very glad," corrected Cordelia, hastily, a confused red in her cheeks.
 
In Cordelia's bed that night, Cordelia thought happily:
 
"Maybe now I can get some new ideas for Uncle Thomas to put in his services. They do everything so differently here in the West, and Uncle's audiences get so small sometimes, Sunday evenings."
 
In Tilly's bed, Tilly, a little guilty as to conscience, was trying to excuse herself.
 
"Well, anyhow," she was arguing mentally, "Genevieve said 'everybody comes,' and if they 'come' they must 'go'; so of course we're 'going' to church."
 
Not until Cordelia was dropping off to sleep did something occur to her. She sat up, then, suddenly.
 
"Tilly," she called softly, "where is that church? Do we have to ride eighteen miles to Bolo?"
 
Tilly did not answer. She was asleep, Cordelia—it was dark, and Cordelia could not see the pillow Tilly was stuffing into her mouth.
 
Just after breakfast Sunday morning, Elsie Martin said a low word in Genevieve's ear, and drew her out of earshot of the others. Her eyes were anxious.
 
"Genevieve, do you have to dress up much for this kind of—of church?" she questioned.
 
"Not a bit, dear. Don't worry. Anything you have will be lovely."
 
"I know; but—well, you see, it's just this," she quavered. "Aunt Kate up the girls' green chambray for me just before we came. I saw then it didn't look just right, but we were in such an awful hurry there wasn't time to do anything; and I was so excited, anyway, that I didn't seem to mind, much. But out here, in the bright light, it looks !"
 
"Nonsense! That's all your own notion, Elsie," rejoined Genevieve, comfortingly. "I'm sure it looks lovely. Anyhow, it wouldn't matter if it didn't—here."
 
Elsie shook her head .
 
"But you don't understand," she said. "You know the twins dress alike, and this was their green chambray. Aunt Kate always likes to use their things, she says, because there's always double quantity; but this time it didn't work so well. You see, Cora was sick a lot last summer, when they had this dress, and she didn't wear hers half so much as Clara did, so hers wasn't faded hardly any. It was an awful funny color to begin with; but it's worse now, with part of it one shade, and part another. You see, one sleeve's made of Cora's, and one of Clara's; and the front breadth is Cora's and the back is Clara's. Of course Aunt Kate cut it out where she could do it best, and didn't think but what they were alike; but you don't know what a funny-looking thing that dress is! I—I don't know whether to turn Clara toward folks, or Cora," she finished with a little laugh.
 
Genevieve heard the laugh—but she saw that it came through trembling lips.
 
"Well, I just wouldn't fret," she declared, with an affectionate little hug. "If you don't want to wear it, wear something else. What a nuisance clothes are, anyhow! I've always said I wished we didn't have to change our dress every time we turned around!"
 
Elsie's eyes became wistful. She shook her head sadly.
 
"You don't know anything about it, Genevieve. Your clothes haven't been a nuisance to you—even if you think they have. You see, you don't realize how nice it is to have such a lot of pretty things—and all new," she sighed as she turned away.
 
When Genevieve went to her room to dress for "church" that morning, she looked a little thoughtfully at the array of pretty frocks hanging in her closet.
 
"I wish I could give some to Elsie," she sighed; "but Elsie isn't poor, of course, and I suppose she—she wouldn't take them. But I suspect I don't half appreciate them myself—just as Elsie said," she finished, as she took down a fresh, white .
 
At quarter before eleven Cordelia Wilson knocked at Genevieve's door. Genevieve opened it to find Cordelia in a neat jacket suit, hat on, and gloves in hand.
 
"Am I all right, Genevieve?" she asked. "I wasn't quite sure just what to wear."
 
"Why, y-yes—only you don't need the hat, nor the gloves, dear; and I shouldn't think you'd want that coat, it's so warm!"
 
"Not want a hat, or gloves," burst out Cordelia, looking distinctly shocked. "Why, Genevieve Hartley! I know you do very strange things here in the West, but I did suppose you—you dressed properly to go to church!"
 
"But it isn't really church, Cordelia," smiled Genevieve. "I only call it so, you know. And of course we don't 'go' at all—only as far as the back gallery."
 
Cordelia stared, frowningly.
 
"You mean you don't drive off—anywhere?" she demanded. "That you have a service right here?"
 
"Yes. I thought you knew."
 
"But Tilly said—why, I don't know what she did say, exactly, but she let me think we were going to drive off somewhere. And look at me—rigged out like this! You know how she'll tease me!" There were almost tears in Cordelia's sensitive eyes.
 
"Has she seen you—in this?"
 
"No; but she will when I go back. I saw her whisk through the hall to our room just as I crossed through to come in here."
 
"Then we won't let her see you," Genevieve. "Here, let's have your hat and gloves and coat. I'll hide them in my closet. You can get them later when Tilly isn't around. Now run back and put a face on it. Just don't let her suspect you ever thought of your hat and gloves."
 
"But, do you think I ought to do—that? Won't it be—deceit?"
 
"No, dear, it won't," declared Genevieve, emphatically; "not any sort of deceit that's any harm. It will just be depriving Miss Tilly of the naughty fun she expected to have with you. You know how Tilly loves to tease folks. Well, she'll just find the tables turned, this time. Now run back quick, or she'll suspect things!" And, a little doubtfully, Cordelia went.
 
As she had expected, she found Tilly in their room.
 
"Why don't you get ready for church, Cordy?" demanded Tilly, .
 
"I am ready. I dressed early, before you came in," returned Cordelia, trying to speak very unconcernedly. "Why? Don't you think this will do?"
 
"Oh, yes, of course. You look very nice," murmured Tilly, a little hastily, sending a glance into Cordelia's face. There was nothing, , about Cordelia to indicate that anything unexpected had occurred, or was about to occur; and she herself could not, of course, ask why no preparations for an eighteen-mile journey were being made, specially when she had pretended to be asleep the night before when Cordelia asked her question about that same journey. "You look very nice, I'm sure," murmured Tilly, again. And Cordelia, hearing the vague disappointment in Tilly's voice, was filled with joy—that yet carried a of .
 
It was a little later, just as Tilly was leaving the room, that Cordelia turned .
 
"Tilly, I did have on my hat and coat," she burst out hurriedly. "I did think we were going to drive 'way off somewhere to church. But I found out and hid them in Genevieve's room, so you would not know and—and tease me," she finished breathlessly.
 
Tilly turned back with a laugh.
 
"You little !" she began; then she stopped short. Her face changed. "But—why in the world did you tell me now?" she demanded .
 
"I thought I ought to."
 
"Ought to!—ought to let me tease you!" echoed the dumfounded Tilly.
 
Cordelia stirred restlessly.
 
"Not that, of course, exactly," she . "It's only that—that it seemed somehow like—deceiving you."
 
For a moment Tilly stared; then, suddenly, she across the room and put both arms around the minister's niece. Cordelia was not quite sure whether she was hugging her, or shaking her.
 
"Oh, you—you—I don't know what you are!" Tilly was exclaiming. "But you're a dear, anyhow!" And it was actually a that the Cordelia heard as Tilly turned and fled from the room.
 
To Sunbridge eyes, "church" that morning was something very new and novel. At eleven o'clock Genevieve and her father piloted their guests to the back gallery where seats had been reserved for them. The minister, a dark-haired, tired-looking man with kind eyes, had arrived some time before on horseback. To Mrs. Kennedy, especially, he looked a little too unconventional in his heavy boots and coarse garments which, though plainly recently brushed, still showed the dust of the prairie in spots. He sat now at one side talking with Mr. Tim while his "congregation" was .
 
And what a congregation it was! As Genevieve had said, everybody on the ranch came, except those whose duties prohibited them from coming. Singly, or in groups, they settled themselves comfortably on the back gallery, or along the covered way leadi............