One by one the long, happy July days slipped away. There was no lack of amusement, no time that hung heavy—there was so much to be seen, so much to be done!  
Very soon after the trip to Quentina's home, Mr. Tim produced from somewhere five little , warranted to be broken to "skirts"—which Genevieve had said would be absolutely necessary, as the girls would never consent to ride astride.
 
It was a nervous morning, however, for five of the Happy Hexagons when the horses were led up to the door. Cordelia was white-faced and trembling. Even Tilly looked a little doubtful, as she said, trying to speak with her usual lightness:
 
"Oh, we know, of course, Genevieve, that these little beasts won't teeter up and down like Reddy's broncho; and we hope they'll bear in mind that Westerners ought to be politely gentle with Easterners, who aren't brought up to ride jumping . But still, we can't help wondering."
 
"Genevieve, I—I really think I won't ride at all to-day," Cordelia, faintly; "that is, if you don't mind."
 
"But I do mind," rejoined Genevieve, looking much . "Of course, girls, I wouldn't urge you against your will, for the world; but we can't have half the fun here unless you ride, for we go everywhere, 'most, in the saddle. And, honestly, Mr. Tim says these horses are regular cows. Father told him he must get steady ones. Won't you please—try it? It will break my heart, if you don't. You see I've said so much to the boys, since I came, about your riding! They were so surprised to think you could ride, and I was so proud to say you did!"
 
"You—you were?" stammered Cordelia.
 
"Yes."
 
"Well, young ladies," called Mr. Tim, at that moment, "here's the steadiest little string of horses going! Who'll have the first pick?"
 
"I will," cried Cordelia, wetting her dry lips, and speaking with a stern determination that yet did not quite hide the shake in her voice. "That is—I don't care about my pick, but I'm going to ride—right away—quick!" she finished, that at least Genevieve should not be ashamed—of her.
 
After all, it was only the first five minutes that were hard. The little horses were politeness itself, and seemed to realize the responsibilities of their position. The girls, determined not to shame Genevieve, themselves with a grace and ease that brought an cheer from the boys as the young people rode away.
 
"Now I feel as if I were in Texas," Tilly, drawing in a full breath of the fresh, early morning air.
 
"I'm so glad—so glad we're all in Texas," cried Genevieve, looking about her with shining eyes.
 
According to Tilly, there was always "something doing" at the house. The boys—much to their own surprise, it must be confessed—had adopted "the whole bunch" (as Long John called the young people), and were never too busy or too tired to display their skill as ropers or riders. Always there was the fascinating morning start to work to watch, and frequently there was in the afternoon some wild little broncho that needed to be broken to the saddle, or to be trained to stop, wheel instantly, stand motionless, or to start at top speed, according to his master's wishes; all of which was a never-ending source of delight to unaccustomed Eastern eyes.
 
For pleasant days there were, too, rides, drives to Bolo, picnic , and frolics of every sort. For rainy days there were games and music in the living room, to say nothing of letters from home to be read and answered. Most of the twilights—if fair—were spent by everybody on the front gallery watching the golden ball in the west set the whole prairie, as well as the sky itself, on fire. In the early afternoon, of course, there was the siesta—Tilly's "naps."
 
There were callers at the ranch house, too. Sometimes a cowboy from a neighboring ranch came to look after a lost , or to see if his cattle had strayed off the range through a broken fence. Sometimes a hunter or trapper would stop for a chat on his way to or from Bolo. Once Susie Billings in her khaki suit and cowboy hat came to spend the day; and once, on Sunday, Mr. Jones came to hold service again. Much to the girls' disappointment, Quentina did not come with him. The mother's foot was better, Mr. Jones said, but the twins had come down with the cough, and poor Quentina could not be spared to leave home.
 
Sometimes a score of men and teams and cowboys with their of horses would pass on their way to a round-up; and once two huge prairie "docked in the yard," as Tilly termed it; and their weary owners, at Mr. Hartley's invitation, stopped for a night's rest.
 
That was, indeed, a time of great excitement for the Happy Hexagons, for under Genevieve's fearless leadership they made friends with the sallow-faced women and the forlorn children, and soon were shown the mysteries of the inside of the -homes.
 
"Mercy! it looks just like play housekeeping; doesn't it?" gurgled Tilly.
 
"But it isn't play at all, my dear," replied one of the women, a little sadly. "Seems now like as if I ever had a home again what stayed put, that I'd be happy, no matter where 'twas. Ain't that the way you feel, Mis' Higgins?"
 
"Yes," nodded the other woman, dully, from her on the driver's seat. "But I reckon my man ain't never goin' ter quit wheelin', now."
 
Even Genevieve seemed scarcely to know what to reply to this; but a few minutes later she had succeeded in gaining the confidence of the several children hanging about their mothers' skirts. Laughingly, then, the young people trooped away together to look at the flowers—all but Cordelia Wilson. Cordelia remained behind with the two women.
 
"Please—I beg your pardon—but did you say your name was 'Mrs. Higgins'?" she asked eagerly, turning to the woman on the driver's seat.
 
"Why, no—I didn't, Miss. But that's my name."
 
"Yes, I know; 'twas the other lady who called you that, of course; but it doesn't matter, so long as I know 'tis that."
 
"Oh, don't it?" murmured the woman, a little .
 
"No; and—you came from New Hampshire, once, didn't you?"
 
An odd look crossed the woman's face.
 
"Well, I ain't sayin' that."
 
"But you did—please say that you did," begged Cordelia. "You see, I'm so anxious to find you!"
 
A look that was almost terror came to the woman's eyes now.
 
"I don't know nothin' what you're talkin' about, and I don't want to know, neither," she finished coldly, turning squarely around in her seat.
 
Cordelia hesitated; then she stammered:
 
"If—if you think it's because your mother will scold you, I can assure you that she will not. She is very anxious to hear from you—that's all. She's been so worried! She wants to know if you're doing well, and all that."
 
"What are you talking about?" demanded the woman, turning sharply back to Cordelia.
 
"Your—mother."
 
"My mother is—dead, Miss."
 
"Oh-h!" Cordelia. "You mean you aren't Mrs. Lizzie Higgins—she that was Lizzie Snow of Sunbridge, New Hampshire, who eloped with Mr. Higgins and ran away to Texas years ago?"
 
The woman laughed. Her face cleared. Whatever it was that she had feared—she evidently feared it no longer.
 
"No, Miss. My name isn't 'Lizzie,' and it wa'n't 'Snow,' and I never heard of Sunbridge, New Hampshire."
 
"O dear!" quavered Cordelia. "Mrs. Snow will be so sorry—that is, of course she'll be glad, too; for you aren't—" With a little of dismay Cordelia pulled herself up before the words were uttered, but not before their meaning was quite clear to the woman.
 
"Oh, yes, she'll be glad, too, no doubt," she cut in bitterly; "because I'm not exactly what a woman would want for a lost daughter, now, am I?"
 
Cordelia blushed painfully.
 
"Oh, please, please don't talk like that! I am sure Mrs. Snow would be glad to find any one for a daughter—she wants her so! And she's her—mother, you know."
 
The woman's face .
 
"All right," she smile............