In the afternoon the young people again started out to explore the town. This time Mr. Hartley was not with them.  
"But are you quite sure you won't get lost?" Mrs. Kennedy anxiously, as Genevieve was putting on her hat.
 
"No, ma'am," returned Genevieve, with calm and a merry smile. "But, dearie, it's daylight and there are six of us. What if we do get lost? We've got tongues in our heads, and we know the name of our hotel and of the street it's on."
 
"Very well," sighed Mrs. Kennedy. Then, with sudden spirit she added: "Dear me, Genevieve! I shall be glad if ever we get back to Sunbridge and I have you to myself all quiet again. I'm afraid you'll never, never settle down to just plain living after these irresponsible weeks of one long playday."
 
It was Genevieve's turn now to sigh.
 
"I know, Aunt Julia. It will be hard, won't it?" she admitted. Then, with a quick change of manner, she observed airily: "As if anything could be nicer than learning to cook, and keeping my stockings mended! Why, Aunt Julia!" The next moment, with a breezy kiss, she was gone.
 
It was a afternoon that the girls spent about the interesting old town, which—Cordelia impressively informed them—was the third oldest in the United States. They tried to see it all, but they did not succeed in this, of course. They did stand in delighted wonder before the San Fernando Cathedral with its square, cross-tipped towers; and they did wander for an entrancing hour in the old Mexican Quarter, with its houses and people, its fascinating and tamale stands, and its narrow, twisting streets, which Genevieve declared were almost as bad as Boston.
 
"Boston!" Tilly, instantly. "Why, Boston's tiniest, crookedest streets are great wide boulevards compared to these! Besides, when we are in Boston we don't have to cross a river every time we turn around."
 
"I don't know about that," retorted Genevieve, warmly. "Just try to go over to Cambridge or Charlestown and see. I'm sure I think Boston's got lots of bridges."
 
Tilly her .
 
"Pooh! You're leaving Boston when you cross those bridges, Genevieve Hartley, and you know it. But just look at them here! We haven't stirred once out of San Antonio, and I think I've crossed five bridges in the last seven minutes. I can imagine those old fellows who built this town getting tired of building houses, and saying: 'And now let's stop and build a bridge for the fun of it!'"
 
Genevieve laughed .
 
"You've won, Tilly. I'll give up," she . "I hadn't meant to tell you; but there are thirteen miles of river twisting in and out through the city, and—there are seventeen bridges."
 
"Where did you find out all that?" demanded Tilly, suspiciously.
 
"In a guidebook that I saw last night at the hotel. It's the same one, I reckon, that Cordelia's been giving all her information from," said Genevieve.
 
"Hm-m;" commented Tilly. "Now I know I've crossed five bridges in the last seven minutes!"
 
"Well, I wouldn't care if there were forty miles of river and fifty bridges," retorted Genevieve, "if they'd all have such lovely green banks and dear little boats!"
 
"Nor I," agreed two or three voices.
 
Everywhere and at every turn the girls found something of interest, something to at. When tired of walking they boarded a car; and when tired of riding, they got off and walked.
 
"Well, anyhow, folks seem to have a choice of houses to live in," observed Tilly, her eyes on a little white surrounded by heuisach and mesquite trees.
 
"Yes, they do," laughed Genevieve—Genevieve was looking at the next one to it: an old-fashioned colonial set far back from the street, with a huge pecan tree guard on each side.
 
"Well, seems to me just now a hotel would look the nicest of anything," moaned Cordelia, wearily. "Girls, I just can't go another step—unless it's toward home," she finished despairingly.
 
"Me, too," declared Tilly. "I'm just plum locoed, I'm that tired! Say we hit the trail for the hotel right now. Come on; I'm ready!"
 
Genevieve laughed, but she eyed Tilly a little curiously.
 
"What do you suppose Sunbridge will say to your new expressions à la the wild and woolly West?" she .
 
"Just exactly what they said to you, Miss Genevieve," Tilly.
 
"Oh, but Genevieve's were natural," cut in Bertha, with meaning emphasis.
 
"All the more reason why mine should be more interesting, then," retorted Tilly, . And with a laugh Bertha and Genevieve gave it up, as with tired but happy faces, they set out for the hotel.
 
At breakfast the next morning, Mr. Hartley announced cheerily:
 
"We'll do the parks, to-day, and the Hot Sulphur Well and Hotel; and finish with dress parade at Fort Sam Houston."
 
"But—what about your business?" asked Genevieve.
 
Mr. Hartley laughed.
 
"Oh, that's all—done," he answered; then, as the puzzled questioning still remained in her eyes, he added, a little shamefacedly: "You see, there wasn't much business, to tell the truth, dearie. I reckon my real business was to show off the state of Texas to our young Easterners here."
 
"You darling!" cried Genevieve, rapturously, while all the rest of the Happy Hexagons stumbled and stuttered over their vain attempts at thanking him.
 
"I declare! I wish we could give him our Texas yell, right here," chuckled Tilly, turning eyes about the dining-room. "We would end with 'Mr. Har............