"They're all here, with their 'sisters and their cousins and their aunts,'" laughed Tilly, stooping to look through the window as she passed down the narrow behind Genevieve.
"I should say they were," answered Genevieve a little wistfully. "We haven't got any one, I'm afraid, though. Miss Jane's been 'down in Maine,' as you call it, visiting, and she doesn't come till next week."
"Oh, yes, you have," Tilly, as she caught sight of an eager face in the crowd. "There's Harold Day."
"Pooh! He didn't come to welcome me any more than he did the rest of you," retorted Genevieve , as she neared the door.
And what a confusion and it all was, when "their sisters and their cousins and their aunts"—to say nothing of their fathers and mothers and brothers—all talked and laughed at once, each trying to be first to kiss and hug the one returning traveler, before almost as cordial a welcome on all the others. At last, however, in little family groups, afoot or in carriages, the crowd began to leave the station, and Genevieve found herself with Mrs. Kennedy in the family carriage with the old coachman sitting up in front. Mr. Hartley had left the party in New York, after seeing them safely aboard their Boston train.
"Well, it's all over," sighed Genevieve, happily, "and hasn't it been just lovely—with nothing but poor Tilly's arm to regret!"
"Yes, it certainly has been a beautiful trip, my dear, and I know every one has enjoyed it very much. And now comes—school."
Genevieve made a face; then, meeting Mrs. Kennedy's reproving eye, she colored.
"There, forgive me, Aunt Julia, please. That wasn't nice of me, of course, when you're so good as to let me come another year. But school is so !"
"Tiresome! Oh, my dear!"
"Well, it is, Aunt Julia," sighed the girl.
"But I thought you liked it now, dear. You took hold of it so bravely at the last." Mrs. Kennedy's eyes were wistful.
"Oh, of course I wanted to pass and go on with the rest of the girls, Aunt Julia. I couldn't help wanting that. But as for really it—I couldn't like it, you know; just study, study, study all day in hot, poky rooms, when it's so much nicer out of doors!"
Mrs. Kennedy shook her head. Her eyes were troubled.
"I'm afraid, my dear, that this trip hasn't helped any. I was fearful that it wouldn't be easy for you to settle down after such a prolonged playday."
"Oh, but I shall settle, Aunt Julia, I shall settle," promised Genevieve with a merry smile. "I know I've got to settle—but I can't say yet I shall like it," she finished, as the carriage turned in at the broad driveway, and Nancy and Bridget were seen to be waiting in respectful excitement to welcome them.
There would be five days to "get used to it"—as Genevieve expressed it—before school began; but long before noon of the first of those five days, Genevieve had planned in her mind enough things to occupy twice that number of days. Immediately after dinner, too, came something quite unexpected in the shape of a call from Cordelia.
Cordelia looked worried.
"Genevieve, I've come to ask a favor, please. I'm sure I don't know as you'll want to do it, but—but I want you to go with me to see Joe."
"To see—Hermit Joe!"
"O dear, I knew you'd exclaim out," sighed Cordelia; "but it's just got to be done. I suppose I ought not to have told you, anyway, but I couldn't bear to go up to that place alone," she finished, tearfully.
"Why, of course not, dear; and I'm sure you did just right to tell me," Genevieve, in quick response to the tears in Cordelia's eyes. "Now wait while I get my hat and ask Aunt Julia. She'll let me go, I know;—she'd let me go to—to London, with you."
"Just please say it's an errand—an important one," begged Cordelia, , as Genevieve into the house.
In two minutes the girl had returned, hat in hand.
"Now tell me all about it," she commanded, "and don't look so frightened. Hermit Joe isn't cross. He's only solemn and queer. He won't hurt us."
"Oh, no, he won't hurt us," sighed the other. "He'll only look more solemn and queer."
"Why?"
"Because of what I've got to tell him. I—I suppose I ought to have written it, but I just couldn't. Besides, I hadn't found out anything, and so I didn't want to write until I was sure I couldn't find anything. Now it's done, and I haven't found out anything. So I've got to tell him."
"Tell him what, Cordelia?" demanded Genevieve, a little impatiently. "How do you suppose I can make anything out of that kind of talk?"
"O dear! you can't, of course," sighed Cordelia; "and, of course, if I've told you so much I must tell the rest. It's Hermit Joe's son. I can't find him."
"His son! I didn't know he had a son."
"He has. His name is John. He ran away to Texas twenty years ago."
"And you've been hunting for him, too—besides that Lester Goodwin who turned out to be Reddy?"
Cordelia nodded. She did not speak.
Genevieve laughed unexpectedly.
"Of all the funny things I ever heard of! Pray, how many more lost people have you been looking for in the little state of Texas?"
Cordelia moved her shoulders uneasily.
"I—I'd rather not tell that, please, Genevieve," she , with a painful blush.
Genevieve stared dumbly. She had not supposed for a moment that Cordelia had been looking for any more lost people. She had asked the question merely as an . To have it taken now in this literal fashion, and evidently with good reason—Genevieve could scarcely believe the evidence of her senses. Another laugh was almost on her lips, but the real in Cordelia's face stopped it in time.
"You poor dear little thing," she cried sympathetically. "What a shame to bother you so! I wonder you had any fun at all on the trip."
"Oh, but I did, Genevieve! You don't know how beautiful it all was to me—only of course I felt sorry to be such a failure in what folks wanted me to do. You see, Reddy was the only one I found, and I'm very much worried for fear he won't be satisfactory."
Genevieve did laugh this time.
"Well, if he isn't, I don't see how that can be your fault," she retorted. "Come, now let's forget all this, and just talk Texas instead."
"Aunt Mary says I do do that—all the time," rejoined Cordelia, with a wistful smile. "Aunt Sophronia is there, too, and she says I do. Still, she likes to hear it, I verily believe, else she wouldn't ask me so many questions," concluded Cordelia, lifting her chin a little.
"I'd like to take Miss Jane there sometime," observed Genevieve, with a gravity that was a little .
"Oh, mercy!" exclaimed Cordelia—then she stopped short with a hot blush. "I—I beg your pardon, I'm sure, Genevieve," she went on . "I ought not to have spoken that way, of course. I was only thinking of Miss Jane and—and the cowboys that day they welcomed us."
"Yes, I know," rejoined Genevieve, her lips
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