A big box was to go to the Six Star , and a smaller one to Quentina. But, better than all, Mr. Jones was to have a letter from Mrs. Kennedy which would—Genevieve was sure—carry a wonderful happiness to Quentina. Mrs. Kennedy was to ask Mr. Jones to let Quentina come to Sunbridge to school the next winter, and share Genevieve's room, as Mrs. Kennedy's guest. All other expenses, railroad fare, school supplies, and any special instruction, were to be met by Mr. Hartley through Genevieve herself.
All this, of course, Genevieve had not brought about without many letters to Mr. Hartley, and many talks with Mrs. Kennedy and Miss Chick, wherein all sorts of pleadings and promises had a part. But it had been done at last, and the letter was to go in the Christmas box—but of all this the Happy Hexagons were not to know until the answer from Mr. Jones came. Naturally, however, Genevieve could not keep all her attention on her studies that month, in spite of the coming examinations.
There was, too, more than one visit to the gentle spinster on Hunt's Hill before Genevieve quite succeeded in convincing Miss Sally that there were places in Texas where wild Indians did not prowl, nor wild horses race neck and neck across vast deserts of loneliness. At last, however, she had the satisfaction of hearing from John Sanborn's own grateful lips that everything was all right, and that the wedding day was set for April the tenth.
In the midst of all this came the examinations, then the fearful waiting till the last day of school when the decision would be announced. The winter before, at these mid-year examinations, Genevieve had not passed. She had not forgotten the of that tragedy, nor the weary weeks of study that had been necessary to enable her to go on with her class. So she, of all the girls now, was awaiting the verdict with special anxiety. Meanwhile, all the Happy Hexagons were spending every available minute on Christmas gifts.
It was just a week before Christmas Day that Genevieve was surprised to receive a hurried after-school call from Cordelia.
"Genevieve—quick!" panted Cordelia, dropping herself into the first chair she came to. "Can't we do something? We must do something!"
"Of course we can," laughed Genevieve, ; "but—what about?"
Cordelia gave a faint smile.
"Yes, I know; I wasn't very explicit," she sighed. "But, listen. You know—or maybe you didn't know—but the Society have been packing a barrel to go West. They're at the church this afternoon, packing it; but they didn't have half enough, and they sent down to the parsonage to know if Aunt Mary hadn't something more—some old clothes of the children's, or old magazines, or anything. Auntie's sick to-day with an awful cold, but she went up and hunted up all she could; then after I got home from school she asked me to take them down to the church."
"Yes, go on," prompted Genevieve, as Cordelia paused for breath.
"Well, I took them; and, Genevieve, what do you think?"—Cordelia's voice was tragic—"that missionary barrel was going to the . Luke Jones, Bolo, Texas. Our Mr. Jones,—Quentina!"
"Cordelia! Really?"
"Yes. You know they told us they got them from our church sometimes. And, Genevieve, it was awful—that barrel! It looked just like the other one, the one they got while we were there that day—old shoes and dolls, and things!"
"Oh, Cordelia! What did you do?"
Cordelia drew in her breath with a little .
"I don't know. I talked. I said things—awful things. I know they were awful things from the looks of some of their faces. And at the last Mrs. Johnson—you know how she can be sometimes!—she—she just snapped out: 'Very well, Miss Cordelia, if you are not satisfied with what we have been able to after weeks of hard work, suppose you go out yourself and gifts for your friends!' And, Genevieve, I said I would. And I turned 'round and marched out. And now—now—what shall we do?"
Genevieve sprang to her feet.
"Do? Why, we'll do it, of course," she cried.
"But, Genevieve, I'm so scared. What if folks won't give—anything? Those women worked weeks—they said they did—for what they've got!"
"But folks will give," declared Genevieve, with prompt confidence. "Now wait. I'll have to tell Aunt Julia where I'm going, then I'll be back ready to start," she finished, as she whisked out of the room.
"Oh, Genevieve, you're always so comfortingly sure," sighed Cordelia to the door through which her friend had just sped.
During the next two hours Sunbridge, as represented by many of its most staid and stately homes, received the surprise of its life—a surprise that sent hitherto women into and closets, and stirred reputedly miserly men into thrusting hands into inside pockets for spare bills.
Perhaps it was the sight of the eager young faces, alight with generous enthusiasm. Perhaps it was the of the story of one missionary barrel as told by girlish lips trembling with feeling. Perhaps it was just the novelty of receiving so direct, and so confident an appeal for "something you'd like to have given to you, you know." Perhaps it was a little of all three that worked the miracle. At all events, in the church some time later, a little band of excited, marveling women worked until far into the evening packing a missionary barrel for the Rev. Luke Jones. And when it left their hands, there was in it the pretty dress for the minister's wife, the unworn underclothing for the minister's boys, the fresh hair-ribbons for the minister's daughter, and the serviceable coat for the minister himself, to say nothing of uncounted books, games, and household articles of a worth and desirability likely to make a missionary minister's family exclaim with surprise and delight—until they found the generous roll of bills in the minister's coat pocket, when they would be dumb with a great wave of to a God who could make human hearts so kind.
"There!" sighed Genevieve, when she and Cordelia had left their last parcels at the church door. "I reckon we've got something different for that barrel now—but we'll never let Quentina know, never—that we had a thing to do with packing it."
"No; but I guess she'll suspect it, though," returned Cordelia, with a teary smile. "But, oh, Genevieve, didn't they give just splendidly!"
"I knew they would," declared Genevieve, "if they just understood."
"Well, then, I wish they'd—understand oftener," sighed Cordelia, as she turned down her street.
Two days later the Happy Hexagons were holding a hurried meeting at the parsonage after school. It was the night before the last day of the term, and they were all trying to work at once on the sofa pillow they had planned to give Miss Hart. Cordelia was making the for one corner, and Alma Lane one for another. The other two were being sewed on by Elsie and Bertha. Tilly was writing the card to go with it, and Genevieve was holding the paper and ribbon with which to do it up.
"I'm going to do as Miss Jane does, next year," sighed Genevieve, at last.
"And what does Miss Jane do?" asked Tilly.
"Begins in January to get ready for Christmas. Now I've got exactly seventy-nine and one things to do before next Tuesday—and to-day is Thursday."
"You must have spent part of your valuable time counting them," teased Tilly, "to have figured them down so fine as that."
"Seventy-nine and one are eighty," observed Cordelia, with a little frown. "Why didn't you say eighty to begin with, Genevieve?"
"Because she wanted to give your brain something to do, too," explained Tilly, wearing an exaggeratedly innocent air.
"Tilly!" scolded Genevieve. But Tilly only laughed, and Cordelia forgot her question with the last stitch she put into her tassel.
The pillow was given to Miss Hart the next day, and, , made the lady very happy. Nor was Miss Hart the only one that was made happy that day. Genevieve, and in fact, all the Happy Hexagons, together with O. B. J. Holmes and nearly all the rest of the class, knew before night that they had "passed"—which is no small thing to know, when for days you have worried and for nights you have dreamed about the dreadful alternative of a contrary verdict.
With Miss Jane Chick, Genevieve went to Boston shopping, Saturday, coming back tired, but happy, and all with the holiday rush and color of the crowded streets and stores. On Sunday came the beautiful Christmas service, which Mr. Wilson made very impressive. Certainly it touched Genevieve's heart deeply, as she sat by Mrs. Kennedy's side and listened to it. It seemed so easy to Genevieve, at that moment, always to be good and brave and true—always to be thoughtful of others' wishes—never to be heedless, careless, or reckless of consequences!
It was snowing when she left the church, and it snowed hard all the afternoon and until far into the night. Genevieve awoke to look out on a spotlessly white, crystal-pure world, with every ugly line and changed into fairylike beauty.
"Oh—oh—oh, isn't it lovely!" she exclaimed, as she came into the dining-room that morning. "Don't I wish Quentina were here to see it—and to talk about it!"
"We'll hope she will be some day," smiled Mrs. Kennedy.
"Anyhow, 'Here's Miss Jane at the window-pane' all ready for her," chanted Genevieve, merrily, her eyes on the tall figure in the bay window.
Miss Jane turned with a sigh.
"Yes, it's very lovely, of course, Genevieve—but I must confess it isn't lovely to me this morning."
"Why, Miss Jane!"
"I had planned to go to Boston. In fact it seems as if I must go. But I have waked up with a sore throat and every evidence of a bad cold; and I'm afraid I don't dare to go—not with all this new snow on the ground and dampness in the air."
"Couldn't I go, Miss Jane? I was going to ask to go, anyway. I find there are three more things I want to get, and I know I can't find them here."
"But you have never been to Boston alone, my dear."
"I suppose everybody has to have a first time," laughed Genevieve; "and I'm not a afraid. Besides, I know the way , all through the shopping district; and all I have to do then is just to take the car for the North Station and the train home. I reckon I know how to do that all right!"
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CHAPTER XXII A TEXAS "MISSIONARY"
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CHAPTER XXIV A BROWN DRESS FOR ELSIE
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