By the first of May many of the papers for the new prize contest had been turned in. Genevieve's, however, had not. Genevieve was working very hard on her essay now. For some time she had not found a subject that suited her. Good subjects were not very , she . At last she had thought of the Texas trip, and had wondered if she could not compare Sunbridge with Texas. Aunt Julia and Miss Jane had thought decidedly that she could. So for some days now, she had been hard at work upon the paper, and was getting enthusiastically interested.  
All papers must be in by the sixteenth. It was on the tenth that Cordelia, during a meeting of the Hexagon Club, drew a long breath and turned upon her fellow members a beaming .
 
"Girls, I can't keep it a minute longer. I've got to tell you!"
 
"Tell us what?" asked Tilly. "It must be something pretty fine to bring that look to your face!"
 
Cordelia laughed and blushed; but she sighed, too.
 
"Oh, it isn't 'fine,' Tilly, at all. I wish it were, though—but really, I do think it's the best thing I ever did, anyway."
 
"What are you talking about, Cordelia Wilson?" demanded Genevieve.
 
"Mercy! It must be pretty good if it's the best thing Cordelia ever did," teased Bertha.
 
"Girls, stop," begged Cordelia, in real . "I—I hate to tell you now; it sounds so foolish. It's only—my prize paper. It's all done. I'm going to hand it in Monday, and—and I was so pleased with the subject!"
 
"Oh, Cordelia, what is it? You know what mine is," cried Elsie.
 
"It's—'When Sunbridge went to Texas,'" announced Cordelia, breathlessly.
 
"When—what?" cried Genevieve, almost sharply.
 
Cordelia turned a happy face.
 
"I knew you'd like it, Genevieve," she nodded. "It's our trip, you know. I've told all about it—comparing things here to things there, you see."
 
"Why—but, Cordelia, that's—" Genevieve paused . The pause in her sentence was not noticed. The girls were all talking now, begging Cordelia to tell them if they were "in it."
 
"When—when did you choose your subject, Cordelia?" asked Genevieve, very quietly, when she could be heard.
 
"Not until the first of May. I just couldn't seem to get anything. Then this came all of a sudden, and—and it just seemed to write itself, it was done so quickly. You see I didn't have to look up this subject."
 
Genevieve's face cleared. It was all right, after all. She had selected the subject a whole week before Cordelia—and of course Cordelia would understand.
 
"Oh, but Cordelia, that isn't quite fair," she began ; but for once Cordelia forgot her politeness and interrupted.
 
"Don't you worry, Genevieve," she laughed gayly. "I've said lovely things of Texas. You'd know I'd do that, Genevieve, even if I do love Sunbridge. I did worry at first for fear somebody else had taken the same subject—some of you girls—you know we can't have two about the same thing."
 
"But—" The bell rang for the close of recess, and again one of Genevieve's sentences remained unfinished.
 
Genevieve did not stop even to speak to any of the girls after school that day. She went home at once. Even Harold Day, who overtook her, found her so absorbed in her own thoughts that she was anything but her usual talkative self.
 
Once in the house, Genevieve went straight to Mrs. Kennedy.
 
"Aunt Julia, if you get a prize subject first, it's yours, isn't it?" she asked tremulously.
 
"Why, y-yes, dear; I should think so."
 
"Well, Aunt Julia, something awful has happened. Cordelia has got my subject."
 
"Oh, Genevieve, I'm so sorry!" Mrs. Kennedy's face showed more than ordinary distress—Mrs. Kennedy had had high hopes of this prize paper. "Why, how did it happen?"
 
"I don't know. I suppose it was just in the air. But I got it first. She says she didn't think of it till May first. So of course it's—it's mine, Aunt Julia."
 
Mrs. Kennedy looked very grave.
 
"I think the rules of the contest would give it to you, Genevieve," she said.
 
The girl stirred restlessly.
 
"Of course I'm sorry. She—she was going to hand it in Monday."
 
"Oh, that is too bad!"
 
There was a long silence.
 
"I suppose I—I'll have to tell her," murmured Genevieve, at last. "The club have a ride to-morrow. There'll be time—then."
 
"Yes—if you decide to do it."
 
Genevieve turned quickly.
 
"But, Aunt Julia, I'll have to," she cried. "Just think of all my work! Mine's all done but copying, you know. And I was the first to get it. There's no time to get another now."
 
"No, there's no time to get another—now." Aunt Julia looked even more sorrowful than Genevieve just then—Aunt Julia had wanted Genevieve to take that prize.
 
"I'm sure that Cordelia—when she knows—" Genevieve did not finish her sentence.
 
"No, indeed! Of course, if Cordelia should know—" Aunt Julia did not finish her sentence.
 
"But, Aunt Julia, she'll have to know," almost Genevieve.
 
There was a long silence. Genevieve's eyes were out the window. Mrs. Kennedy, watching her, suddenly up with careless :
 
"Of course you'll tell Cordelia that 'twas your subject, that you got it first, and that you want it. Very likely she won't care much, anyway."
 
"Why, Aunt Julia, she will! If you could have seen her face when she talked of it—" Genevieve stopped abruptly. Genevieve did suddenly see Cordelia's face as it had been that afternoon, all with happiness. She heard her eager voice say, too: "I think it's the best thing I ever did!"
 
"Oh, well, but maybe she doesn't care for the prize," observed Mrs. Kennedy, still carelessly.
 
"But, Aunt Julia, she does; she—" Again Geneviev............