"we're going to have church to-morrow," genevieve had announced on the first saturday night at the ranch. "a minister is coming from bolo, and he holds the service out of doors. everybody on the place comes, and we sing, and it's lovely!"

as it happened, cordelia had not been present when genevieve made this announcement. it was left for tilly, therefore, to tell her.

"oh, cordelia, i forgot. we're going to have church to-morrow," she said that night, as she was brushing her hair in their room.

cordelia, who was taking off her shoes, looked up delightedly.

"oh, tilly—church? we're going to church?"

tilly laughed; then an odd little twist came to her mouth.

"yes, cordelia; we're—going to church," she answered.

"what time?"

"eleven o'clock, genevieve said."

"oh, won't that be fun—i mean, i'm very glad," corrected cordelia, hastily, a confused red in her cheeks.

in cordelia's bed that night, cordelia thought happily:

"maybe now i can get some new ideas for uncle thomas to put in his services. they do everything so differently here in the west, and uncle's audiences get so small sometimes, specially sunday evenings."

in tilly's bed, tilly, a little guilty as to conscience, was trying to excuse herself.

"well, anyhow," she was arguing mentally, "genevieve said 'everybody comes,' and if they 'come' they must 'go'; so of course we're 'going' to church."

not until cordelia was dropping off to sleep did something occur to her. she sat up, then, suddenly.

"tilly," she called softly, "where is that church? do we have to ride eighteen miles to bolo?"

tilly did not answer. she was asleep, decided cordelia—it was dark, and cordelia could not see the pillow tilly was stuffing into her mouth.

just after breakfast sunday morning, elsie martin said a low word in genevieve's ear, and drew her out of earshot of the others. her eyes were anxious.

"genevieve, do you have to dress up much for this kind of—of church?" she questioned.

"not a bit, dear. don't worry. anything you have will be lovely."

"i know; but—well, you see, it's just this," she quavered. "aunt kate fixed up the girls' green chambray for me just before we came. i saw then it didn't look just right, but we were in such an awful hurry there wasn't time to do anything; and i was so excited, anyway, that i didn't seem to mind, much. but out here, in the bright light, it looks awfully!"

"nonsense! that's all your own notion, elsie," rejoined genevieve, comfortingly. "i'm sure it looks lovely. anyhow, it wouldn't matter if it didn't—here."

elsie shook her head despondently.

"but you don't understand," she said. "you know the twins dress alike, and this was their green chambray. aunt kate always likes to use their things, she says, because there's always double quantity; but this time it didn't work so well. you see, cora was sick a lot last summer, when they had this dress, and she didn't wear hers half so much as clara did, so hers wasn't faded hardly any. it was an awful funny color to begin with; but it's worse now, with part of it one shade, and part another. you see, one sleeve's made of cora's, and one of clara's; and the front breadth is cora's and the back is clara's. of course aunt kate cut it out where she could do it best, and didn't think but what they were alike; but you don't know what a funny-looking thing that dress is! i—i don't know whether to turn clara toward folks, or cora," she finished with a little laugh.

genevieve heard the laugh—but she saw that it came through trembling lips.

"well, i just wouldn't fret," she declared, with an affectionate little hug. "if you don't want to wear it, wear something else. what a nuisance clothes are, anyhow! i've always said i wished we didn't have to change our dress every time we turned around!"

elsie's eyes became wistful. she shook her head sadly.

"you don't know anything about it, genevieve. your clothes haven't been a nuisance to you—even if you think they have. you see, you don't realize how nice it is to have such a lot of pretty things—and all new," she sighed as she turned away.

when genevieve went to her room to dress for "church" that morning, she looked a little thoughtfully at the array of pretty frocks hanging in her closet.

"i wish i could give some to elsie," she sighed; "but elsie isn't poor, of course, and i suppose she—she wouldn't take them. but i suspect i don't half appreciate them myself—just as elsie said," she finished, as she took down a fresh, white linen.

at quarter before eleven cordelia wilson knocked at genevieve's door. genevieve opened it to find cordelia in a neat jacket suit, hat on, and gloves in hand.

"am i all right, genevieve?" she asked. "i wasn't quite sure just what to wear."

"why, y-yes—only you don't need the hat, nor the gloves, dear; and i shouldn't think you'd want that coat, it's so warm!"

"not want a hat, or gloves," burst out cordelia, looking distinctly shocked. "why, genevieve hartley! i know you do very strange things here in the west, but i did suppose you—you dressed properly to go to church!"

"but it isn't really church, cordelia," smiled genevieve. "i only call it so, you know. and of course we don't 'go' at all—only as far as the back gallery."

cordelia stared, frowningly.

"you mean you don't drive off—anywhere?" she demanded. "that you have a service right here?"

"yes. i thought you knew."

"but tilly said—why, i don't know what she did say, exactly, but she let me think we were going to drive off somewhere. and look at me—rigged out like this! you know how she'll tease me!" there were almost tears in cordelia's sensitive eyes.

"has she seen you—in this?"

"no; but she will when i go back. i saw her whisk through the hall to our room just as i crossed through to come in here."

"then we won't let her see you," chuckled genevieve. "here, let's have your hat and gloves and coat. i'll hide them in my closet. you can get them later when tilly isn't around. now run back and put a serene face on it. just don't let her suspect you ever thought of your hat and gloves."

"but, do you think i ought to do—that? won't it be—deceit?"

"no, dear, it won't," declared genevieve, emphatically; "not any sort of deceit that's any harm. it will just be depriving miss tilly of the naughty fun she expected to have with you. you know how tilly loves to tease folks. well, she'll just find the tables turned, this time. now run back quick, or she'll suspect things!" and, a little doubtfully, cordelia went.

as she had expected, she found tilly in their room.

"why don't you get ready for church, cordy?" demanded tilly, promptly.

"i am ready. i dressed early, before you came in," returned cordelia, trying to speak very unconcernedly. "why? don't you think this will do?"

"oh, yes, of course. you look very nice," murmured tilly, a little hastily, sending a furtive glance into cordelia's face. there was nothing, apparently, about cordelia to indicate that anything unexpected had occurred, or was about to occur; and she herself could not, of course, ask why no preparations for an eighteen-mile journey were being made, specially when she had pretended to be asleep the night before when cordelia asked her question about that same journey. "you look very nice, i'm sure," murmured tilly, again. and cordelia, hearing the vague disappointment in tilly's voice, was filled with joy—that yet carried a pang of remorse.

it was a little later, just as tilly was leaving the room, that cordelia turned abruptly.

"tilly, i did have on my hat and coat," she burst out hurriedly. "i did think we were going to drive 'way off somewhere to church. but i found out and hid them in genevieve's room, so you would not know and—and tease me," she finished breathlessly.

tilly turned back with a laugh.

"you little rogue!" she began; then she stopped short. her face changed. "but—why in the world did you tell me now?" she demanded curiously.

"i thought i ought to."

"ought to!—ought to let me tease you!" echoed the dumfounded tilly.

cordelia stirred restlessly.

"not that, of course, exactly," she stammered. "it's only that—that it seemed somehow like—deceiving you."

for a moment tilly stared; then, suddenly, she darted across the room and put both arms around the minister's niece. cordelia was not quite sure whether she was hugging her, or shaking her.

"oh, you—you—i don't know what you are!" tilly was exclaiming. "but you're a dear, anyhow!" and it was actually a sob that the astounded cordelia heard as tilly turned and fled from the room.

to sunbridge eyes, "church" that morning was something very new and novel. at eleven o'clock genevieve and her father piloted their guests to the back gallery where seats had been reserved for them. the minister, a dark-haired, tired-looking man with kind eyes, had arrived some time before on horseback. to mrs. kennedy, especially, he looked a little too unconventional in his heavy boots and coarse garments which, though plainly recently brushed, still showed the dust of the prairie in spots. he sat now at one side talking with mr. tim while his "congregation" was gathering.

and what a congregation it was! as genevieve had said, everybody on the ranch came, except those whose duties prohibited them from coming. singly, or in picturesque groups, they settled themselves comfortably on the back gallery, or along the covered way leading to the dining-room. even teresa, in a huge fresh apron that made her great bulk look even greater, sat just outside the dining-room door, where she could easily run in from time to time, to see that the roast chickens in the oven were not burning, nor the beets on the stove boiling dry.

the "pulpit" was a little stand placed at the house-end of the covered way. the "choir" was the piano in the living-room drawn up close to the window, with genevieve herself seated at it. nor was the "church" itself devoid of beauty, with its growing vines and flowers, and its shifting lights and shadows as the soft clouds sailed slowly through the blue sky overhead. as to the audience—no scholarly orator in a fifth avenue cathedral found that day more attentive listeners than did that tired-looking minister find in the curiously-assorted groups before him—the swarthy mexicans, the picturesque cowboys, the eager-eyed, fresh-faced young girls from a far-away town in the east.

they sang first, genevieve's own clear voice leading; and even tilly, who seldom sang in church at home, found herself joining heartily in "nearer my god to thee," and "bringing in the sheaves." there was something so free, so whole-souled about the music in that soft outdoor air, that she, as well as some of the others, decided that never before had any music sounded so inspiring.

for the first two minutes after the preacher arose to begin his sermon, mrs. kennedy saw nothing but the dust on the right shoulder of his coat. but after that she saw nothing but his earnest eyes. she had fallen then quite under the sway of his clear, ringing voice.

"'while josiah was yet young, in the sixteenth year of his age, he began to seek the god of his fathers,'" announced the clear, ringing voice as the text; and genevieve, hearing it, wondered if the minister could have known that at least a part of his audience that day would be so exactly, or so very nearly, "in the sixteenth year" of their own age.

it was a good sermon, and it was well preached. the time, the place, the occasion, the atmosphere all helped, too. all the happy hexagons paid reverent attention. tilly, fresh from her somewhat amazing experience with cordelia, made many and stern resolutions to be everything that was good and helpful, nothing that was bad and hateful. genevieve, who had slipped off her piano stool to an easier chair, sat with dreamy, tender eyes. she was thinking of the dear mother, who, as she could so well remember, had told her that she must always be good and brave and true first, before anything else.

"good and brave and true!" she wondered if she could—always. it seemed so easy to do it now, with this good man's earnest voice in her ears. but it was so hard, so strangely hard, at other times. and there were so many things—so many, many little things—that to aunt julia and miss jane looked so big!—things, too, that to her seemed eminently all right.

"'when josiah was yet young, in the sixteenth year of his age, he began to seek the god of his fathers,'" quoted the minister again, impressively; and genevieve realized then, with misty eyes, that the sermon was done.

the minister stayed to dinner, of course; and, in spite of her interest in the sermon, teresa had seen to it that the dinner was everything that one could ask of it. the minister had the place of honor at the table, and proved to be a most agreeable talker. genevieve had not caught his name distinctly, but she thought it was "jones." he lived in bolo, he said, having recently moved there from a distant part of the state. he hoped that he might be able to do good work there. certainly there was need that somebody do something. in response to mr. hartley's cordial invitation to stay a few days at the ranch, he answered with visible regret:

"thank you, sir. nothing would please me more, but it is quite out of the question. i must go back this afternoon. i have a service in bolo this evening."

"you must be a busy man," observed mr. hartley, genially.

the minister sighed.

"i am—yet i can't do half that i want to. this outside work among the ranches i shall try to carry on as best i can. but you're all so afraid you'll have a neighbor nearer than a score of miles," he added with a whimsical smile, "that i can't get among you very often."

it was after dinner that the minister chanced to hear genevieve speak of herself as a happy hexagon.

"hexagon?—hexagon?" he echoed smilingly. "and are you, too, a happy hexagon?" he asked, turning to the mistress of the six star ranch.

"why, yes. do you mean you know another one?" questioned the girl, all interest immediately. "it's the name of our girls' club—the hexagon club."

"no, but i heard of one, once," rejoined the man. "and it isn't usual, you know, so it attracted my attention."

"but where was it? when was it? we supposed we were the only happy hexagons in the world," cried genevieve.

the minister smiled.

"i found my happy hexagons at the bottom of a letter from the east."

"a letter from the east?" genevieve's voice held now a curious note of wild unbelief.

"yes. it came before we moved to bolo. my elder daughter was teaching in the east, and was taken ill. some of her girls wrote to us."

genevieve sprang to her feet.

"are you—you can't be—the rev. luke jones!" she cried.

"that is my name."

"and is quentina your daughter?"

it was the minister's turn to look amazed.

"why, yes; but—how do you know? are you—you can't be—my happy hexagons!" he ejaculated.

she nodded laughingly. she spoke, too; but what she said was not heard. all of the happy hexagons were talking by that time. the rev. mr. jones, indeed, found himself besieged on all sides with eager questions and amazed comments.

under cover of the confusion, mr. hartley turned in puzzled wonder to mrs. kennedy.

"will you tell me what all this is about?" he begged.

mrs. kennedy smiled.

"of course! i think perhaps it is all new to you. last winter miss alice jones, a texas lady and the girls' latin teacher, was taken ill. the girls were very attentive, and did lots of little things for her; but she grew worse and had to leave. just before she went, the mother wrote a letter thanking the girls, and in the letter was a note signed 'quentina jones.' quentina was a younger sister, it seemed, and she, too, wished to thank the girls. of course the girls were delighted, and immediately answered it, signing themselves 'the happy hexagons.' the teacher went away then, and the girls heard nothing more. but they have talked of quentina jones ever since."

"but it's all so wonderful," cried genevieve, her voice rising dominant at last. "where is miss alice jones, and how is she?"

"she is better, thank you, though not very strong yet. she is teaching in colorado."

"oh, i'm so glad," cried genevieve, "but i wish we could see her, too. only think, girls, of quentina jones being right here, only eighteen miles away!"

"one would think eighteen miles were a mere step!" laughed tilly.

"they are—in texas," retorted genevieve. then, to the minister she said: "now tell us, please, mr. jones, what we can do. we want to see quentina right away, quick. we can't wait! can she come over? can't she? we'd love to have her!"

the minister shook his head slowly.

"i'm afraid not, miss genevieve—thank you just the same. i'd love to have her. it would do her such a world of good, poor little girl, to have one happy time with all you young people! but my wife has a lame foot just now, and quentina simply[135] cannot be spared. you know she has several brothers, so we have quite a family. but, i'll tell you what—you young ladies must all come to see us."

"oh, thank you! we'd love to—and we will, too." (back in her ranch home, it was easy for genevieve to slip into her old independent way of consulting no one's will but her own.) "when do you want us?"

"but, my dear," interposed mrs. kennedy, hastily, "if mrs. jones is not well, surely we cannot ask her to take in six noisy girls as guests!"

"why, no—of course not," stammered genevieve. the rest of the happy hexagons looked suddenly heartbroken. but the minister smiled reassuringly.

"my wife isn't ill—only lame; and she loves young people. she'll be just as eager for you to come as quentina will be—and quentina just simply won't take 'no' for an answer, i'm sure. she talked for days of the happy hexagons, after your letter came. you must come, only—" he hesitated, "only i'm afraid you'll be a little cramped for room. a village parsonage isn't a ranch, you know. but, if you don't mind sort of—picnicking, and having to stand up in the corner to sleep—" he paused quizzically.

"we adore standing up and sleeping in corners," declared genevieve, promptly.

"then shall we call it tuesday?" smiled mr. jones.

"but how can they go?" questioned mrs. kennedy, in an anxious voice.

"why, they might ride it," began mr. hartley, slowly; "still, that would hardly do—even should the ponies come in time—such a long trip when they haven't ridden any here, yet. i'll tell you. we'll let carlos drive them over in the carriage early tuesday morning. i reckon the seven of them can stow themselves away, somehow—it holds six with room to spare on every seat. then, wednesday afternoon, he can drive them back. meanwhile, he can stay himself in the town and get some supplies that i'm needing."

"but seems to me that gives us a very short visit," demurred mr. jones, as he rose to take his leave.

"quite long enough—for the good wife," declared mrs. kennedy, decisively. and thus the matter was settled.