august came. the first few days of the month were particularly busy ones as some of the boys were off to a round-up on the fifth, and mr. hartley was going with them for a week. to the girls the big four-horse wagon for the food and bedding—the "wheeled house" that was to be home for the boys—was always an object of great interest. then there was the excitement of the start on the day itself, which this time was made particularly momentous by the going of mr. hartley.

the ranch house seemed very lonely without its genial, generous-hearted owner, and everybody was glad that he had promised to come back in a week. meanwhile, of course, there was "the man."

the man was he who had been found by the girls in the prairie grass. he was still almost as much of a mystery as ever. mr. hartley had insisted upon his staying—and, indeed (though no bones were broken), he was quite too badly injured to be moved for a time. he was able now to sit in the big comfortable chairs on the back gallery; and he spent hours there every day, sometimes reading, more often sitting motionless, with his dark eyes closed, and his hands resting on his crutches by his side.

he had not seemed to care to talk of himself. he had merely said that his horse had thrown him, and that he had lain in the grass for some time before he was found. he was quiet, had good manners, and used good language. he said that his name was john edwards. he seemed deeply grateful for all kindness shown him, but was plainly anxious to be well enough to be on his way again. mr. hartley, however, had won his promise to remain till he himself returned from the round-up.

all the young people did their best to make the injured man's time pass as pleasantly as possible; and very often one or another of them might be found reading to him, or playing a game of checkers or chess with him.

it was on such an occasion that cordelia wilson, at the conclusion of a game of checkers, found the courage to say something that had long been on her mind.

"mr. edwards, do—do you know texas very well?"

the man smiled a little.

"well, miss cordelia, texas is rather large, you know."

cordelia sighed almost impatiently.

"dear me! i—i wish every one wouldn't always say that," she lamented. "it's so discouraging!"

"dis—couraging?"

"yes—when you're trying to find some one."

"oh! and are you trying to find some one?"

"yes, sir; four some ones."

"well, i should think that might be difficult—in texas, unless you know where they are," smiled the man.

"i don't; and that's what's the matter," sighed cordelia. "that's why i was going to ask you, to see if you didn't know, perhaps."

"ask me?"

"yes. that is, if you had been around any—in texas. you see i ask everybody, almost. i have to," she apologized a little wistfully. "and even then it looks as if i should have to go back to sunbridge without finding one of them. and i'd so hate to do that!"

the man started visibly.

"go back—where?"

"to sunbridge."

"sunbridge—?"

"sunbridge, new hampshire; home, you know."

an odd expression crossed the man's face.

"no—i didn't know," he said, after a moment.

"why, didn't any of us ever tell you we were from the east?" cried cordelia.

"oh, yes, lots of times. but you never happened to mention the town before, i think."

"why, how funny!" murmured cordelia.

the man did not speak. he seemed to have fallen into a reverie. cordelia stirred restlessly in her seat.

"did you say you would help me?" she asked at last, timidly.

"help you?" the man seemed to have forgotten what she had been speaking of.

"help me to find them, you know—those people i'm looking for."

"why, of course," laughed the man, easily. "who are—" he stopped abruptly. for the second time an odd expression crossed his face. "are they—sunbridge people?" he asked, stooping to pick up a dried leaf from the gallery floor.

"yes, mr. edwards. there are four of them—three men and one woman. they are john sanborn, lester goodwin, james hunt, and mrs. lizzie higgins. maybe you know some of them. do you?"

"well, miss cordelia,"—the man stopped a minute, as he reached for a leaf still farther away—"is that quite to be expected?" he asked then, lightly.

"no, i suppose not," she sighed; "for, of course, texas is big. but if you would please just put their[189] names down on paper same as the others have, that would help a great deal."

"why, certainly," agreed the man, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a little notebook not unlike the minister's. "now suppose you—you give me those names again, miss cordelia."

"john sanborn, lester goodwin, james hunt, and mrs. lizzie higgins. and i am cordelia wilson, you know. just 'sunbridge, new hampshire,' would reach me—if you found any of them."

"i'll remember—if i find any of them," murmured the man, as he wrote the last name.

"and thank you so much!" beamed cordelia.

there was a moment's silence. the man was playing with his pencil.

"did you say you were asked to find these people?" he inquired at last, examining the lead of his pencil intently.

"oh, yes, sir."

"indeed! and may i inquire who asked you?"

"why, of course! the people who belong to them—who are so anxious for them to come back, you know."

"oh, then they want them?" the man was still examining the point of his pencil.

"indeed they do, mr. edwards," cried cordelia, glad to find her new audience so interested. "mrs. lizzie higgins eloped years ago, and her mother, mrs. snow, is terribly worried. she's never heard a word from her. mrs. granger is a widow, and very poor. her husband died last year. she hasn't any one left but her cousin, lester goodwin, now, and she so wishes she could find him. lester's had some money left him, but if he isn't found this year, it'll go to some one else."

"oh!" the man gave a short little laugh that sounded not quite pleasant, as he lifted his head suddenly. "i begin to see. mrs. granger thinks if she had lester, and lester had the money, why she'd get the money, too, eh?"

"oh, no, sir—not exactly," objected cordelia. "you see, if he isn't found the money goes to her, so she thinks she ought to make a special effort to find him. she says she wouldn't sleep a wink if she took all that money without trying to find him; so she asked me. of course the lawyers are hunting, anyway."

"oh-h!" said the man again; but this time he did not laugh. "hm-m; well—are there any fortunes left the other two?" he asked, after a moment's silence. he had gone back to his pencil point.

"oh, no, sir," laughed cordelia, a little ruefully. "i'm afraid they won't think so. they're wanted to help folks."

"to help folks!"

"yes, sir. you see john sanborn's father is very poor, and he lives all alone in a little bit of a house in the woods. he's called 'hermit joe.'"

"yes—go on," bade the man, as cordelia stopped for breath. the man's voice was husky—perhaps because he had stooped to pick up another dried leaf.

"there isn't much more about him, only he's terribly lonesome and wants his boy, he says. you see, the boy ran away years and years ago. i don't think that was very nice of him. do you?"

there was no answer. the man sat now with his hand over his eyes. cordelia wondered if perhaps she had tired him.

"and that's all," she said hurriedly; "only sally hunt's brother, james. if he isn't found she'll have to go to the poor farm, i'm afraid."

"what?"

cordelia started nervously. the man had turned upon her so sharply that his crutches fell to the floor with a crash.

"oh, sir, i beg your pardon," she apologized, springing to her feet. "i'm so afraid you were asleep, and i startled you. i—i will go now. and—and thank you ever so much for writing down those names!"

the man shook his head decidedly.

"don't go," he begged. "you have not tired me, and i like to hear you talk. now sit down, please, and tell me all about these people—this james hunt's sister, and all the rest."

"oh, do you really want to know about them?" cried cordelia, joyfully. "then i will tell you; for maybe it would help you find them, you know."

"yes, maybe it would," agreed the man, in a curiously vibrant voice, as cordelia seated herself again at his side. "now talk."

and cordelia talked. she talked not only then, but several times after that, and she talked always of sunbridge. mr. edwards seemed so interested in everything and everybody there, though specially, of course, in the relatives of the four lost people she was trying to find—which was natural, certainly, thought cordelia, inasmuch as he, too, was going to search for them in the weeks to come.

mr. edwards improved in health very rapidly these days. he discarded his crutches, and seemed feverishly anxious to test his strength on every occasion. upon mr. hartley's return from the round-up, the injured man insisted that he was quite well enough to go away; and, in spite of the kind ranchman's protests, he did go the next day after mr. hartley's return. carlos drove him to bolo, and the happy hexagons stood on the ranch-house steps and gave him their texas yell as a send-off, substituting a lusty "mr. edwards" for genevieve's name at the end.

"that is the most convenient yell," chuckled tilly, as the ranch wagon with carlos and mr. edwards drove away. "it'll do for anything and anybody. and didn't mr. edwards like it!"

"of course he did! he couldn't help it," cried genevieve.

"i think mr. edwards is a very nice man," observed cordelia, with emphasis, "and i wish he could have stayed for the party."

"why, of course he's a nice man," chimed in the other girls, eyeing her earnest face a little curiously.

"who said he wasn't?" laughed tilly. "my! but it is hot, isn't it?" she added, dropping into one of the big wicker chairs near her.

"oh, of course we have to have some warm weather," bridled genevieve, "else you'd be homesick for new hampshire!"

"the mean annual temperature of the country near—" began tilly, mischievously; but genevieve put her hands to her ears and fled.

the fourteenth of august was to be a gala occasion at the six star ranch, for there was to be a supper and dance to entertain the friends from the east.

"but where'll you get your guests?" demanded tilly, when she first heard of the plan. "whom can you have, 'way off here like this?—all will please take notice that i said 'whom'!"

genevieve laughed and tossed her head a little.

"well, we'll have the boys here on the ranch, of course, and susie billings, and some of the other bolo girls. we can't have quentina, of course—poor thing! isn't it a shame about that whooping cough?—and ned's got it, too, now, you know!—but i think the boyntons will come. their ranch is only thirty-five miles away, and they could stay all night, of course."

"only thirty-five miles away," repeated tilly, airily. "of course nobody'd mind a little thing like that, for a party!"

"no, they wouldn't—in texas," retorted genevieve. "there's the wetherbys, too. they live five miles out from bolo on the other side. maybe they'll come. we'll ask them, anyhow. oh, we'll have a party—never you fear!"

when the night of the fourteenth arrived, things looked, indeed, very like "a party." everywhere were confusion and excitement, even to the saddle room and blacksmith's shop, and to the two big tents that were being put up for extra sleeping quarters. everywhere, too (mrs. kennedy declared), were dishes heaped with chocolate candies. mr. edwards, who had left the ranch only the day before, had sent back by carlos twenty-five pounds of the best candy bolo could supply; and the girls had been lavish in its disposal.

five wetherbys and six boyntons had arrived together with a dozen cowboys on horseback. susie billings, minus her khaki and cartridges, looked the picture of demureness in white muslin and baby-blue ribbons. there were other pretty girls, too, from bolo, in white, and in pale pink and yellow. and everywhere were the happy hexagons, wildly excited, and delighted with it all.

the big hall and the living-room had been cleared for dancing. the galleries and the long covered way leading to the dining room had been decorated with flowers and lanterns. the long table in the dining-room was decorated, too, and would later be loaded with all sorts of good things: sandwiches, hot biscuits, tamales, cakes, and black coffee without sugar. in the center of the table already there was a huge round white something that called forth delighted clappings from the happy hexagons as they flocked in at seven o'clock to look at the table decorations.

"oh, what a lovely cake," gurgled tilly, "and such a big one!"

genevieve laughed mischievously.

"i'll give you the whole cake—if you'll cut it," she proposed.

with manifest alacrity tilly reached for a knife.

"done!" she cried.

before the knife descended, genevieve caught her hand.

"wait! look here," she parleyed. taking the knife, she thrust its point through the elaborate white frosting, with two or three gentle taps.

"why, it's hard!—hard as stone," ejaculated tilly, trying for herself.

"it is stone," laughed genevieve.

"stone!" cried a chorus of unbelieving voices.

"yes, stone—frosted with sugar and the whites of eggs. oh, if you'd lived in texas as long as i have you'd have seen them before," nodded genevieve.

"well, i've got my opinion of texas cakes, then," pouted tilly, with saucy impertinence.

"oh, you'll change it later, i reckon—when you see the real ones," rejoined genevieve, comfortably, as they left the dining-room.

there never had been, surely, such a party. all the happy hexagons agreed to that. so, too, did all the guests. perhaps on no one's face was there a look of anxious care except on cordelia's. possibly mr. hartley noticed this look. at all events he watched cordelia rather closely, as the evening advanced, particularly after he chanced to overhear some of her remarks to his guests. then he sought his daughter.

"dearie," he began in a low voice, leading her a little to one side, "what in the world ails that little miss cordelia?"

"ails her! what do you mean? is she sick?"

"no, i don't think so; but she looks as if she'd got the weight of the whole outfit on her shoulders, and she seems to be going 'round asking everybody if they knew john somebody, or lizzie somebody else."

genevieve laughed merrily; but almost at once she frowned and shook her head.

"no, i don't know, father, what is the matter. but cordelia is capable of—anything, if once her conscience is stirred. why don't you ask her yourself?"

"i believe i will, dearie," he asserted at last.

five minutes later he chanced to find cordelia without a partner.

"miss cordelia, will you accept an old man for this dance?" he asked genially. "and shall we sit it out, perhaps?"

"oh, thank you! i'd love to," cried cordelia in a relieved voice. "and i shall be so glad to rest!"

"tired—dancing?" he asked.

"oh, no, not dancing; that is—well—" she stopped, and colored painfully.

mr. hartley waited a moment, then observed with a smile:

"you seem to be looking for some one to-night, miss cordelia. didn't i hear you asking mr. boynton and joe wetherby if they knew john somebody or other?"

again a pink flush spread over cordelia's face, "yes, sir; i am looking for somebody—four somebodies."

"you don't say! found them yet?"

she shook her head. to the man's surprise and distress, her eyes filled with tears.

"no, mr. hartley, and that's what's the trouble. that's why i'm trying so hard to-night to ask all these people—there's such a little time left!"

"time—left?"

"yes. i'd like to tell you about it, please. i think i may tell you. of course i haven't said a word to the girls, because the people—back in sunbridge—didn't want me to talk about it. i'm looking for john sanborn, lester goodwin, james hunt, and mrs. lizzie higgins. they're all sunbridge people who came to texas years ago, and are lost."

mr. hartley gave a sudden exclamation.

"did you say—lester goodwin was one?" he asked.

"yes, sir."

"who wants him, and what for?"

patiently cordelia told him. she wore a hopeless air. she had ceased, evidently, to expect anything that was good.

mr. hartley gave a low whistle. for a moment he was silent, then he chuckled unexpectedly.

"well, miss cordelia, if you hadn't looked so far away for your pony you might have seen his tracks nearer home, perhaps. as it happens, lester goodwin is right here on the ranch."

"here? lester goodwin?" gasped cordelia.

"yes. oh, he isn't known by that name—he preferred not to be. he came to me fourteen years ago, and he's been here ever since. he said he wanted to be a cowboy; that he'd always wanted to be one ever since when, as a little boy, he used to rope his rocking-horse with his mother's clothes-line. his uncle had wanted him to be a teacher, but he hated the sight of books; so when his uncle died, he ran away and came here. he said there wasn't anybody to care where he was, or what he did; so i let him stay."

"and to think he's here now!"

"he certainly is. you see he came here because he knew me once a little when i was in sunbridge visiting relatives, years ago, and he knew i had become a ranchman in texas. he begged so hard that i should keep his secret that i've always kept it. besides, there was nothing to keep. nobody ever asked me, or suspected he was here."

"why, how strange!" breathed cordelia, with shining eyes. "and only think how i've asked everybody but you—and now i've found one of them right here!"

"yes—though we mustn't be too sure, of course. we'll tell him; but maybe he won't want to go back, even now. i reckon, however, that when he hears of the money, reddy won't mind his real name being known."

"reddy!" cried cordelia.

"oh!—i didn't tell you, did i?" smiled mr. hartley. "yes, reddy is lester goodwin."

"why, mr. hartley! and i never thought of such a thing as asking him! i only looked for the cowboys who were called 'john' or 'james' or 'lester'—and there weren't many of those. and so it's reddy—why, i just can't believe it's true!"

"i reckon reddy can't, either," laughed mr. hartley. "and now we'll let you go back to your dancing, my dear. i've already encountered at least four pairs of glowering eyes unpleasantly pointed in my direction. i'll go and find reddy—or rather, mr. lester goodwin," he finished impressively, as he rose to his feet.