december was a busy month, indeed. to genevieve it seemed actually to be one whirl of study, lessons, practice, and examinations, leaving oh, so little time for christmas gifts and plans.

a big box was to go to the six star ranch, 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 dreaded 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 mortification 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, promptly; "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 missionary 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 attic 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 rev. 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 homely things!"

"oh, cordelia! what did you do?"

cordelia drew in her breath with a little gasp.

"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 procure after weeks of hard work, suppose you go out yourself and solicit 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 complacently contented women scurrying into attics 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 pathos 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 parlor 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 reverent gratitude 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 tassel for one corner, and alma lane one for another. the other two tassels 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, apparently, 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 aglow 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 impulsively 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 dreary prospect 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 mite afraid. besides, i know the way perfectly, 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!"

miss jane frowned and shook her head slowly.

"i know; but—i hate to let you do it, genevieve, only i—it seems as if i must go myself!"

mrs. kennedy looked up reassuringly.

"indeed, jane, i am inclined to think genevieve can go all right," she smiled. "she has been to boston now many times, you know."

"there, miss jane!" crowed genevieve, triumphantly. "you see! please, now," she begged.

miss jane still frowned—but a look of almost reluctant relief came to her eyes.

"very well," she conceded slowly. "perhaps, my dear, i will let you go for me, then."

"oh, thank you, miss jane—besides, there are several things i want for myself."

"very well, dear. i have three things that must be changed, and there are two that i want you to buy. it seems so absurd—when i began last january—that there should be anything to be done to-day; but, unfortunately, some of my plans had to be changed at the last moment. you may get ready at once after breakfast, please, then come to my room. i'll have the list all made out for you. you'll have to bring everything home, of course, but they are not very heavy, and you can carry them all in the large hand bag, i think. you'd better take the nine-four train."

it was not quite half-past ten when genevieve arrived in the great boston station that morning. she glanced importantly at her pretty little watch, took a firmer hold on the large leather bag she carried, and stepped briskly off toward her car.

it was delightful—this independent feeling of freedom. even to pay her fare and to signal the conductor to stop were events. shopping, all by herself, was even more delightful; so she dallied over every purchase and every exchange as long as she could—and it was not hard to dally, with the crowds, the long waits, and the delays for change.

at one o'clock, when in state she ate her luncheon at a pretty white table in a large department-store dining-room, she had not half finished her task. she was so glad there was still so much to do! but at four o'clock, when she did finish, she looked at her watch with faintly troubled eyes. she had not, indeed, realized that it was quite so late. she remembered, too, suddenly, for the first time, that miss chick had told her to come back early. she wondered—could she catch the four-twenty train?

stores and sidewalks were a mass of surging, thronging humanity now, and progress was slow and uncertain. when, at ten minutes past four, she had not succeeded even in reaching her car for the station, she gave up the four-twenty train. well, there was one at five-fifteen, she comforted herself. she could surely get that.

the streets were darkening fast, and lights were beginning to flash here and there, finding a brilliant response in tinsel stars and crystal pendants. with the christmas red and green, and the thronging crowds, it made a pretty sight; and genevieve stopped more than once just to look about her with a deep breath of delight. it was at such a time that she saw the small ragged boy, and the still smaller, still more ragged girl wistfully gazing into the fairyland of a toyshop window.

"i choose the fire engine, the big red one," she heard a shrill voice pipe; and she looked down to see that it was the boy's blue lips that had uttered the words.

"i d-druther have that d-doll," chattered the mite of a girl; "an' that teeny little bedstead an' the chair what rocks, an' the baby trunk, an' the doll with curly hair, an'—"

"gee! look at the autymobile," cut in the boy, excitedly. "say, if i had that—"

"well, you shall have it, you poor little mite,—or one just like it," cried genevieve impulsively, sweeping the astonished children into the circle of her arm, and hurrying them into the store.

they did not get the "autymobile" nor yet the engine nor the big doll. genevieve selected them, to be sure, with blithe promptness; but when she took out her purse, she found she had not half money enough to pay for them, which mortified and disappointed her greatly.

"dear, dear!" she laughed, blushing painfully. "i'm afraid i can't manage it, after all, chickabiddies. that horrid money of mine has given out! i bought more things than i meant to, anyhow. never mind, we'll get all we can," she cried, emptying her little purse on the counter, even shaking it to make sure no lurking penny stayed behind. "there, you'll have to make that do," she said to the amazed clerk behind the counter. "just please give them whatever you can for that." and the clerk, counting out one dollar and eighty-three cents, obeyed her literally.

a few minutes later, two dazed, but blissfully happy children clasping in their arms a motley array of toys, and a laughing, bright-faced girl with a tan leather bag, joined the hurrying throng on the street.

"good-by, chickabiddies, and good luck to you," called genevieve, waving her hand in farewell to the children, as she spied her car in the distance.

"poor little midgets!" thought genevieve, as she stepped on to the car; "i don't think now they really believe they've got those things. but i do wish i could have bought all those first things they selected!" a moment later she took out her purse to pay her fare.

the conductor, coming toward her just then, saw her face turn red, then white. the next minute she was on her feet, hurrying toward him.

"fare, please," he said mechanically, holding out his hand.

she shook her head.

"i—i don't want this car," she stammered faintly. "if you'll—stop, please." a moment later she rushed blindly through the door and down the steps to the street.

genevieve was thoroughly angry, and very much ashamed.

"now i reckon i've done it," she muttered half aloud. "no wonder they say i never stop to think! seems to me i might have thought to save a nickel for my car-fare, though! never mind, i'll walk it. serves me right, anyhow, i reckon!" and determinedly she turned toward a woman near her and asked the way to the north station.

it would be something of a walk, the woman said, as she gave directions; but genevieve declared she did not mind that. very courageously, therefore, she turned a corner and began to thread her way among the crowd.

she was laughing now. this thing was something of a joke, after all. still, she was rather sorry it had happened—on miss jane's errand. she would be late home, too. (she pulled aside the lapel of her coat and glanced at her watch.) five o'clock, already! it would be late, indeed, if she could not catch the five-fifteen! still, there must be other trains, of course, and it took only an hour and twenty minutes to go—

genevieve stopped with a little cry of dismay. she remembered now that she had used the last of the commutation tickets. miss jane had told her to get a single-fare ticket for the return trip. and now—pray, how was one to buy any sort of fare without any money?

a hurrying man jostled her, and genevieve stepped into a doorway to think. across the street a blue-bell-sign caught her attention, and sent a swift light to her eye.

why, of course! she would telephone for aunt julia to send nancy or somebody in with some money. why had she not thought of it before?

she had pushed her way half across the crowded street when it occurred to her that she needed money to pay the telephone toll.

"i never saw such a place! it takes money to do everything! i just hate cities," she stormed hotly—then jumped just in time to escape the wheels of a swiftly-moving automobile.

safely back in the doorway, she tried to think once more. then, slowly, she began to retrace her steps toward the corner from which she had started.

the crowds were just as gay, the christmas reds and greens just as brilliant, and the tinsel stars and crystal pendants were just as sparkling; but genevieve did not even look at them now. she was tired, ashamed, and thoroughly frightened. the bag, too, began to seem woefully full, and her stomach correspondingly empty.

curiously enough, after a time, the christmas service of the day before rang in her ears. it seemed so far away now. and yet—it was only yesterday that she had been promising herself never again to be thoughtless, heedless, or impulsively reckless of consequences. and now—

suddenly she almost smiled. she was thinking of her question to harold:

"if you do something bad to do something good, which is it, good or bad?"

one by one the minutes passed. it grew darker and colder. at times genevieve walked on aimlessly. at others, she stood one side, watching the crowds, hoping to find some man or woman whom she could dare to ask for money. but her cheeks burned at the thought, and she never saw the man or woman whom she wanted to ask—for money. that the blue-coated man at the street-crossing might help her, never occurred to genevieve. genevieve knew policemen only as vaguely dreadful creatures connected with jails and arrests.

in time it came to be quite dark. genevieve wondered what would become of her—by midnight. people did not starve or die, she supposed, in boston streets—not when the streets were as bright as these. but she must get to sunbridge. sunbridge! how worried they must be about her now in sunbridge, and how she wished she were there! she would be glad to see even miss jane's severest frown—if she could see miss jane, too!

it was six o'clock when genevieve suddenly remembered mr. and mrs. thomas butterfield. she wondered then how it was possible that she had forgotten them so long.

mr. and mrs. thomas butterfield were two friends of mrs. kennedy's not very far from sixty years old. they lived in a quaint old house on mt. vernon street, on top of beacon hill—genevieve thought she remembered the number. she remembered the house very well, for she had called there twice with mrs. kennedy the winter before.

it was with a glad little cry that genevieve now turned to the first woman she met and asked the way to mt. vernon street.

in the somber butterfield dining-room on mt. vernon street, mr. and mrs. thomas butterfield had almost finished dinner, when their pompous, plainly scandalized butler, standing beneath the severest of the severe butterfield portraits, announced stiffly:

"there's a young person at the door, ma'am, with a bag. she says she knows you, if you'll see her, please."

one minute later, the astonished mr. and mrs. thomas butterfield caught in their arms a white-faced, almost fainting girl, who had sobbed out:

"please, won't you give me a little money and some supper, and telephone to aunt julia!"

seven minutes later mr. thomas butterfield had mrs. kennedy at the other end of the wire.