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 plentiful, she decided. 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 recess meeting of the hexagon club, drew a long breath and turned upon her fellow members a beaming countenance.

"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 distress. "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 abruptly. 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 impulsively; 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 perfectly 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 awfully 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 sobbed genevieve.

there was a long silence. genevieve's eyes were out the window. mrs. kennedy, watching her, suddenly spoke up with careless briskness:

"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 aglow 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 genevieve stopped abruptly. she was remembering now how cordelia's face had looked that february afternoon at the parsonage when she had said: "of course i sha'n't win it—dear me, how i would love to, though!"

"but she'll understand, of course, when you tell her it's your subject and that you want it," went on mrs. kennedy, smoothly. genevieve did not see the keen, almost fearful glances, that mrs. kennedy was giving her between the light words.

"i know; but that sounds so—so—" there was a long pause; then genevieve, with a quivering sigh, rose slowly and left the room.

mrs. kennedy, for some unapparent reason, smiled—but there were tears in her eyes.

the hexagon club took a long ride the next day. five of them talked again of cordelia's paper, and four begged cordelia to tell what she had said about them. if genevieve, alone, was unusually silent, nobody, apparently, noticed it. they were riding by themselves to-day. they had invited none of the boys or other girls to join them.

it was when the ride was over, and when genevieve had almost reached the kennedy driveway, that she said wistfully, stroking the mare's neck:

"topsy, i just couldn't. i just couldn't! it sounded so—so—and, topsy, you couldn't, if you'd seen how awfully happy she looked!"

"what did cordelia say?" asked mrs. kennedy, when genevieve came into the house a little later. there was no hint in the lady's voice of the hope that was in her heart.

"i—i didn't tell her, aunt julia," stammered genevieve. then, with a playful whimsicality that did not in the least deceive aunt julia's ears, she added: "who wants that old prize, anyhow?"

it was a beautiful smile, then, that illumined aunt julia's face, and it was a very tender kiss that fell on genevieve's forehead.

"that's my brave genevieve—and i'm sure you'll never regret it, my dear!" she said.

may passed, and june came, bringing warm, sunny days that were very tempting to feet that were longing to be tramping through green woods and fields. examinations, however, were coming soon, and genevieve knew that, tempting as was the beautiful out-of-doors, studies must come first. every possible minute, however, she spent in rides, walks, and tennis playing—even miss jane insisted that she must have exercise.

june brought not only alluring days, however, but a letter from quentina, which sent genevieve flying into mrs. kennedy's room.

"aunt julia, did you write again to mr. jones?"

"i did," smiled mrs. kennedy, "and i have a letter from him to-day."

"you darling! then you know, of course! oh, aunt julia, isn't it lovely! i just can't wait till to-morrow to tell the girls."

genevieve did wait, however—she waited even till the morning recess. she wanted all the happy hexagons together; and when she had them together she told them the astounding news in one breathless rush of words.

"girls, quentina's coming next year to school. she's going to room with me. isn't it lovely!"

there was a chorus of delighted questions and exclamations; but genevieve lifted her hand.

"sh-h! listen. i've got her letter here. you must hear it!" and she whipped open the letter and began to read:

"oh—oh—it isn't true—it can't be true! but father says it is, and father doesn't lie. i'm to go to sunbridge. sunbridge! i think sunbridge is the loveliest name in the world—for a town, i mean, of course.

"dear genevieve:—there! this is actually the first minute i could bring myself to begin this letter properly. really, a thing like this can't just begin, you know! and to think that i'm going to see paul revere's grave and bunker hill and you just next september! oh, how can i ever thank you and dear mrs. kennedy? i love her, love her, love her—right now! and all the happy hexagons—i love them, too. i love everybody and everything—i'm going to sunbridge!

"all day i've been saying over and over to myself that song in the 'lady of the lake,' only i've changed the words a little to fit my case; like this:

"'quentina, rest! thy longing o'er,

sleep the sleep that knows no breaking;

dream of texas schools no more,

days of longing, nights of sighing

for paul revere's enchanted land.

hands unseen thy days are planning,

fairy strains of music falling

every sense is up and calling,

quentina, rest! thy longing o'er,

east thy steps will turn once more.'

"that 'more' is poetry, but a fib; for of course i haven't been east at all yet. but that's just poetic license, you know—fibs like that.

"oh, i just can't wait for september!

"your happy, happy

"quentina."

"my, but won't she be a picnic when she gets here?" chuckled tilly, as soon as she could stop laughing long enough to find her voice.

"what in the world is the matter with you girls?" demanded charlie brown, sauntering up to them, arm in arm with o. b. j. holmes.

tilly turned merrily.

"matter! i guess you'll think something is the matter when quentina jones gets here," she laughed.

"who is quentina jones?"

"she is a new girl who is coming to school next year," explained elsie.

"she's from texas, and she's never been east before," chimed in bertha.

"yes, and as for you, mr. obejay holmes," teased tilly, "just you wait! there's no telling what she will do with your name!"

"what do you mean?"

o. b. j. spoke to tilly, but he threw a merry glance into genevieve's understanding eyes.

"nothing, only she's a regular walking rhyming dictionary, and i can just fancy how those mysterious initials of yours will fire her up. my poor little 'o be joyful' won't be in it, then. you'll see!"

"i don't worry any," laughed o. b. j. holmes, with another merry glance at genevieve.

"you don't have to," interposed genevieve, promptly. "quentina is everything that is sweet and lovely, and you'll all like her; i know you will," she finished, as the bell rang and the boys turned laughingly away.