October passed and November came. School was decidedly more bearable now, in the opinion of Genevieve, perhaps because it was a rainy month; but Genevieve preferred to think it was because of Miss Hart. It was strange, really, how much Miss Hart had improved as a teacher!—all the school agreed to that. Even Tilly ceased to call her "Hartless."
"Maybe she came in a jolly box, after all," Harold said one day to Genevieve; but Genevieve tossed her head.
"Pooh! She wasn't in any box at all, Harold. She's—folks!" And Harold saw that, in spite of the lightness of her words, there were almost tears in Genevieve's eyes.
Presidential duties, too, were easier for Genevieve now. They proved to be, in fact, very far from ; and, as Tilly declared, they were, indeed, "dreadfully honorable."
As correspondent for the school magazine Genevieve did not feel herself to be a success. She wrote few items, and sent in even fewer.
Those she did write represented hours of , however; for she felt that the weight of nations lay on every word, and she wrote and rewrote the poor little sentences until every of naturalness and of spontaneity were taken out of them. Such information as she could gather seemed always, in her eyes, either too to be worth notice, or too serious to be of interest. And ever before her frightened eyes the bugbear of PRINT.
It was during the short vacation of three days at Thanksgiving time that Nancy, the second girl at the Kennedys', came to the door one afternoon and interrupted Genevieve's practising.
"Miss Genevieve, I do be hatin' ter tell ye," she began indignantly, "but there's a man at the side door on horseback what is insistin' on seein' of ye; and Mis' Kennedy and Miss Jane ain't home from town yet."
"Why, Nancy, who is the man?"
"I ain't sayin' that I know, Miss, but I do say that he is powerful rough-lookin' to come to the likes o' this house a-claimin' he's Mis' Granger's cousin, as he does."
"Reddy! Why, of course I'll see Reddy," cried Genevieve, springing to her feet.
A minute later, to Nancy's vast displeasure, Genevieve was into the sitting room a sandy-haired[298] man in full cowboy costume from broad-brimmed hat and shirt to chaparejos and high-heeled boots.
Reddy evidently saw the surprise in Genevieve's face.
"Yes, I know," he smiled sheepishly, as Nancy left the room with slow , "I reckon you're surprised to see me in this rig, and I'll own I hain't wore 'em much since I came; but to-day, to come to see you, I just had to. You see, Miss Genevieve, it's what this 'ere rig stands for that I want to see you about, anyhow."
"About—this—rig?"
"Well, yes—in a way. It's about the West."
"What is it?"
"It's Martha—Mis' Granger, my cousin. I want her to go back with me. She's all alone, and so am I. And she'd come in a minute, but she's—afraid."
"What of?"
Reddy's lips .
"Indians and prairie fires and bronchos and . She thinks all of 'em run 'round loose all the time—in Texas."
Genevieve laughed merrily.
"The idea! Haven't you told her they don't?"
"Oh, yes; and I've come to see if you won't tell her."
"I!"
"Yes. She thinks I'm a man and rough anyhow, so I don't count. Would you be willing to come and talk Texas to her?"
"Why, of course I will," cried Genevieve. "I'll come right away to-day, after I've finished my hour."
"Thank you," sighed Reddy, rising to his feet. "Now I'll hit the trail for Texas inside of a month—you see if I don't! What you say will go."
"Oh, but don't be too sure of that, Reddy," frowned Genevieve, anxiously.
"I ain't. I'm just sure—and that's all right," retorted Reddy, cheerfully. "And glad I shall be to get there, too! I'd be plum locoed here in another month. You see, I've got some money now, and I know a nice little place I can buy cheap, to start in for myself. Martha'll take Jim Small's girl, 'Mandy, for company and to help. You see we've got her already roped."
"She wants to go, then?"
"Dyin' to. It all depends on you now, Miss Genevieve."
"All right; I'll be there," promised the girl, laughingly, as Reddy, watched by Nancy's eyes from the kitchen window, swung himself into the saddle and down the driveway.
A little later Genevieve met Mrs. Kennedy and Miss Chick at the foot of the front walk.
"I've taken my music lesson and done my hour, and I'm off on work now," she beamed brightly. "I knew you'd let me go, so I didn't wait till you came home."
"Missionary work?" frowned Miss Chick.
"Why, what do you mean?" questioned Mrs. Kennedy.
Genevieve .
"It's to teach Mrs. Granger that Texas has something besides bucking bronchos and prairie fires. You see, Reddy wants to take her West, and she's afraid. She thinks those things, and Indians and buffaloes, are all that grow there. So I'm going to tell her a thing or two," she finished with a nod and a smile.
Just how successful Genevieve was with her missionary work perhaps she herself did not realize until nearly a fortnight later, when Cordelia Wilson overtook her on the way to school one morning.
"Genevieve, Genevieve, please," panted Cordelia. "I want you to do some missionary work for me! Will you?"
Genevieve turned in surprise.
"'Missionary work!' What do you mean?"
Cordelia laughed and colored.
"Well, it's what you did for Mrs. Granger. Reddy told me. He said you called it missionary work—and that 'twas missionary work, too. You know they're to start next week, and they're all so happy over it!"
"Yes, I know," nodded Genevieve; "and I'm so glad!"
"So am I," sighed the other, . "You see, Reddy being my find, so, I felt responsible; and of course I ought to feel that way, too. Just think—what if they weren't happy over it!"
"But they are," smiled Genevieve. "What's the use of 'if-ing' a thing when it just is already?"
"What?" Cordelia's eyes were slightly puzzled. "Oh, I see," she laughed. "What a funny way you do have of putting things, Genevieve Hartley! Why don't you say such things as that in your notes for the magazine?"
"In the magazine?—mercy! Why, Cordelia, they're printed!"
"Well, what of it?" maintained Cordelia.
"What of what?" a new voice; and Tilly Mack............