ng 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.

CHAPTER XI

QUENTINA

Quite the most absorbing topic of conversation Monday was, of course,
the coming visit to Quentina Jones.

"But what _is_ her name?" demanded Mr. Hartley at last, almost
impatiently. "It isn't 'Quentina,' of course. I _know_ that man who was
here Sunday would never have named a daughter of his 'Quentina.'"

"Her name is 'Clorinda Dorinda,'" replied Genevieve. "She told us so in
her letter; but she said she was always called 'Quentina.' I don't know
wh