think, it'll be whole days _now_ before we
get there, and--"

"Young ladies!"

Tilly stopped with a little cry of dismay. A man's voice had spoken
close to her ear.

"Young ladies," came the mellow tones again. "I begs yo' pardon, but de
lady what belongs down in number ten says maybe you done forgot dat dis
am a _sleepin'_ car."

"Aunt Julia!" breathed Genevieve. "She's number ten."

"She sent the porter," gasped Cordelia. "How--how awful!--and you're in
my house, too," she almost sobbed.

"Now I know we're playing house," tittered Alma Lane, hysterically, as
she followed Genevieve out of the berth.

Once more in her own quarters, Genevieve lay back on her pillow with a
remorseful sigh.

"I don't see why it's so much easier to _say_ you'll never give anybody
any trouble than 'tis to _do_ it," she lamented, as she turned over with
a jerk.

The girls began the "Chronicles of the Hexagon Club" the next morning.
Genevieve made the first entry. She dwelt at some length on the
confusion of the train-taking, both at Sunbridge and Boston. She also
had something to say of Tilly Mack. She gave a full account, too, of the
midnight session of the Hexagon Club in Cordelia's berth.

"And I'm ashamed that Aunt Julia had to be ashamed of me so soon," she
wrote contritely.

Cordelia Wilson had agreed to make the second entry in the book; but the
heat, the loss of sleep, and the strangeness and excitement added to her
distress that "her house" should have been made to seem a disgrace in
the eyes of the whole car, all conspired to make her feel so ill that
she declared she could not think of writing for a day or two.

"Very well, then, you sha'n't write; we'll hand the book to Tilly," said
Genevieve, "and then we'll give it to some of the others. But I'll tell
you what we will do, Cordelia; you shall make the last entry in the book
just before we leave the train at Bolo. And you can make it a sort of
retrospect--a 'review lesson' of the whole, you know."

"But I thought the others--won't they each tell their day?"

"That's _just_ what they'll tell--their day," retorted Genevieve,
whimsically. "You _know_ what most of them are. Alma Lane would be all
right, and would give a true description of everything; only she would
go into particulars so, that she would tell everything she saw from the
windows, and just what she had to eat all day, down to the last olive."

"I know," nodded Cordelia, with a faint smile.

"As for