han the displeasure that made her voice sound so cold now in her effort
to steady it.

"Thank you, Genevieve. Please see that there is no occasion for you to
_come down_ again," she said meaningly. Then she turned and went into
the house.

Just how it happened, Genevieve did not know, but almost at once she
found herself alone with her father on the back gallery. The girls had
disappeared.

Genevieve was very angry now.

"Father, it wasn't fair, to speak like that," she choked, "before the
girls and you, when I hadn't done a thing--not a thing! Why, it--it was
just like Miss Jane! I never knew Aunt Julia to be like that."

For a moment her father was silent. His face wore a thoughtful frown.

"I know it, dearie," he said at last. "But I don't think Mrs. Kennedy
quite realized, quite understood--how _you'd_ feel. She didn't think it
just right for you to be there."

"But I was in my gym suit, Father. I skipped in and put it on purposely,
while the others were doing something else; then I climbed the tower.
I'd planned 'way ahead how I'd surprise them."

The man hesitated.

"I know, dearie," he nodded, after a moment; "but I reckon it was just a
little too much of a surprise for Mrs. Kennedy. You know she isn't used
to the West; and--do Boston young ladies climb windmill towers?"

In spite of her anger, Genevieve laughed. The mention of Boston had put
her in mind of some Boston friends of Mrs. Kennedy's, whom she knew. She
had a sudden vision of what Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Butterfield's faces
would have been, had their stern, sixty-year-old eyes seen what Mrs.
Kennedy saw.

"I reckon, too," went on Mr. Hartley, with a sigh, "that I have sort of
spoiled you, letting you have your own way. And maybe Mammy Lindy and I,
in our anxiety that you should be well and strong, and sit the saddle
like a Texas daughter should, haven't taught you always just the dainty
little lady ways--that you ought to have been taught."

"You've taught me everything--everything good and lovely," protested the
girl, hotly.

He shook his head. A far-away look came into his eyes.

"I haven't, dearie--and that's why I sent you East."

Genevieve flushed.

"But I didn't want to go East, in the first place," she stormed. "I
wanted to stay here with you. Besides, Aunt Julia isn't really any
relation,--nor Miss Jane, either. They haven't any right to--to speak to
me like that."

A dull red stole to John Hartley's cheek.

"Tut, tut, deari