Happy Hexagons drove
away from the ranch house.

It was a pleasant drive, though a warm one. It did seem a little long,
too, so anxious were they to reach their goal. The prairie sights and
sounds, though interesting, were not so new, now. Even the two or three
herds of cattle they met, and the groups of cowboys they saw galloping
across the prairies, did not create quite the excitement they always had
created heretofore. Quentina and the minister's home were so much more
interesting to think of!

"What do you suppose she'll be like?" asked Elsie.

"_Quien sabe?_" laughed Genevieve.

"There! what does that mean?" demanded Tilly. "I've heard it lots of
times since I've been here."

"'Who knows?'" translated Genevieve, smilingly.

"Yes, who does know?" retorted Tilly, not understanding. "But what does
it mean?"

Genevieve laughed outright.

"That's just what it means--'Who knows?' The Mexicans and the cowboys
use it a lot here, and when I come back I get to saying it, too."

"I should think you did," shrugged Tilly. "Well, anyhow, let's talk
straight English for a while. Let's talk of Quentina. What do you
suppose she's like, girls?"

"Let's guess," proposed Genevieve. "We can, you know, for Miss Jones was
too sick to tell us anything, and we haven't a thing to go by but
Quentina's letter, and that didn't tell much."

"All right, let's guess. Let's make a game of it," cried Tilly. "We'll
each tell what we think, and then see who comes the nearest. You begin,
Genevieve."

"All right. I think she's quiet and tall, and very dark like a
Spaniard," announced Genevieve, weighing her words carefully.

"I think she's bookish, and maybe stupid," declared Tilly. "Her letter
sounded queer."

"I think she's little, and got yellow hair and light-blue eyes," said
Bertha.

"I think she's got curls--black ones--and looks lovely in red," declared
Elsie Martin.

"We can trust you, Elsie, to get in something about her clothes,"
chuckled Tilly.

"Well, I think she's got brown eyes like Genevieve's, and brown hair
like hers, too," asserted Alma Lane.

"Now, Cordelia," smiled Genevieve, "it's your turn. You haven't said,
yet."

"There isn't anything left for me to say," replied Cordelia, in a
slightly worried voice. "You've got all the pretty things used up. I
should just have to say I think she's fat and homely--and I don't think
I ought to say that, for it would be a downright fib. I don't think
she's that at all!