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."