"Some little liar, that kid!" exclaimed Herbert. "Then what did you do?"

The big boys followed her about all day, to the exclusion of the other Amazons, who took refuge in chanting derogatory remarks, such as:

"Herbie Hunter is stuck on Isabelle!"

When 5:30 arrived and with it, Miss Watts, Isabelle departed with a feeling of a day well spent. She turned her thoughts to the next event. They had a puncture on the way, and the terrace and halls were deserted when they arrived home. Miss Watts hurried her off to the schoolroom, for supper, and urged her to take her bath and go to bed after her strenuous day. The child was docility itself.

While she was at supper a note was brought to her. It was from Christiansen. She read:

MY DEAR ISABELLE: You cannot imagine what a pleasant welcome your note gave me. I am thrilled to know that I am under the roof with a real Amazon, and I live in the expectation of seeing you "strong and true in riding breeches." Your devoted admirer, MARTIN CHRISTIANSEN.

An idea was born at that moment! When Miss Watts went to carry the supper tray downstairs, because the maids were busy, Isabelle hastily donned her riding clothes, turned on the bath water to mislead Miss Watts on her return, crept down the stairs and out. From the terrace she peered into the long drawing room. The French doors leading on to the terrace were open wide, and in the softly lighted room she saw the house-party guests assembling. They straggled in, one by one. Isabelle's eyes brightened at Christiansen's big boom of laughter, and she admired his broad shoulders, as he leaned on the mantelpiece at the far end.

She flew to the stables, crept in at the back, led out the Peruvian horse, saddled, mounted him, and kicked him gently in the flanks. Up and onto the terrace she guided him, just as indoors, Matthews arrived with the cocktails.

In through the open windows rode Isabelle, and slowly down the long drawing room. Everybody gasped.

"Isabelle Bryce!" cried her mother.

"Martin," she said eagerly, "this is how I look as an Amazon!"

It was part of the cruel fate that dogged her, that at this supreme moment the Peruvian horse slipped on a rug on which Matthews happened to be standing, whereupon they all went down together, pouring a generous libation of cocktails at Christiansen's feet!



CHAPTER NINE

Poor Isabelle languished in disgrace in her own room for the two days of her mother's house party, as a result of her Amazonian entrance to the dinner. Martin Christiansen pleaded her case, took the blame upon himself; the rest of the party laughed heartily over the episode and demanded more Isabelle, but Max remained adamant and refused to release the prisoner.

Wally visited his daughter on Sunday, carrying a note from Christiansen. He expected to find her raging at her confinement, but, instead, she was curled up in a chair with a book on her lap, and he had to speak to her twice before she heard him.

"Hello, Wally," she said, unenthusiastically.

"Hello. How are you getting on?"

"Fine."

"Pity you have to be shut up this nice day."

"I like it."

He grinned derisively.

"I do—honust."

"What was your idea of coming into the drawing room on a horse, anyhow?"

"I wanted to show Mr. Christiansen something. He understood it all right."

"Made your mother hopping."

"Oh, well, she's always hopping. Why didn't you ask Mr. Christiansen up?"

"Against orders. No one admitted. He sent a note," he added, handing it over.

Isabelle read:

DEAR CAPTIVE ISABELLE: Do you languish in your dungeon cell? Your true knight points an arrow with this missive, and shoots it in at your window. (I trust your father will not resent this poetic license.) I was thrilled at the sight of you as an Amazon, and I agree about the riding breeches! Yours eternally, CHRISTIANSEN-KNIGHT.

"What's poetic license?" she asked Wally.

"Poetic license? Why—it's some kind of license poets get, I suppose."

"Like a dog license, or a chauffeur's?"

"Well, something like that. Why?"

"Oh, nothing."

"What's the book?"

"'Idylls of the King.'"

"Good?"

"Great. I'm going to give it in my theatre."

"Playing all the parts yourself?" he teased.

"All the important ones," she answered, seriously.

"Shall I tell your mother that you are enjoying yourself?"

"Yes."

"I'll toddle along now, I guess."

"Wait a minute. I have to answer him."

"Hurry up about it then."

Wally took up her abandoned book, while she went to her desk to compose.

Dearest Knight: I languish a little, but not much. I'm writing a play out of "Idylls of the King." I wish you would be Launcelot, Tommy Page could be Merlin. I knew you would understand about the Amazon and horse. I'm glad you liked the . . .

"How do you spell breeches, Wally?"

"What?"

"Breeches."

"B-r-e-e-c-h-e-s. What are you saying about them?" he inquired, coming to look over her shoulder.

"This is private," she said, and wrote:

. . . breeches. Wally did not mind your license. He thought you ought to have it. The police are so crooel. Your loving friend, ISABELLE.

She folded and addressed it carefully.

"Here it is."

"What do I get for running the blockade for you like this?" he inquired.

"Much obliged, Wally," she answered, returning to her chair and her book.

"You don't appreciate me!" he protested.

"Yes, I do, Wally. I like you the best of all my parents."

Upon her subsequent release, Isabelle turned her entire attention to a continuous presentation of the "Idylls." Every day the story progressed, and it would have occupied her abilities for some time, save for an accident.

The company, including Tommy Page and Teddy Horton, had gathered at Margie Hunter's, where there was a swimming pool. Isabelle planned to stage a scene with herself as "Elaine, the fair, the beautiful," floating in the Hunters' canoe, laboriously carried up from the shore by the entire company.

They launched the craft, and laid out Elaine, with flowers about her, hastily plucked from the garden, and the play was all ready to go on, when Herbert's crowd came by, on the way to a baseball match. At the arresting sight of the Lily Maid of Astelot, they halted and demanded explanations. These were received with exclamations of derision and delight, so that the incensed leading lady rose from her barge, landed, and pursued them with the canoe paddle. They gave her a race to the baseball diamond, where they disarmed her by force, and forgot her.

She sat down and watched their preparations. She heard their mighty oaths against the ninth man of the team, who hadn't "showed up." She offered to play, but they jeered at the idea. Herbert Hunter urged her acceptance as a sub, saying that they could throw her out when the regular fellow came.

The game was new to Isabelle but she concentrated fiercely upon Herbert Hunter's orders. By happy accident when she came to bat, she shut her eyes, fanned the air, and knocked a home run. She sped around the bases like a "greased rabbit" as Herbert said. When it came to pitching, she did not star.

"But she's got a loose arm; she could learn all right," her champion remarked.

It was the proudest compliment of her life. The deserted "Idylls of the King" company came and sat at a safe distance and watched her, wide-eyed. Tommy Page rushed forward, shouting:

"Let me play, Herbert."

"Aw, get out of here, kid. We don't want any babies!" was the brief reply.

"Isabelle's a baby!" howled Tommy.

Now Isabelle happened to be toying with a bat when Tommy made this disparaging remark threatening to topple her off the dizzy height she had attained. She saw red! She made an infuriated rush upon him, and brought the bat down on his offending head. Tommy crumpled up like a paper doll. There was an awful moment of silence.

"She's killed him," one of the boys whispered.

Herbert tried to stand Tommy up, but his legs folded under him and his head fell back, so they laid him down again. Isabelle stood, rooted to the ground. Her terror had frozen her.

"I'll call mama," cried Margie Hunter.

"No, you won't. We must keep it from the police!" ordered her brother.

A shudder went through Isabelle.

"But if he's dead?" protested Teddy Horton.

"Let's pour some water on him," suggested somebody.

They all ran to get it, all except Herbert and Isabelle. He noted the anguish of her set face.

"Never mind, Isabelle; maybe he's only a little bit dead," he comforted her.

"Will we have to bury him?" she asked, through chattering teeth.

"I suppose so—sometime."

The others returned with a pail of water. They were for dumping it in one deluge upon poor Tommy, but Herbert prevented their drowning him.

"That isn't the way, you nuts! You dribble it on him. Here, give it to me."

He knelt over Tommy and poured a slow stream of cold water on his face and down his neck. When this had no effect he continued the stream over his body, clad in linen clothes, much as one waters a flower bed. The children held their breath and watched. Signs of returning life were visible. As the cold shower struck the pit of his stomach, one knee hitched. Encouraged, Herbert spilt the last pint in his upturned face. It contorted, he choked, gasped, yelled defiantly:

"Mmmm-bah-what ye doin'?"

Margie Hunter knelt at his head.

"You aren't dead, are you, Tommy?"

"I'm all wet," he exclaimed, irritably.

Isabelle still stood on the spot where she had struck the blow. Her face was set and white.

"I guess we better get him in the house now," Herbert advised.

"What will we tell them?" Margie asked.

Herbert looked at Isabelle, then he swept them all with a chieftain's glance, and remarked:

"Tommy fell into the pool, an' nearly drownded himself. Get me?"

They nodded.

"Make a stretcher with crossed hands."

His men obeyed.

"Now, you girls, move him onto our hands."

They all worked except Isabelle, who never moved.

"Quit. I want to walk," said Tommy.

"All right, Tommy. You fell into the pool."

"I did not," said Tommy.

"Yes, you did, and if you leave it to us, we'll square it so you won't get licked," Herbert promised.

The stretcher men rose and bore the hero off toward the house, followed by the children, all except Isabelle. Her breath came in agonized gasps. As they disappeared she threw herself down on her face and let her nerves have full sway. She did not cry tears, but her body shook in a nervous storm of excitement, and misery. She did not hear the swift feet that approached, she scarcely heard Herbert's embarrassed voice saying:

"Say, Isabelle, it's all right. The chambermaid put him to bed and telephoned his mother to send him some clothes."

She raised her tragic face to him.

"Will the police take me?" she whispered.

Without meaning to do so at all, Herbert dropped down beside her.

"You didn't kill him. He's all right," he repeated.

Then as a nervous tremor shook her body, he patted her, awkwardly.

"You're all right, Isabelle, it was just an accident," he comforted her.

She shook her head, and the tears came. Herbert leaned over and planted a kiss under her right ear. She stopped crying. He did not know what more to say, so he just sat by. In that half hour of self-accusation, of reaction from terror, of the consciousness of the sympathy of a friend who had saved her from the police, Isabelle closed the chapter of childhood and stepped over into young girlhood.



CHAPTER TEN

During the next few years of Isabelle's life she was more of a trial to her household than ever before, if such a thing were possible. She overplayed the tomboy, just as she did every role she essayed.

From the moment Herbert Hunter came to her rescue in the affair of Tommy Page, he was exalted to the highest pedestal in her temple of worship. Boys knew what loyalty meant. Her hero had forced all the witnesses on that occasion to keep absolute silence about it—with police, arrest, and prison terms as alternatives. That he, "an older boy," should condescend to champion her cause was a triumph for our heroine.

She scorned girls, she endured only the society of males from this time on. She could scarcely be forced into any costume but her riding clothes. She applied herself to sports until she played better than most boys. By disguising this fact, and pretending to be a mere novice, she was admitted to their games.

Herbert accepted her as Man Friday with considerable reluctance, but she made him feel that her very gratitude gave her a sort of hold on him. She was very useful, if you knew how to handle her; and sheer loss, if you did not. She abhorred authority. If you told her she must do a thing, she stubbornly refused. If you asked it as a favour, it was done instantly. If you dared her to do a thing, nothing could stop her. She was appallingly indifferent to danger. She terrified the more timid souls in Herbert's crowd. But aside from the fact that she was good at their games, her main contribution was the original things she thought up for them to do.

She had, at fourteen, a fair acquaintance with American history, and she devised rare amusements, based on the primitive life of our pioneer forefathers. These games lasted for weeks. Bands of Indians preyed on the settlers; the settlers sent messengers to the tribal chiefs. There were periods of parleying, smoking of the peace pipe; there were war dances and uprisings.

The scene might run like this. The ship which was bringing the pilgrims, was wrecked off the beach, and the passengers took refuge in rowboats and canoes, from which they landed upon the unfriendly shores. Red men lay in wait for them, lurking behind sand forts. Occasionally when women settlers were absolutely necessary, Margie Hunter and the other girls were allowed to come along, but for the most part they were ruthlessly shut out. Isabelle, as author and stage manager, was indispensable and, therefore, safe.

It took much strategy on Isabelle's part to effect her freedom. She assured Miss Watts that all the children went daily to play at the Hunters', because there was a pool, and "You have the most fun there"; so when, of an afternoon, Miss Watts accompanied her to the Hunters', and stayed chatting with the Hunter governess until it was time to go home, her charge was always wonderfully behaved until she was out of sight. Then she left the girls and sped off to her true companions. Margie threatened to tell on her, but Herbert took the matter in hand, and nothing came of the threat.

Of course Max and Wally had no idea of her associations; that was Miss Watts' business. Isabelle played with the children of the right set, which was all that really mattered. That she swaggered and boasted and whistled about the house, these were annoying details, but she had always been a pest.

Wally protested once against her hoydenish manners.

"You talk like a jockey, Isabelle. You haven't a grain of feminine charm."

"Feminine charm! Ha!" snorted his daughter, with scorn.

"You'd better try to acquire a little. You'll need it," he warned her.

"Need it for what?"

"Need it for your business."

"What is my business?"

"Getting married."

She stared at him with an angry flush mounting her face. She turned and mounted the stairs, leaning over to shout as she went, with unmistakable emphasis:

"When you've bats in your belfry that flut, When your comprenez-vous line is cut, When there's nobody home In the top of your dome, Then, your head's not a head; it's a nut!"

Wally swore gently, and gave it up.

Isabelle's life seemed to run in a series of crises. It was always mounting toward or descending from a climax. The present summer of her fourteenth year was no exception.

The historic American scenes were still highly popular, but Isabelle's creative spirit was not yet satisfied. She was preparing the episode of John Smith and Pocahontas, to be played by Herbert Hunter and herself as principals, when it occurred to her that the scene ought to be played, by night, in the woods. She proposed it to Herbert but he scoffed at it. They never could manage. How could they get away at night? But Isabelle had it all planned.

Her idea was to pick out the spot in the woods, put up the tepees, collect the firewood, lay in supplies, and get everything ready in advance. Saturday night would be the best one for the encampment, because their parents always dined and danced at the club that night, so the coast would be clear so far as they were concerned.

"It isn't parents, it's servants that will get in our way," objected Herbert.

"If you think how to get by them, Herbert, you can," urged the temptress.

"How? Just tell me how I can get past old Mademoiselle when she sits in the hall outside my door?"

"Tell her you forgot something downstairs, and then run out."

"Fat chance! She'd give the alarm and they'd all come on the jump."

"Well, if I can get out, I should think you could," she taunted him.

"How'd we get back in? Suppose parents got back before we did."

Her inspiration flared like a torch.

"We'd sleep in the tents all night."

"Gee!" said Herbert. This was sheer daring. It captured his imagination. He decided to submit it to the others. A council was called. They in turn were struck dumb by the idea that they should spend a night in the woods, untrammelled by authority.

It took an enormous amount of planning and preparation. The problem of the best means of escape for each member was taken up and decided upon. The hour for meeting, and the place, were named. Governesses as a rule had their dinners early, with the children. Later, each boy was to complain of weariness or headache and go directly to bed. At nine o'clock they would make a getaway and meet at a certain spot, centrally located for them all. All of them had ponies, so they could ride to the trysting place. Blankets must be brought by each camper, and it was agreed that they would sleep in their clothes.

The day came. As the idea was to be kept secret from all girls, Isabelle had some trouble managing not even to see Margie Hunter, with whom she was, ostensibly, to spend the day. She induced Wally to drop her at the Hunters' on the way to the club.

The boys were hard at work. They greeted her casually, as was their habit. It was the way they kept up the bluff to themselves that they had no use for girls. Isabelle was satisfied with their manners. She knew in her own mind that she was the brains of the whole concern, so why cavil at their bluff, male ways?

They worked like beavers all day long. They went without any luncheon. They lugged out the tents and set them up. They made beds of boughs. They laid fires ready for the torch. They cached the grub in a hollow tree out of the way of prowling creatures. They carried out pails of drinking water, and borrowed the kitchen utensils from Margie's playhouse. It was late afternoon when they limped wearily back to the Hunters' in search of food.

"Mother was awf'ly mad at you, Isabelle, because you kept luncheon waiting," said Margie, snippily. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, we were playing, and we thought we'd go without any lunch. I hope there's tea, though," she added.

There was; and they put away quantities of bread and butter, with jam, and lemonade, which infuriated the cook, who had to supply the demand. They parted, later, with fervent farewells, sotto-voce remarks, and mysterious signs.

At home, Isabelle got ready for her supper without being told, and sat quietly with a book until she was called. A close observer might have noted that she never turned a leaf, that when a motor chugged off bearing her parents, she was seen to smile and sigh.

After supper, she complained of utter weariness and went to bed. Miss Watts looked in at half past eight; Isabelle was breathing evenly. A few moments later, she heard the governess close the door between their two rooms. Immediately she got up, dropped her night gown, worn over her riding clothes, and slipped out. A moment later she was in the stable, getting a saddle on her horse, tying her blanket to the horn. She managed her exit without interference, because Saturday night there were "doin's" among the servants.

Once on the road, she let the pony run. She had never been out alone at night before. It was scary, she admitted to herself. Once an automobile, on the way to the club with somebody's parents, caused her to dash off the road into the underbrush. Finally she reached the meeting place, and found two scared boys ahead of her. Shortly, the others arrived. There were no signs of hilarity over this adventure, they were all solemn and glum. Some of them were in Indian garb, with tomahawks; others in boy-scout hats, as pilgrims.

When they were all gathered they moved in a body to the camp. It was darker than pitch in the woods, so they had to lead the ponies, and they stumbled over tree trunks, and logs. Unseen things scuttled away underfoot, and terror began to spread like measles.

"Get the fire lighted, then we can see all right," said Isabelle the dauntless.

They managed that finally and peered about them, as the weird shadows danced and made fantastic shapes.

"Let's get the grub and eat," said Herbert.

"Not yet, not till we do the play," objected Isabelle. "Somebody bind up John Smith and the rest sit round the place where we're going to execution him. The Indians can lurk——"

"Say, I ain't goin' to lurk in the dark, out there," protested a brave, peering into the blackness.

"I am!" said Isabelle, marching upon unseen terrors among the trees.

"If you're going to let a girl dare you!" cried Herbert, secretly glad that his role required no heroic exposure.

The Indians reluctantly followed Isabelle Pocahontas into the shadows, stepping high, and jumping back with exclamations now and then.

The chopping block was brought out where John Smith's head was to rest, then Pocahontas crept through into the firelight and the play was begun, but there was no real spirit in the affair. Isabelle felt this; so, to create a new interest, she urged John Smith to break bread with the Indians after he had been saved by her, and released. They hauled out the food, slightly the worse for squirrels; they cooked the bacon, eating it nearly raw, with hunks of bread. They had a thermos bottle of cold tea which they referred to as "rum." There were plenty of doughnuts and a bakery pie.

The repast roused their spirits considerably. After it was finished, John Smith invited the Indians to spend the night, and everybody agreed to turn in. There was an obvious reluctance on the part of some to enter the dark tents. Things unseen rattled inside.

"Say! why not roll up in our blankets around the fire?" said doughty John Smith, the Pilgrim's pride.

"Good boy—that's the boy," agreed the Indians.

So they curled up in a circle inside their covers, as near the blaze as they could lie, wide-eyed and on the watch. Each one secretly longed for his bed at home, and excoriated Isabelle with her devil's gift of invention. But after a while the hard labour of the day began to tell, and as the fire grew fainter, one by one they dropped asleep, and the shadows closed in upon them completely.



CHAPTER ELEVEN

At the club the Saturday night hilarity was at its height. The Country-Club set took themselves very seriously—at least as seriously as they took anything. They conceived themselves as a group, somehow set apart. They lived idle, luxurious lives. Like the lily they toiled not, which of itself was an obvious mark of distinction in a work-a-day world.

In the winter they "played together" in town, at Palm Beach, or in California. In the summer they played together on yachts, or at the Country Club of "the colony." They hedged themselves in with a thick wall of prejudice against the newcomer, the outsider. Like the Labour Union, they valiantly fought the "open-shop" idea!

Now, since their superiority—real or imagined—lay in the triumph of artifice over Nature; or, more brutally, since it lay in money rather than in wit; the natural recourse of the elect was to various forms of spirituous assistance. They never could have endured each other twelve months in the year without it. So, on Saturday nights a sufficient number of cocktails was served to ensure a certain hilarity, and, in case this should wear off, the bar worked steadily during the evening. So it was on the Saturday night in question, and the party was "going" very well.

Wally was dancing with Nancy Horton, when Billy, her husband, stopped them.

"Look here, Nance, the butler just telephoned that Teddy isn't in his bed, and they can't find him."

"Rubbish! He's somewhere about. Come on, Wally."

"No. Hold on a minute. They phoned the Hunters to see if he was there, and they discovered that Herbert is missing."

"The little beasts! Where do you suppose they are? Do the Hunters know it?"

"The servants were going to telephone them."

"What do you want me to do?"—shortly.

"I think we ought to go home——"

"I will not! You go, if you like, and give him a good thrashing when you find him. Come on, Wally."

She whirled away with Wally, who said:

"Thank the Lord, my kid is a girl!"

But, one by one, parents were called by the 'phone, until a sufficient number of fathers had left to make the affair one-sided. So it broke up, with loud protests on the part of the women against the tyranny of children, and the slavery of parenthood.

Max grumbled all the way home, and Wally slept. But once indoors, he surreptitiously crept to Isabelle's door and tiptoed in. Her nightie was a heap by her bed, the bed crumpled and empty. He hurried to Miss Watts's door and roused her.

"Miss Watts, where is Isabelle?" he demanded.

"In bed, Mr. Bryce."

"No, she isn't. I've looked."

"But she went to bed at half past eight. I saw her asleep myself. Just a minute, please."

He heard her pattering about. He went downstairs and summoned Matthews. He knew nothing. He had been on duty all evening, but he had not seen her. Wally ordered him to question all the servants. Miss Watts, greatly excited, appeared in a bathrobe. A telephone call to the Hunters' house brought the reply that Mr. Hunter and the servants were out looking, now. Wally went up to his wife's room. She was in bed.

"Isabelle's gone," he said.

"Gone where?" she asked, sitting up.

"I don't know. With the others, I suppose."

"Where is Watts? She is responsible for Isabelle."

"She saw her asleep in bed at eight thirty. Miss Watts put out her light at nine. The kid got away somehow."

"Watts had no business going to bed. Where were the other servants?"

"They were on duty and saw nothing."

"On duty, in the kitchen, having skylarks!"

"No matter. The thing is what to do now?"

"Go to bed. She'll turn up."

"Don't be a fool! I'll take a car and join the searching party. Nobody knows what those kids are up to."

"All right; go ahead. But this time, Wally Bryce, I punish her."

He hurried out, and got into a fast car, with Matthews and Henry, the chauffeur, in the back seat. He went like the wind to the Hunters'. No news yet, but they informed him that twelve boys were missing.

"My Isabelle is with them," said Wally.

The Hunters' butler look startled.

"My word, sir, she is a limb!" he exclaimed.

On the road Wally met Billy Horton in his car.

"They must be around here somewhere. They couldn't get far. If I don't fix that young man of mine!" he threatened.

"My kid is with them," Wally groaned.

"You don't say!" ejaculated Horton.

Just then a streak of light, as from a fire, flared up in the woods, to the left, and died out.

"Did you see that?" demanded Wally.

"Yes, looked like——"

"Beg pardon, sir, fire in the woods, that was."

"They've set the woods on fire," shouted Wally, and started off full speed. Horton followed.

"Keep your eye on the place, you fellows. About here, wasn't it?"

He stopped the car, and they jumped out. Henry carried a bunghole light and they penetrated the woods, single file, shouting as they went. No answer came, but they kept on. Before they had gone very far, a pony whinnied.

"Hear that? We're coming to something."

They heard motors on the road behind, and shouts in answer to their shouts. Other fathers rushed in presently and joined them. Henry stopped and halted the entire line.

"Well, I'll be blowed," he said.

He swept the cleared place with his light, and they all crowded up behind him. A bed of ashes smouldered, and around it, in deep oblivion of well-earned sleep, lay thirteen blanketed braves, a trusty weapon—tomahawk or sword—at hand beside each sleeper.

The fathers descended upon them, and with difficulty aroused them to the capture. They were led, carried, or dragged to motors, and carted home. Isabelle borne between Henry and Matthews scarcely woke at all. In fact, when she woke in the morning to Miss Watts's grieved expression, all memory of the transfer was gone.

"Oh, Isabelle," said she, "how could you?"

The child struggled with her memories.

"Who found me?"

"Your father."

"Were the others found too?"

"Yes."

"Did they get taken home?"

"Certainly."

"Gee!"

"Is that all you have to say?"

"What are they going to do to me?"

"I don't know, but your parents are very angry."

"I bet they are," grinned the culprit.

"What is to become of you, Isabelle?" inquired Miss Watts, with tragic fervour.

Isabelle ate a huge breakfast, and waited cheerfully for her summons to judgment. It came at eleven. She went to her mother's room, where that lady sat in her bed. Her husband sat by, arms folded, expression stern.

"Hello," said Isabelle.

"Sit down!" her mother ordered, fiercely.

Isabelle sat.

"How did you get out of this house last night?"

"Walked out."

"Where was Miss Watts?"

"Asleep in bed."

"Where were the other servants?"

"At their regular Saturday night party. They call it Club Night."

"When did these boys induce you to go on this disgraceful expedition?"

"They didn't induce me," replied Isabelle. "It was my idea."

"Isabelle Bryce!" her mother burst out. "You asked twelve boys to spend the night with you?"

"No, I thought it would be fun to play John Smith, Pocahontas and Indians at night, with a fire. So we planned it. Then we thought you might get back from the club before we did, and kick up a row, so I said why not sleep in the tents, and sneak in at daylight, so you'd never know."

"Did you ever hear anything so awful?" Max demanded of Wally.

"I don't think she understands just what it is she has done," he said, hesitatingly.

"Don't you dare make excuses for her!"

"Don't you know it isn't decent for you to spend the night in the woods, with twelve boys?"

"Why not?" asked Isabelle, interested.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Bryce.

"Well, why don't you tell her why not?" burst out Wally.

"Don't be vulgar, Wally. Just leave this to me, please."

"Go on," he said.

"I've tried every way I know to make you act like a decent human being, and you won't. Now, there's only one way left."

"Penitentiary?" inquired Isabelle in all earnestness.

"No impudence! You have disgraced yourself thoroughly this time, and us, too."

Isabelle turned to her father. She had not the least idea what they were hinting at.

"Wally, what's all the row about?" she inquired.

"You've got to explain it to her, I tell you," he repeated.

Mrs. Bryce ignored him.

"I have decided that your punishment this time is to be a severe one," she said sternly. "You are to be sent away to school. We will see if that can save you."

"School? Boarding school?"

"Yes."

"Not a girls' school?"

"I suppose you'd prefer a boys' school?" Max said, sarcastically.

"Yes, I would," her daughter answered, literally.

"There's no use!" exclaimed Mrs. Bryce. "Take her away, Wally. I shall decide upon a school—a very strict one—and she shall be sent there next month. It is evident Miss Watts cannot cope with her."

Isabelle, somewhat dazed, walked back to the schoolroom. She grasped the idea that this time she had exceeded her limit. She had never seen her mother so angry, and even Wally was as grave as a judge.

"Why is it wicked for me to play Indian with the boys?" she demanded of Miss Watts.

"It isn't playing Indian; it's—little girls can't spend the night in the woods with boys," she replied.

"But why not? They were my regular friends."

"Didn't your mother tell you why it is wrong?"

"No."

"Then I must speak to her, Isabelle, before we discuss it."

It was only the beginning of the revelation of her ignominy. She was not allowed to go anywhere or to see her friends. Once when she saw Margie Hunter on the road, and waved to her, Margie looked the other way and did not wave back. She smuggled off a letter to Herbert and he smuggled one to say that he was not allowed to see her, or write to her—that he was being sent away to school.

When she questioned Miss Watts she met with pained reticence—no frank explanation. The girl felt that she was a prisoner, under sentence for something which she could not understand. She turned hither and thither in her appeal for help and understanding, and everybody turned aside as if she were an outcast. The iron of injustice began to enter her soul. She was at the impressionable age, when she felt deeply every injury done her. She thought much of Ann Barnes and Martin Christiansen, her two friends. They would have understood. They would have answered the questions, told her the truth which her mother hinted at yet failed to explain. It was a period of bitterness and revolt, of enforced inaction and isolation. It was to bear fruit in her whole life, and no one guessed it—or cared.

But it so happened that Christiansen, all unknown to her, was to help her. He happened to meet Mrs. Bryce, full of maternal anxiety about the school question, and he immediately suggested The Hill Top School, conducted by some friends of his who were Quakers. They accepted only a few children, but they accomplished wonders with them. Max listened and took note. He offered to write a letter in Isabelle's behalf. Mrs. Bryce accepted this help gratefully, and in the end it was arranged that Isabelle was to be sent there. But the little girl knew nothing of this.

Events marched. She was taken to town and a school outfit bought for her. She was allowed no word of choice in her things. Max, coldly distant, and Miss Watts, nervously conciliatory, accompanied her during this ordeal of fitting and ordering. A month earlier, she would have worked up a plan of revolt and carried it through, but now, it did not seem worth while. Their attitude toward her struck in on her spirit. She hated the thought of the school, but she was glad she was going away.

"What's the name of this place they're sending me?" she asked Miss Watts one day.

"The Hill Top School."

"Where is it?"

"In Massachusetts. It is a very nice school, and I think you will be happy there."

"Won't I? Just!"

Miss Watts frowned. There was a queer streak of cynicism growing in the child that gave her pause. She was fond of her, in her way, but she was glad that her responsibility for her was soon to cease. She had been induced by Mrs. Bryce to deliver Isabelle at the school, as the day of her departure fell in horse-show week, and The Beeches was to be full of house guests.

It was a ripe, mellow, September day when they left. A day on which Isabelle longed to fling herself into the saddle and gallop and gallop through the red and yellow world. Instead, for some heinous but incomprehensible crime, she was being sent to prison. That was the attitude of mind in which she viewed it.

"All right, now, Isabelle; the motor is here. Have you said good-bye to your mother?" inquired Miss Watts, all a-flutter.

"Yes," lied Isabelle, and hurried down to the car.

Wally was at the wheel.

"Are you driving us to the station, Wally?" she asked.

"I thought I would," he answered, embarrassed.

She got in and sat beside him. Her attempt at a smile worried him. After all, she was just a kid, being bundled off in disgrace. He felt a vague regret that he meant so little to her. He wondered if she really loved any one. Then her search for "regular parents" came back to haunt him. Funny business this, having kids. Not so simple——

"All right, kid?" he asked her, as they waited for the train.

"Oh, yes," she said, with an effort at her old insouciance.

"Good-bye," he said jocosely, adding, as the train came in, with an effort to avoid any emotion: "Write if you need money."

He kissed her, and she clung to him.

"You're a good old thing, Wally," she said, hoarsely; and then, silently, she followed Miss Watts into the train.



CHAPTER TWELVE

The little god of Chance must have sat smiling on his throne when Mrs. Wally Bryce decided upon Hill Top School as the spot to which her daughter should be banished. She felt that Christiansen's recommendation was enough, together with the list of girls who attended it, so she did not trouble to visit the place. The few necessary letters which passed between herself and Adam Benjamin, the head of the school, were formal business communications, in regard to terms, books, equipment, and such details. Mr. Benjamin's insistence upon the simplest clothes suited her exactly. The girl had to be put somewhere until she could be admitted to a fashionable New York finishing school where she had been entered as a baby. This Hill Top place would do as a stop gap.

As for Isabelle, in the bitterness of her spirit, her only thought was that, whatever the place proved to be, she would hate it.

She and Miss Watts arrived in the afternoon of a perfect autumn day. The train was late, so that Miss Watts was forced to hand over her charge to Mr. Benjamin, who met them at the station, with only a few minutes' wait for her train back to New York.

"I'm sorry not to have taken you to the school, and seen your room, Isabelle," she said.

"That's all right."

"We will look after her," Mr. Benjamin said with a genial smile.

Isabelle looked at him again. He was a big man, strong and bronzed, as if he lived in the open. When he smiled, his very blue eyes smiled too, and many little wrinkles appeared about them, as if his smile sent out rays, like the sun. He wore loose, snuff-coloured clothes, and a broad-brimmed hat.

Miss Watts's train thundered in. There was a moment of confusion, of exhortation to be a good girl, of farewell; and then the train was gone. The last member of Isabelle's world had deserted her, and she choked back a sob of loneliness, of rebellion. It was all mirrored in her tell-tale face. A big strong hand suddenly enclosed her own, and she looked up into Mr. Benjamin's wrinkly smile.

"Thee must not feel lonely, little girl," he said, gently. He led her away to a wide, low surrey, with two fat dappled horses. Isabelle tried to snatch her hand away, but Mr. Benjamin seemed unaware of it.

"If thee will get into the front seat with me, we will put thy trunk in the back."

Without any reply she got in. Presently they were off at a good pace, through lovely country, mellow in the late afternoon sunshine. Mr. Benjamin talked to the horses in a friendly way, but he left Isabelle to herself. After a little they were among the hills. The sumac flamed everywhere, and bronze oak trees smouldered in the sun. Once Mr. Benjamin drew up and pointed to a flower beside the road.

"Does thee see that flower, Isabelle?"

She nodded.

"It is very interesting," he mused, and he unfolded the tale of this plant. How exacting it was, how its seed germinated in only a certain soil, how it bloomed in only certain seasons under special weather conditions. Isabelle's quick imagination kindled at the tale. It was hard to hate this man, whom she had visualized as her jailer.

"Why do you say 'thee' instead of 'you'?" she asked as her first remark.

"Because I am a Quaker, and we use the Friends' speech."

"What are Quakers?"

He smiled, and explained to her, and as he talked they swung between gates into a long tree-bordered drive that climbed and climbed until it reached a hill top; and here a low, rambling, many-roomed house spread itself pleasantly upon the earth. Some girls were raking leaves and waved to them as they passed. The fat horses stopped at the house. Mr. Benjamin got out and lifted out the trunk and bag. Just then the door opened and Mrs. Benjamin appeared.

"Phoebe, my dear, this is our new child, Isabelle Bryce," he said.

Mrs. Benjamin bent and kissed her.

"Thee is very welcome, Isabelle," she said, taking her hand and leading her indoors. A great, broad hall bisected the house. In the living room, to the right, a fire sparkled and crackled. The room gave out a feeling of friendliness. There were big chairs, student lamps, pleasant colours and shadows.

"I hope thee did not get chilled coming up the hill. There is a nip in the air these fall nights," Mrs. Benjamin remarked.

"No, I wasn't cold, thank you," Isabelle replied. The last two words dragged themselves out in spite of her.

It was as difficult to hate Mrs. Benjamin as it was to hate Mr. Benjamin. And the warm big room was nice. But no—she wasn't going to give in. She was a rebel and they should find her such!

Just then a girl came into the room. She was younger than Isabelle—ten years old, perhaps. She was fair and frail with a discontented little face.

"Peggy, this is Isabelle Bryce. This is Peggy Starr, Isabelle. I thought thee might show Isabelle her room, Peggy."

The two girls looked at each other.

"All right; come on," said the younger girl, ungraciously.

They mounted the wide stairs to the corridor above, with bedrooms opening off on each side. Peggy led the way into a huge room, with many windows. It had two beds, two bureaus, two closets.

"I s'pose you're my room mate," Peggy remarked, staring at her.

"Do you sleep here?"

"I slept in another girl's room last night, but I belong here."

"When did you come?"

"Yesterday."

"Like it?"

"No, hate it!"

"So do I," said Isabelle, firmly.

"I cried all night," boasted Peggy.

"I never cry," said Isabelle.

The other girl stared.

"Are there many girls here?"

"You make ten. The rest are raking for a bonfire. Sillies!"

"Didn't they invite you?"

"I can't do rough things like that. I'm delicate."

Isabelle heard shouts of laughter, and hurried to the window. Down below in the twilight a crowd of laughing girls was burying a prostrate victim under the leaves. They shrieked and cavorted about her. A yellow moon hung low over the hills. All at once, clear and high, a bugle call arose, and echoed far and near. It was a scene and impression she was never to forget.

"What is that?" she demanded of Peggy.

"Time to dress. Mr. Benjamin bugles whenever we have to do anything," complained Peggy.

There was a rush on the stairs, more laughter, questions called and answered, doors slammed. A poignant sense of loneliness, of homesickness, swept over Isabelle. She turned to Peggy, who sat by.

"I hate it!" she said fiercely.

"So do I. Going to change?"—languidly. "You needn't. Girls don't have to, their first night. Just wash and come on."

Isabelle followed her suggestion and presently the two girls went downstairs together. Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin sat together on a high backed settle by the fire. They were enjoying each other's conversation. Mrs. Benjamin's face shone as she listened to her husband. It was rather a plain face, surmounted by hair parted smoothly in the middle and drawn low into a diminutive knot at the back. She wore a queer dress, Isabelle thought, and a fine white kerchief was folded across her breast. This was her costume always, save on Sunday, when the dress was of silk.

"I hope thee found thy room pleasant, Isabelle," she said as the girls entered.

"Yes, thanks."

"Thee has a fine view over the hills," Mr. Benjamin said.

Then the other girls trooped in, and Isabelle was introduced to them. A servant announced supper. Mr. Benjamin gave his arm to Mrs. Benjamin, and they led the way, followed by the girls, two by two, arm in arm, across the hall to the dining room. There was an unexpected moment for Isabelle when everybody bowed the head and offered silent grace. The supper was plain, but how those girls did eat! Cold meats, baked potatoes and apple sauce, and cookies disappeared in quantities. Even the rice pudding had to be served twice all round.

There was talk and laughter. No sense of disorder or noise, but it was just jolly. Mr. Benjamin at one end of the long table beamed at Mrs. Benjamin at the other end. They both played a part in the sprightly give-and-take of the children. It was like a happy family. Isabelle was silent, taking note of everything. Peggy was sullen.

After supper there was a rush for sweaters.

"Get your coat, Isabelle, and come out. We're going to have a bonfire to-night. No lessons until to-morrow," shouted a girl named Agnes.

Isabelle started up to get her coat, but on second thoughts she went back for Peggy.

"Oh, I can't do those things, I tell you. I'm too delicate," whined the girl.

"It won't hurt thee at all, my dear, if thee wraps up well," said Mrs. Benjamin.

"I'm never allowed out in the night air——"

"Get thy sweater and come out, little sister. Thee doesn't know this night air," laughed Mr. Benjamin.

So in the end Peggy allowed herself to be persuaded, and went along.

"Silly, spoiled little minx," commented Mr. Benjamin.

"Oh, we'll soon manage her, my dear, but what about this smouldering Isabelle with her old eyes?" sighed his wife.

He patted her hand.

"I leave her to thee, my Phoebe."

Outside the moon rode high, the air was crisp and sweet, the silence unbroken save for the shouts of the girls. The leaves were piled in a huge mound, in a cleared space some distance from the house. They set a match to it, and the flames leapt hungry and fierce. The girls formed a circle and danced around it, singing. Mr. Benjamin stopped a second on his way to the barn, and called a warning about whirling skirts as he went on.

The circle broke into dancing pairs. Some one started leap frog. Isabelle forgot everything except that she was having a good time. There were friendliness and joy and freedom. She drank of them to the full. She played wildly, excitedly. She began to lead in the games. Even Peggy forgot her role and joined in.

The flames were lower now, and with a sudden running leap Isabelle jumped over them. Without hesitation the whole line followed—all except Peggy, who held back.

"Come on, Peggy, don't be a 'fraid-cat!" shouted Isabelle.

So Peggy made a half-hearted jump and landed in the fire. In a second her skirts were ablaze, and the silence of terror struck the girls dumb. Isabelle ran at Peggy and dragged her out, she threw her on the ground, tearing at her skirt with her bare hands.

"Pile sweaters on her!" she ordered the girls.

They obeyed, and Isabelle threw herself upon the smouldering heap, in an effort to quench the fire. Mr. Benjamin came upon them, and the girls explained in shrill unison. He lifted Isabelle off; picked Peggy up, half unconscious; cut away the still smoking skirt, and carried her into the house.

The girls followed, awed and weak from fright. They sat in silence in the living room awaiting the report from upstairs. Both the Benjamins were up there. There had been no serious damage done. The heavy wool shirt had protected her legs, but the shock had played havoc with poor Peggy's nerves, and she screamed and cried long after she was rubbed, greased, bandaged, and comfortable.

When Mrs. Benjamin finally came downstairs to get some hot milk for her, she found the frightened girls still sitting there. She relieved their minds at once.

"How did it happen?" she inquired.

They explained how Isabelle jumped the blaze and urged timid Peggy to follow.

"Where is Isabelle?" demanded Mrs. Benjamin.

It appeared that nobody knew. In the excitement they had not noticed her absence. Should they go and look for her?

"No; I'll find her. Agnes, go to the kitchen and get a glass of hot milk and take it to Peggy. The rest of you go to bed as quietly as possible. I will find Isabelle," said Mrs. Benjamin.

They tiptoed away as silent as ghosts. Mrs. Benjamin put a heavy coat about her shoulders, and went out. The clearing where the bonfire had been, lay on a knoll above the house. As she approached it she saw silhouetted against the moon a small figure, head bent upon drawn-up knees, silent, "lonely as a cloud."

"My dear, thee will take thy death of cold," she said gently, leaning over the girl.

She lifted tragic, pitiful eyes to Mrs. Benjamin's.

"Have you come to send me home?"

"No, I've come to take thee to bed,"—simply.

She drew the girl to her feet, put her hand on her shoulder; and together, in silence, they approached the house. She led her to the fire and chaffed her cold hands.

"You ought to punish me," said Isabelle at last.

"My dear, when any one at Hill Top breaks the rules, or acts wilfully, we ask her to punish herself."

Isabelle could scarcely believe her ears.

"I think thee has been sufficiently punished, Isabelle, and now I shall give thee a hot lemonade to warm thee up before thee goes to bed," the kind voice went on.

Suddenly without warning, Isabelle threw herself on the couch and began to sob. Not like a child's easy tears, but like the tortured sobbing of a nature long pent up. Mrs. Benjamin said nothing. She sat down on the couch, drew the child's head into her lap, and let the spasm spend itself.

So it was that Isabelle, who never wept, spent her first evening at Hill Top School.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The period of adjustment to life at the Hill Top School was a very bewildering one to Isabelle. The excitement over Peggy's accident was soon past, to that heroine's intense regret. She prolonged her nervous prostration as long as possible, and was duly petted and made much of by the girls. Isabelle, full of remorse for the trouble she had brought upon her room-mate, adopted her as her special charge.

The routine of the school, if you could call it that, began. Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin had strange ideas in regard to the training of the young. They kept the school small, so that they might not be hampered in their experiments, and strangely enough, they drew their pupils largely from the families of the rich. When he was asked about this once, Mr. Benjamin said:

"It seems to be our mission to teach these little richlings to

'Ride a cock horse, To Banbury Cross, To see what money can't buy!'

"They get life so crookedly from servants and such," he added. "Phoebe and I just try to straighten them out."

The process by which these two rare souls accomplished this straightening out was quite their own. There was only one extra teacher, a Frenchwoman who came from Boston twice a week. For the rest, Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin conducted the school, and did all the teaching.

During October and November, and again in late April and May, lessons were all out of doors. The whole school studied Botany and Zoology with Mr. Benjamin. They wandered over the hills, on the brisk autumn days, with their boxes and cases and bottles for specimens. These lessons were a series of enchanted tales to Isabelle, of how the life force persists in bugs and plants. The whole morning on certain days of the week would be devoted to this peripatetic grazing, then note books would be written up before lunch.

This function was also a lesson. Certain girls took charge of it each day—planned, ordered, prepared and cooked the meal, in the open, over a gypsy fire. The girls in charge were limited in expenditure, and there was great rivalry among them to find something new and toothsome to make in the skillet or the big kettle. Careful accounts were kept by each set of managers, and if, at the end of the school term, there was credit balance, a special party was given on the savings.

A second committee took charge of serving the meal; a third, of the clearing away and dishwashing. Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin were always treated as guests on these occasions.

Arithmetic was accompanied by instruction in banking. Allowances were deposited in a central bank, with elected officers. All money was drawn by check. Books were balanced weekly, and penalty imposed upon careless financiers.

Mrs. Benjamin conducted the classes in English Literature, and because she loved books truly, she led these girls step by step into the realm of the best. Shakespeare was studied and loved, and played under the trees. Wordsworth and Tennyson and Longfellow read in the open, are very different from Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Longfellow parsed indoors. Poetry was not a "study" to be pored over in the schoolroom; it was a natural beautiful expression of life, sung instead of spoken. So they came to our modern poets with interest and understanding, because these new poets, forsooth, spoke the language of these children of the present.

Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot, Victor Hugo, read aloud and discussed; these were a treat—no task—here. These great artists were considered not only as makers of romance, creators of literature, but also as historians of their times. Their books were studied along with the history of the countries and the peoples that they described. Then came the geography of the places wherein the stories were laid, then a study of the social conditions and customs of the periods to which they gave expression.

American history was taught by both the Benjamins. It was their hobby. Not the sort of history taught in most schools, "fixed up" for the young, but the true history of our country—its blunders, its stupidities, its triumphs.

So through the whole curriculum, acquiring knowledge was a pleasant thing. It was not a matter of being fed with little unrelated chunks of information, on this or on that. It was rather being led into a great field, where now this part, now that, held your interest, but you never lost sight of the whole expanse.

As for play, there were nutting expeditions, hay rides, marshmallow roasts, any number of out-of-door joys. It was as nearly a normal life as can be reached in these days of ours.

To Isabelle it was unbelievable. Everything they did during the day interested her. Her old passion for leadership spurred her on, but now it was a spur to excel in legitimate things. Her sense of rebellion was laid away, because she liked nearly everything she had to do, and her days were so busy that there was no excess vitality to work itself off in pranks.

Not that she was a reformed soul—far from it! There were times when she balked the duties she liked least, and was gently called upon by Mrs. Benjamin to punish herself. After the first amusement of this novelty wore off, it became plain to her that the punishment she administered to herself was always more severe than any one else would have prescribed. Sometimes punishment was decided upon by the community as a whole. By degrees the girls all began to realize "the social spirit" for the first time in their self-centred, individualistic lives.

"Mrs. Benjamin," Isabelle said one day, bursting into the presence of that lady, "I feel full of the devil to-day!"

"Dost thou, Isabelle? Dear me! we must think of something to dispossess him."

"Better give me something hard to do."

"It is now half past eight. Suppose thee goes down to the big field to help Henry pitch hay until ten."

"All right," agreed Isabelle.

"Thee might speak to Mr. Benjamin on thy way out, about the seven devils that possess thee," smiled her teacher.

Another influence that was working in the development of the girl was the dependent devotion of Peggy Starr. Her young room-mate worshipped Isabelle. She began by following her through fire, and she would not have stopped at water. What Isabelle did and said and thought was Peggy's law.

Now Mrs. Benjamin took hold of the situation at once. She disapproved of the school girl "crush." She had a long talk with Isabelle and urged her to look after the younger girl, to help her forget her "claim" to invalidism, to influence her to normal activity. Isabelle accepted the responsibility and felt it deeply. She restrained herself from this and that because of Peggy. If she did things, Peggy would do them. So again, wise Mrs. Benjamin let her teach herself her first lessons in self-control.

"Isabelle," Mr. Benjamin said to her, when she had been at the school about two months, "I have a letter from thy father. He says thee does not write home."

"I've been busy," Isabelle said, frowning.

"But what does thee do on Sunday afternoons, when the other girls write home?"

"I'd rather not tell."

"But thee writes; I've seen thee."

She nodded.

"I want thee to write thy mother to-day, Isabelle," he said, sternly.

He told his wife of this conversation later.

"She writes volumes on Sunday," he said, "now what does she do with it?"

"She is one of the strangest children we've ever had, Adam," she answered.

"She is rather exhausting to me," he said.

"She's lived under abnormal conditions of some sort. I cannot seem to visualize her parents at all. She never speaks of them. She was so bitter and sullen when she came to us," Mrs. Benjamin mused. "I must try to get her confidence about her parents, she may be needing help."

"She came to thee just in time, my Phoebe."

"Yes, that's true. A little more and she would have been a bitter cynic at eighteen. Even now when she just begins to respond, like a frost-bitten plant, I am not sure of the blossom."

"Hot-house growth, thee must remember."

"She interests me deeply, and I'm growing very fond of her."

"Lucky Isabelle," her husband smiled.

Later in the day when the other girls were out at play Mrs. Benjamin came upon Isabelle, pen in hand, gazing into the distance.

"What is troubling my child?"

"Mr. Benjamin told me to write to Max."

"Who is Max?"

"My mother."

"Thy mother, and thee calls her Max?"

"I always have."

"But it is not respectful, is it?"

"No, but I don't respect her much."

"Doesn't thee?"—calmly.

"No, you can't"—earnestly.

"And what does thee call thy father?"

"Wally."

Mrs. Benjamin smiled. Here was all the clue she needed to the kind of parents Isabelle possessed.

"It may have been considered precocious, when thee was little, to call them so. But if I were in thy place, I would not do it now. It gives the wrong impression of thy manners. I think thee has very pretty manners," she added.

Isabelle flushed with pleasure.

"You see, Max—my mother—doesn't really care where I am, or what I do, so long as I'm not in her way, so I don't know what to write her."

"Couldn't thee write thy father, then?"

"Well, it would be easier," she admitted. "Wally is a good sort, and understands more."

"Write to him then. That will do, I'm sure."

"All right. But nobody writes me letters. I never get any."

"To whom does thee write in the letter hour, my dear?"

Isabelle was on her guard at once.

"Oh, to somebody I like."

"Some friend of thine?"

"Um—yes."

"Couldn't thee tell me about this friend? Mr. Benjamin and I are especially interested in the friends of our girls. I have never seen thee post thy letters."

"I don't post them"—shamefacedly.

"Oh, they are to an imaginary friend," said Mrs. Benjamin, seizing an idea.

Isabelle nodded.

"That's delightful. I used to have an imaginary companion, too. Is thine a girl?"

"No."

Mrs. Benjamin ignored Isabelle's uncommunicativeness.

"Why wouldn't that be a good idea for the theme class, Isabelle? 'Letters to an imaginary chum'?"

"Mine isn't a chum."

"Would thee care to tell me?"

Isabelle rose.

"I'll show them to you," she said; and she ran upstairs, and brought a collection of letters to lay in Mrs. Benjamin's lap.

"Thank thee, dear. May I read them?"

The girl nodded. Mrs. Benjamin lifted the first one. It was addressed to: "My Regular Parents." Isabelle went and threw herself down by the fire, her face turned away, while Mrs. Benjamin read:

Oh my dear Parents: I wish you could see this beautiful school I've come to. It has hills, and a large house, and Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin. Mr. Benjamin has a wrinkly smile, and Mrs. Benjamin is so understanding. They are Quakers and say "thee" and "thou" for "you." It is sweet. When I come home let us say "thee" and "thou" to each other, will you? It sounds so very special. We study out of doors, and it is fun. We play lots of things, like basketball in the field, so we are healthy. My room-mate is Peggy Starr, a very young girl, often tiresome. This is Sunday, and all the girls write home, so I write you, dear, dear, regular parents. I think of you a great deal. Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin are just like you, that is why I love them so dearly. I am glad we are poor and have only each other, aren't you? I know some people named Max and Wally, who are rich. They have so much golf, and parties that they can't ever bother with their child, except to scold her. But you care about me, don't you? And you like to hear what I do at school. I would be lonesome without you. I will try hard to do good, because I love you so much. Your loving daughter, ISABELLE.

Mrs. Benjamin finished them, then looked at the girl, whose face was turned away, and her smile was very tender. She spoke simply, without a touch of sentimentality.

"Dear, they are very sweet and loving letters. I am glad thee thinks Mr. Benjamin and I are like thy 'regular parents.'"

Isabelle looked at her shyly.

"Suppose we make an agreement, Isabelle. Thee is to write a short letter to thy father every Sunday, and the rest of the letter hour can be devoted to thy 'regular parents.' This letter thee will post to me, and—since I have no 'regular daughter'—every Sunday afternoon I will post a letter to thee. Is that a bargain?"

"Oh, yes!" cried the girl, flaming to meet this suggestion—this understanding. "Oh, dear Mrs. Benjamin," she added, "you are so love-ful!"



CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The new relationship established between Mrs. Benjamin and Isabelle was so precious to the little girl that she abandoned her banner of revolt once for all, and gave herself up to the congenial atmosphere of Hill Top. It was the only home she had ever known, since home is a matter of love and people rather than bricks and stones.

The secret correspondence was a complete outlet for Isabelle's imagination, and she pored over the letters her "regular mother" wrote her with utter devotion. She put them away to keep for all her life. They were indeed wonderful letters, full of the fine idealism, the working philosophy that inspired the Benjamins. When there was some misdemeanour, or some fractured rule to be called to Isabelle's attention, it was delicately introduced into the weekly letter, instead of being talked out in the library.

Excess vitality got the girl into scrapes sometimes, but as the Benjamins came to understand her better and to love her, they found ways of appealing to her common sense, or her instinct for justice, to which she never failed to respond. Her quick mind had already put her at the head of her classes.

The out-of-door life and her enjoyment of everything began to show in her whole bearing. Her face lost its sharp curves, she took on some flesh, her colour was high and her eyes were bright. At last she was coming into her birthright of happy, normal girlhood.

The letters home continued to be written to Wally, and once in a long while she had a brief note from him.

"What kind of a father have you got?" she inquired of Peggy, one day, after the perusal of one of these epistles.

"He is very nice, I think. He was sorry I wasn't a boy, but he always gives me five dollars whenever he sees me. What kind is yours?"

"Wally is the nicest person in our family," she said guardedly.

"Is your father handsome?"

Isabelle hesitated a second.

"Yes—very."

"Mine isn't. He's fat—awf'ly fat. His head blouses over his collar all round."

"You mean his neck."

"No, he hasn't any neck—it's the back of his head. Don't you wish your father looked like a Gibson man?"

"Mine does."

"Really?"

"Yes. Very tall and broad-shouldered, with wavy hair, grey eyes, and wonderful teeth! He's very smart looking—oh, very!"

"Oh, Isabelle, he must be grand!" ejaculated Peggy.

"You ought to see him on a horse. He's just superb," she answered, delighted with her fairy story.

"Who is?" asked one of the crowd of six girls who joined them at this moment.

"Isabelle's father. Tell them about him, Isabelle," urged Peggy, the adoring.

So Isabelle began to enlarge upon the theme of the magnificent being who was her father. When she had finished his portrait Wally was a cross between a Norse Viking and a Greek god, with a few lines by Charles Dana Gibson just to bring him into the realm of reality. The girls were thrilled to hear of this heroic being. They entreated Isabelle to have him visit her, but she assured them that it was out of the question. This superman, this leader of society and Wall Street, could never find time to visit so obscure a spot.

Isabelle's father became a legendary figure among them, beautiful and godlike. She shone in the reflected glory of him for weeks. His experiences and adventures were added to ad infinitum.

"And my father was riding on his black horse, Nero, when he saw this very beautiful girl, in distress. He asked her what was the matter; she told him that she was falsely accused—that the police were after her."

"Oh, what was she accused of, Isabelle?"—breathlessly.

"Murder," said Isabelle, promptly.

"Mercy! what did your father do?"

"He hesitated not a minute. With one sweep of his arm he lifted her to the saddle before him, and started Nero on a gallop."

"Did the girl scream?"

"Oh, no. She relaxed in his arms. She knew she could trust my father. He rushed her to his shooting lodge in the forest and hid her there for several weeks."

"But, Isabelle, didn't he fall in love with her?"

"Certainly."

"But he was married."

"Well, a little thing like that wouldn't matter to a man like my father. He loved her but he told her he could not marry her because of Max and me."

"And did he leave her?"—disconsolately.

"Yes, he left her."

"Did the police find her?"

"Never. She went off to Europe and nobody ever knew a thing about it."

"How did you know about it?"—suspiciously.

"Oh, I am my father's confidante," boasted Isabelle. "We tell each other everything."

"Does he still love her?"

"Oh, yes; he will bear the marks to his grave."

A sigh of sentimental satisfaction went around.

"I wish my father was interesting like that," sighed Peggy.

It was in the spring when romance was in the very air, that a motor honked up the hill, and Wally inquired for Isabelle. Mrs. Benjamin received him.

"I'm anxious about Isabelle," he said, early in their talk.

"Anxious?"

"Yes. You've never made any complaints about her, or threatened to send her home or anything."

"We have no complaints to make," Mrs. Benjamin smiled. "She is a very clever and delightful child."

"Delightful? Isabelle?"

"We find her so. Affectionate, easily managed, full of life, and a natural leader."

"How Isabelle must have changed!" said Wally, soulfully.

When at a summons from Mrs. Benjamin the girl came into the room, he saw that she had changed. She electrified the room with her health and vitality.

"Wally!" she exclaimed, and suddenly went white to the lips.

"Hello, Isabelle; thought I'd have a look at you, in passing."

He kissed her cold cheek awkwardly.

"Don't seem very pleased to see me," he added.

"Oh, but I am, Wally; I am," she said, with an anxious eye on the door.

"Thou may'st have a holiday, Isabelle, to visit with thy father. We'd be glad to have thee spend the night, Mr. Bryce."

"Just here for a few hours, thanks. Thought I'd look in on the kid. Very kind of you, I'm sure."

Mrs. Benjamin left them.

"Wally, do me a favour," said Isabelle, breathlessly.

"So soon?" he laughed.

"Take me off in the motor for the day."

"But I want to see the school, and meet your pals, and get acquainted with the Benjamins."

"Oh, Wally, it's just like any school, and I'm shut up here all the time. I'm just dying for a day in the country," she urged. "P-l-e-a-s-e Wally."

"All right, come on. You aren't taking me off for fear they'll give you away, are you?"

"Give me away?"—anxiously.

"Mrs. Benjamin says you're a prize pupil, but they can't get away with that, Isabelle; I know you."

"No, you don't," she laughed. "I'm all new."

She slipped her arm through his and urged him forth.

"Come on, Wally, be a dear."

So she managed to get him in the car and away from the house before the school trooped in. She had no plan beyond that, but she knew that she must never let Wally go back to that school. She looked at his little wizened face, muffled up in his coat collar, and his little pinched hands on the wheel. No; only over her dead body should the girls see Wally!

She set herself to his entertainment, and got him into a good humour in no time. He roared at her stories, her comments on the girls. He noted her fine colour.

"You're getting handsome, Isabelle."

"Beauty is but skin deep. I rely on my line of talk," she replied, and joined in his laughter.

"Look here, why did you railroad me out of that school so fast?"

"I thought it would be nicer to have you all to myself," she replied, innocently.

"Isabelle, Isabelle, what are you up to?" her father demanded.

"Nothing, Wally—honest. I'm a reformed character."

She induced him to take her to lunch at The Gay Dog Inn, and they were very merry over the meal.

"I quite like you, Isabelle," said Wally. "You used to embarrass me to death."

"I've always rather liked you, Wally," she retorted, to their mutual amusement.

"See here, I must be getting on, if I'm to make Boston for dinner," he said, consulting his watch.

"You needn't take me clear up to the school. You may drop me at what we call the cross roads."

"Oh, I'll get you back," he protested.

From the moment they were headed for the school she talked feverishly, and thought wildly. How could she keep him from going to Hill Top? They had some trouble with the engine and while Wally tinkered with it, she sat with her eyes screwed shut, praying that something would happen to save her face.

"No extra tires and a balky engine. I'll bounce that mechanic when I get back," he grumbled, as they started off again.

The short spring day was beginning to fade, when Isabelle laid her hand on his arm.

"This is the cross roads. I get out here," she said.

"I'll run you up," he answered, casually.

"But I'd rather walk, Wally. I need the exercise."

As she was beginning to get out, he had to stop.

"What's the plot?"

"No plot. You'll be terribly late now. It was sweet of you to come, Wally, and I'm obliged for the party," she said, kissing him, and dismounting.

"Isabelle, have you murdered anybody?" he asked, gravely.

"Not yet," she replied, equally gravely. Then with a wave and a shouted good-bye she ran up the hill, and disappeared into the underbrush.

"Well, I'm damned!" grinned her father; and he turned back on his way to Boston.

Isabelle ran through the woods singing, whistling, praying. "Good Lord, I thank thee," she said, repeatedly. "You can rely on me not to lie again." Flushed and relieved from doom, happy as a cricket, she appeared at the school. She was greeted with howls of rage from the girls.

"Isabelle, you pig! To carry him off without letting us see him."

"How did he look? Is he handsomer than ever?" they chorused.

But Isabelle escaped their catechism. She had been saved once, and she dared not tamper with fate again. At every thought of Wally, speeding back to Boston, she drew a deep sigh of relief.

As they were all seated at supper Mr. Benjamin asked:

"Didst thou have a pleasant day with thy father, little girl?"

Ten pairs of envious eyes were upon her.

"Perfect," she sighed.

"Sorry we could not keep him overnight."

The maid entered to speak to Mrs. Benjamin, whereupon she rose and left the table. Isabelle was enlarging upon the delights of her holiday when her tongue suddenly clave to the roof of her mouth. She heard a voice saying:

"Engine wouldn't work—tire punctured."

She prayed violently for a fatal stroke of lightning or paralysis, but in vain. Mrs. Benjamin entered, followed by an irritated dapper little man.

"Adam, my dear, we have a guest. This is Isabelle's father."

A gasp went round the table—audible, visible. Never in his life had Wally Bryce made such a sensation. He stared at these girls who turned such strange looks upon him. As for Isabelle, at the moment she would not have hesitated at patricide, but that being out of the question, she burst into peal after peal of hysterical laughter.

Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin were perfectly aghast at the behaviour of the school, and Wally remarked irritably,—

"Shut up, Isabelle; shut up!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN

That supper proved to be a most difficult meal! Usually when there were guests, the girls talked and behaved very prettily, but on this occasion they sat like silent, accusing ghosts, eating in unbroken stillness. Mrs. Benjamin tried to lead them into conversation, but in vain. There were cross currents of feeling which she could not understand or cope with. Isabelle babbled on, with intermittent fits of hysterical laughter. Whenever she spoke, black looks were concentrated upon her; when Wally spoke, they were transferred to him. Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin did their best, but they were relieved when the ordeal was over and the girls went off to the study room.

Isabelle was excused, because of her guest. She was glad of every moment that postponed her hour of reckoning. Wally could be disposed of, but the girls must be met. The Benjamins had duties to attend to, so Wally and his daughter were left alone for a quarter of an hour, in the library.

"Look here!" he burst out at her. "What's the matter with those kids?"

"Matter?"—innocently.

"They glared at me as if I had murdered their mothers! Do they always eat in dead silence like that?"

Isabelle cast a glance over her shoulders to see that they were quite alone.

"This is what I tried to save you from," she whispered.

"You mean that's why you bundled me off this morning, and barred me out this evening?"

She nodded solemnly.

"The machine balked, the tire blew out, I had to come back," he apologized. "What's the matter with 'em anyhow?"

"You see we have a society for the Discouragement of Visiting Parents."

"What's the point?"

"You see, we endure a great deal from our parents, at home, but here we are free. The minute they begin visiting us, the trouble begins. So when they come, we are pledged to act like this, and they never come again."

"Nice hospitable lot of kids! And do the Benjamins stand for this?"

"They don't know about it; it's a secret."

"They can see, can't they? A blind man could have seen their outrageous manners," he remarked, hotly.

"Parents have outrageous manners, too, you know, and we have to put up with them"—calmly.

"Well, I'm——"

"Don't swear, Wally; Quakers don't like it."

"I never heard such nerve in my life! Lot of kids setting themselves up——"

"Try to put yourself in our place, Wally. When you were at school, did you long to have your mother visit you?"

"That was different——"

"No, that was the same," she said, finally. "I tried to save you, but you would come back. I've enjoyed your visit very much, but it's against our rules to act kindly to visiting parents, and if I do I'll be expelled."

"I suppose you'd like me to leave to-night?"—sarcastically.

"No, but get off as soon as you can in the morning, and let me manage things to-night."

The Benjamins joined them at this point, so conversation became general. Isabelle withdrew into her own mind, to think ahead how to avert the next crisis. When the girls came down for the hour of relaxation, there would be more embarrassment, unless she could manage. She strolled to the window and looked out.

There was a brilliant full moon, showering its largesse over the hills. They looked so calm, so remote—why did humans introduce such problems into the scheme of things? questioned Isabelle precociously. But the view gave her an idea.

"Mrs. Benjamin," she cried, "might we have a moonlight tramp and show my father some of our walks?"

"Would thy father like that? We often go for a walk in the moonlight, Mr. Bryce. The girls like it before they go to bed. Would thee enjoy it?"

Isabelle fixed him with a stern eye, and nodded.

"Why, yes, I think that would be nice," said Wally, who hated walking.

When the girls came down they silently accepted the plan. They put on their sweaters and boots, as the spring was young and the ground soft. Mrs. Benjamin marvelled at their restraint, but laid it to their commendable desire to appear well before their guest. Two by two they marched dumbly behind the Benjamins and the Bryces. Up hill and down they went. Isabelle felt their eyes like javelins in her back, even while she kept up a lively stream of conversation.

"Girls, thee need not walk in line," protested Mrs. Benjamin. "Show thy father the sowing game, Isabelle. Lead the girls out. This is a game thy daughter invented, Mr. Bryce, and which we love to play."

Isabelle, thus adjured, stepped forth, swept the enemy with a glance and took command. It was really a sort of a dance, whirling and circling and sowing seed in pantomime. Usually it was a wild, laughing happy affair—with antics and pranks extemporaneously introduced—but to-night it was as forced and funereal as a chorus of grave diggers. Mr. Bryce murmured appreciation, Mrs. Benjamin looked her question to her husband, who shook his head.

After what seemed to Wally ages of torment and a hundred miles or so of action, they went back to the school and to bed. Reminded by Isabelle, he arranged for an early start, and then Wally's part in the episode was closed.

But Isabelle's troubles had just begun. Peggy was in bed when she entered their room, and Isabelle was sure she was awake although her face was toward the wall, and no answer to questions passed her lips. Isabelle hurried to put out the light, but when she was in bed, whispers seemed to surround her, fingers to point at her, out of the dark. She turned the situation over and over in her mind. She had spared Wally the truth, but she herself must face it. Unless she could think of a way to explain her fairy stories to the girls, her position as leader in that school was lost. She invented this explanation and that, only to discard them. It seemed as if only her death could solve the problem, and she felt that to be extreme, in the circumstances.

She turned and tossed and agonized for hours, to fall, finally, into a troubled sleep, beset by dreams of herself, as a sort of pariah, wandering through her school days, on the edge of things.

The next day brought no soothing surprise. Cold nods of good-morning greeted her, groups of whispering critics edged away from her contaminating presence. Even Peggy, the faithful, had gone over to the enemy. The nervous strain of the day told on her, and when she made a bad mistake in a recitation the class tittered.

"Why, girls," said Mr. Benjamin in surprise, "it is not courteous to laugh at a mistake."

Evening brought Isabelle to a state of complete despair. The heavens had not opened to save her this time. She was to expiate in full. . . . Then she rose to new heights. She determined to make full confession and demand a public sentence. She would make herself suffer to the full extent.

True to instinct, even in despair, she waited until the girls had gathered for recreation hour before bedtime. Then she rose up, and as it were, laid her head upon the block.

"Mrs. Benjamin, I have to be punished," she said.

"Hast thou, Isabelle?"

"I want the girls to pronounce my sentence."

Mr. Benjamin smiled at his wife.

"I hope thy friends will temper justice with mercy, Isabelle," he remarked with the wrinkly smile threatening. "What is thy crime?"

"It's about my father," began the culprit.

"Yes, what about thy father?"

The girls eyed her hostilely, where she stood, by the fireplace, dominating the scene.

"I've always loved beautiful people so . . ." she began intensely.

"That is no sin," encouraged Mrs. Benjamin.

"I admire big, handsome men . . ."

One of the girls sniffed. This sound let loose the flow of Isabelle's histrionic remorse.

"Oh, you must listen to me," she cried, "you cannot condemn me until I have told it all."

"That is fair," said the calm voice of Mrs. Benjamin.

"It was always a disappointment to me that my father was so little and queer."

"But, Isabelle," interrupted Mrs. Benjamin, quickly.

"Please, I have to say what I think or it isn't a true story. Wally is much the nicest person in our family, but somehow he never seemed to count with anybody."

This daring focussed their attention. Mrs. Benjamin shook her head at her husband, who was about to interrupt this performance.

"I wanted a big kind of father, who blustered at you and made you feel respectful. I wanted him to have adventures, like Don Quixote, and make you thrilly all up and down your spine!"

"Didst thou want him to wear a sword and scabbard?" interrupted Mr. Benjamin, who disapproved of these heroics. But Isabelle was warmed to her subject now, and she did not hear him.

"Imagine what it meant to me to want that kind of a father, and to get Wally! You all know how I felt. It was just what you felt last night when you saw him first," she accused them. "When I was a lonely little girl I used to make up stories about the kind of parent I wanted. The made-up one got all mixed up with the real one. So when Peggy asked me if my father was handsome, I didn't stop to think which one she meant, I just said yes because the make-believe one was awf'ly good looking."

"But you only have one father, Isabelle," Peggy defended herself.

"I know I really have only one, but don't you see, I didn't mean to tell a lie, even if it did turn out to be one."

"What did thee tell, Isabelle?" inquired Mrs. Benjamin.

"I told Peggy that my father was handsome, meaning my make-believe one. The girls asked me about him, and I told them a lot of stories about him. They were always asking me to tell more."

"They were all about rescuing beautiful girls, and catching burglars, and saving children. You ought to have heard what she told us about him!" exclaimed Agnes Pollock.

"Why, Isabelle!"

"But they were true! They did happen to the other one!"

"There isn't any other one!" retorted Peggy.

"Yes, there is. I believe in him, and so do you, every one of you!" countered Isabelle. "He was just as real as Mr. Benjamin. You said so yourselves."

"But he's only made up."

"Oh, can't you see that the things you make up are lots realer than the things that are?" cried Isabelle with such conviction that they were all silenced.

"The matter comes to this, doesn't it? Isabelle, not intending to lie, misled all of ye about her father," said Mr. Benjamin, gravely.

"Yes, and we adored him so! When that little wizened man came in, we almost died!" blurted out Peggy.

The light broke upon the Benjamins, but they tried not to smile at each other.

"Isabelle's imagination can prove a gift or a curse," Mr. Benjamin continued. "Its possession lays a great obligation upon her. If it is used to mislead, or to obscure the truth, it is a dangerous power. Whatever the extenuating circumstances, it comes to this, that Isabelle lied to her friends. Phoebe, what does thee think about this situation?"

"I think thee is right in saying that this is a very serious matter. I agree with Isabelle, that she should be punished, if only to remind her that such misuse of a talent is a very ugly thing."

"I have been punished by the way the girls have treated me! I am punished when Mr. Benjamin says I have told a lie! But I want you to do something to hurt me! I wish Mr. Benjamin would beat me, or put me on bread and water. I hate myself. I'm just a common, mean liar! Whatever you decide to do to me is all right, and I deserve it!"

As she denounced herself, she fairly glowed with indignation; she was radiant with humility. The girls were hypnotized by her!

"I think Isabelle should miss the recreation hour for a month," said Mr. Benjamin.

The girls gasped, for this was the extreme penalty, but Isabelle never flinched.

"I will, Mr. Benjamin. I'll go to bed alone, in the dark, for a month and pray the Lord not to let me be a liar."

"I think thee must not rely too much upon divine power, Isabelle. Set a watch upon thy tongue thyself," he said—very severely for the gentle Adam. "Thee may go to bed now."

Condemned, abased, like a prisoner en route to the gallows, Isabelle walked from among them. She was disgraced, but, Isabelle-like, she wore her shame like a rose in her hair!



CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Isabelle was not forced to abrogate her reign, after all. Somehow her cleverness and her oddity always kept the spotlight focussed upon her. Needless to state Wally did not repeat his visit, and the spring term came to its end.

With its expiration came a letter from Mrs. Bryce asking whether the Benjamins would keep Isabelle at Hill Top until the end of August, as the Bryces were going to Europe and did not wish to take her with them. It never occurred to Mrs. Bryce to consult the girl's pleasure in the matter, but Mrs. Benjamin carried the letter to her at once.

"Would thee like to stay, Isabelle?"

"Like it? I'd adore it!" cried that young person, with the explosive over-emphasis of youth.

Mrs. Benjamin smiled and patted her hand.

"We would like it, too. I will write thy mother."

So it was arranged, and Isabelle stayed on. Two other girls were to remain also. By special petition to Wally Isabelle was permitted to have the Peruvian horse to spend the summer with her.

It was a never-to-be-forgotten holiday for those three girls. They took part in all the activities of the farm. They picked fruit and helped Mrs. Benjamin and the cook to can the big supplies of jam and jelly for the school. They helped in the garden with the vegetables or worked and weeded Mrs. Benjamin's beloved flowers. They pitched hay, they drove the rake and the grass cutter. They were busy in the open from morning until night and as happy as field larks.

Lessons had stopped, but education went on. They read aloud with Mrs. Benjamin; they studied and learned, first hand, of Nature's prodigality or niggardliness. Always there was the cultivation of the spirit. Love and fair dealing made the foundation upon which these simple Quaker folk had builded their lives, and no one could live in the home of their making without feeling that these were as essential to life as breathing.

Isabelle had long, wild gallops over the hills on her horse, during which she pondered "the long, long thoughts of youth" and brought the resulting problems to Mrs. Benjamin in the weekly letters, or in some of their intimate talks.

"It is hard to believe that this is the freakish sullen child who came to us less than a year ago," Mrs. Benjamin commented as the girls went off to bed one night.

"No, it is wonderful. Thou hast made a new being of her."

"Thou hast done it as much as I have. It is evidently her first experience of being understood and loved."

"What strange excrescences do grow up on our so-called civilization," he said.

"Is thee calling the rich an excrescence?" she smiled.

"I know that they are just human beings like ourselves, but how do they get things so awry? They put such a slight upon parenthood, with their servant-made children."

She nodded, and he went on developing his thought.

"It is ominous when the basic relationships are so abused—marriage held so lightly, children disdaining their own parents, as our Isabelle does. Where is it leading us, Phoebe?"

"Dear knows—dear knows!" she sighed, shaking her head.

It was a well-worn theme with them. They had to ponder deeply these tendencies, for it was their work to try to counteract these destructive forces—to build up in the hearts of these servant-made children, as Mr. Benjamin called them, a respect for God and man and the holy things that grow out of their relationship.

* * * * *

The summer passed almost without event. The three girls, hard and brown as Indians, were beginning to plan for the fall, when the others would return.

It was in early September that the blow fell upon Isabelle. A telegram from Wally had appraised his daughter of their arrival in New York. They were to spend the fall at the Club house near The Beeches. He hoped she was well. Did she want him to come and see her?

She answered this briefly, also a note from her mother. As Mrs. Bryce rarely troubled to write letters to any one, Isabelle pondered the reason for this amiable epistle. It was soon to be explained. Mrs. Benjamin received a letter from Mrs. Bryce saying that notification had arrived that Isabelle would be admitted this October to Miss Vantine's Finishing School, where her name had been entered for years. She wished the girl sent directly to this address in New York on the last day of September, as she was to board at the school for the present until it was decided whether the Bryces would open their town house.

Mr. Benjamin shook his head sadly over this letter, and carried it to his wife.

"Adam—Adam, we cannot let her go to that school! It will be her ruination," she exclaimed.

"My dear, it is the most fashionable school in New York," he replied, with a sigh.

"It is shoddy, and artificial and false!" she protested in unwonted heat. "My poor, dear Isabelle! Adam, couldn't we make a plea for her?—tell her mother how she improves here, how fast she progresses?"

"Phoebe dear, dost thou think that that would interest this lady?"

"But we can't let her go without one effort to save her. I think it is as serious as that, at this stage of the girl's development."

"Suppose thee writes a letter to Mrs. Bryce."

"I will. Let us not speak of it to Isabelle until I have her mother's answer."

"Very well, dear heart."

Mrs. Benjamin wrote and re-wrote the letter. Finally one was despatched and she anxiously awaited the reply. It was long in coming, and it fell like a blow on her heart. Mrs. Bryce was glad to have such a good report of Isabelle, but her plan had always been that the girl should spend, at Miss Vantine's school, the two years previous to her debut, as she herself had done. All the girls of her daughter's set went there, and she wished Isabelle to be with them. Thanking Mrs. Benjamin for her interest, etc., etc.

The Benjamins had a conference of disappointment over it, and it was decided that Isabelle must be told. Mrs. Benjamin's face was so rueful over it that her husband offered to do the telling. He and Isabelle were going off on an expedition together, which would give him an opportunity, and Mrs. Benjamin could provide the comfort that must follow.

He found it no easy task. As he looked at his sturdy young companion, listened to her picturesque talk, he felt that he was called upon to tell a young vestal virgin that she was to be sacrificed to the god of mammon.

"This is good air, isn't it!" she said, breathing deeply. "How do people live in cities, do you suppose?"

Mr. Benjamin longed to shirk, but he took himself in hand.

"I have had a letter from thy mother, Isabelle."

She glanced at him suspiciously.

"What does she want?"

"She wants thee to go to a school in New York this winter."

She stopped and faced him in alarm.

"To leave Hill Top?"

"I'm afraid so, little sister."

"But I won't! I won't go away from here. I love it here, I love you and Mrs. Benjamin. Oh, why does Max always interfere with me? I hate her!" she cried, passionately.

Mr. Benjamin laid a steadying hand on her shoulder, and walked beside her.

"I understand what a blow this is to thee, and how unhappy it makes thee. But one of the things that we want our girls to learn is to honour and respect their parents," he said gently.

"But how can I respect Max, Mr. Benjamin? She never respects me."

He saw the justice of her remark and strove not to play the moralist.

"Thee can put a curb on thy lips, my dear. I wish that thee might show Mrs. Benjamin and me that thy life here with us has meant something to thee, by obeying thy mother as cheerfully and willingly as thee can."

He felt the young body under his hand shudder with the effort for control. She lifted stricken eyes to him, as he said afterward, and nodded without a word. He helped her as well as he could, by talking of other things, but he felt her suffering as keenly as if it had been his own.

When they came back to the house, she went to her room, and he carried the report to his wife.

"Sorrow goes so deep with them, at this age," he said, tenderly.

"Poor, passionate child; she will always be torn by life," sighed Mrs. Benjamin. "I will not go to her yet. I'll let her try solitude first."

She did not appear at lunch, so Mrs. Benjamin carried a tray to her. The girl was not crying, she was sitting by the window, looking out over the hills, in a sort of dumb agony.

"I want thee to eat some lunch, my Isabelle."

A white face turned toward her. The very sun-brown seemed to have been seared off by suffering.

"I can't eat, dear Mrs. Benjamin," she said.

"I've been thinking that we might make a plan, dear," the older woman said, setting the tray aside and dismissing it. She drew a chair beside the girl and took her cold hands. "Thou wilt go to this school, as thy mother wishes, but when thou hast finished—it is only two years—if thee thinks the kind of life thy mother plans for thee too uncongenial, thee must come back to us, and help us with the school. There will always be a place for thee here, my child."

"But two years in that loathsome school!"

"Thee dost not know that it's loathsome. I've no doubt that if thee will take the right spirit with thee, it may be very good for thee. There are opportunities in that great city which Hill Top cannot offer."

"But there won't be any Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin! Oh, Mrs. Benjamin, why couldn't you have been my mother?"

"I should have been proud to be, Isabelle," she answered simply. "Thou art as dear to me as a daughter."

Isabelle bent and kissed the kind hands that held her own, but she shed no tears.

"We all have bitter, disappointing things to meet. I shall expect my daughter to meet them with a fine courage," she smiled.

"I'll try," said Isabelle; "but I'd rather die than leave here."

"Thee has met life very squarely, so far as I have known thee. This is a test of thy quality, and I know thee will meet it like my true daughter."

The girl's eyes brimmed at that, but she looked off over the hills and merely nodded. Presently she rose and leaned her cheek for a second against Mrs. Benjamin's hair.