"Does she now? Come along and let's pay our respects to the old lady."

She put her hand through his arm, and they sauntered off, with the other two men in their wake.

"Handsome woman, wasn't she?" Miss Watts remarked.

"No. I don't like that type. She struck me as bold."

Captain Larry O'Leary was the spoiled and petted darling of the boat. The tale of his gallant action under fire, of his wounds, of his decoration for valour, was passed from mouth to mouth, and lost nothing in the retelling.

The men liked him because he was a simple, modest chap, in spite of it all. The women followed him around like a cloud of gnats. He jollied them all from old Madam Van Dyke, who was seventy, to the smallest girl child on the boat.

He looked like a hero out of a fairy book. He had a rollicking, contagious laugh, and a courteous heart toward every one. At the ship concert for the benefit of wounded soldiers, he sang the songs of the trenches, and the marching songs of the Irish troops, the English and the French, in a clear baritone voice. There is no hope of disguising the fact that Larry O'Leary was too good to be true. Like the star in the melodrama, he was 99 per cent. hero.

His only rival for the centre of the stage on the brief voyage was Isabelle. At first she kept to herself, because she was ill, and wanted to be alone. But after a bit she grasped the fact that her aloofness was a sensation, and she was not too ill to enjoy that. Her perambulations about the deck were watched with undiminished interest. Everybody knew everybody else. There were dances, and games and knitting contests, but to all invitations Isabelle replied in the negative.

"Why don't you talk to some of these people, Isabelle? They seem very pleasant," Miss Watts said.

"Oh," sighed the girl, "they bore me."

Captain O'Leary had made several attempts to get an opening to speak to her in the afternoon, but she had successfully evaded them. Mrs. Darlington in search of the bonny Captain spoke to her.

"Your handsome neighbour isn't on deck?"

"Isn't he?" said Isabelle. "I hadn't noticed."

Mrs. Darlington stared, laughed, retreated and the story went the rounds. It amused O'Leary, and it also piqued him. He was used to being noticed by ladies in his vicinity. He made up his mind that he would make that girl look at him. He intended to lay siege to Miss Watts, but he came upon Isabelle unattended, in deep contemplation of the sea, and he promptly sat down beside her.

"I beg pardon, Miss Bryce, but are you Irish?" he said deliberately.

She turned big, enquiring eyes upon him.

"No. Why?"

"I thought nobody could be as sad as you look except an Irishman."

"I'm not Irish," she said, and returned her gaze to the sea.

"I am," he exclaimed.

No answer.

"We're very sensitive to—to rebuffs."

"I suppose so. You were shot in a rebuff, weren't you?" she said, politely.

His laugh rang out at that.

"Yes, but we're not so sensitive to a rebuff from guns as we are to a rebuff from ladies."

"No?"

"Have ye taken an unconquerable dislike to me, Miss Bryce?" he begged.

"I think you're very—pleasant," admitted Isabelle.

"Couldn't ye take a lesson from me?"

"You think I'm unpleasant?"

"I think your heart is as hard as the rocks in Flodden Field," he exclaimed.

"Being pleasant hasn't anything to do with your heart," was her calm reply.

"Hasn't it? Ye think I can be as pleasant as I am, and still have a hard, black heart?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"So you don't like me?" he persisted.

"Yes, rather. But I'm a little tired of heroes just now," was her reply.

"I'm afraid I don't qualify," he said curtly, "but as a possible nuisance I'll take mesilf off."

He rose. He stopped behind her chair and leaned over her to say:

"That rebuff, ye spoke of, in France. After all, it was an amateur affair, as rebuffs go."

With which he marched off down the deck, his head very high in the air. Miss Watts sat down beside Isabelle with a quick glance at her.

"Weren't you talking to Captain O'Leary?"

"He talked to me."

"Isn't he charming? All the women are so excited about him."

"That's what's the matter with him."

"Is he conceited?"

"Fearfully!" quoth Isabelle.

She went over that interview dozens of times. Of course he would never look at her again. She remembered how Mrs. Darlington purred over him—how Madam Van Dyke patted him. That was the way to make him like you, but she had scratched and spit at him, like an angry kitten. She couldn't imagine why she had acted like that. She admired him immensely. He was more attractive than Jerry Paxton or Sidney Cartel or any man she had ever loved, and yet—she had deliberately made him hate her. Well, anyhow, she liked the idea of her heart being as hard as the rocks in Flodden Field. It had an important sound. He could never say that to the gushing Mrs. Darlington, or any of the other women who ran around after him.

So she closed the chapter of their acquaintance on the boat, but she worked out a scene or two at Bermuda, including an aeroplane flight in which he and she were lost in the clouds. On the whole she preferred the things she made up to the things that happened.

As they neared the Islands the weather grew warmer. White clothes appeared on deck. Captain O'Leary appeared in an undress uniform that caused a flutter in feminine hearts. The night of the day of her encounter with her hero was stuffy and very hot.

Isabelle was restless and wakeful. She tossed and turned and tried to banish all thoughts of the Irishman, but it was no use. She leaned out of her upper berth to gaze down upon the sleeping features of Miss Watts.

"How wonderful to be so old that you don't care about handsome Irishmen!" mused Isabelle.

A few minutes later she decided that, unless she had some air, she would perish. She made a most careful descent from her perch, without waking her companion. She opened the door cautiously, and put her head out. It was a trifle cooler in the passageway. Her watch reported three o'clock. There would be no one awake at that hour.

She put on her slippers, and the tight little orange-and-black Chinese cloak. She left the door open, and went into the corridor. She walked up and down, up and down, trying to believe that she was cooler. It was rather spooky! Several stateroom doors stood open, and the sound of sleepers—breathing evenly, or snoring—came to her as she passed.

Finally she turned in at her own door, slipped off the Chinese coat, and laid it across the chair. She moved very quietly not to disturb Miss Watts. She put her foot on the extreme edge of the lower berth to mount, when the boat rolled and threw her off her balance. To save herself from falling, she put out her hand; it descended upon the upturned face—it should have been the face of Miss Watts, but it was not. Her hand fell upon a moustache! With one bound Isabelle was out of the door, into the passageway, and into the next open door.

"Miss Watts!" she gasped.

"Yes, what is it?"—sleepily.

"Oh, nothing. I went out to get a breath of air. I left the door open, but I wasn't just sure——"

She was climbing up into her berth during this explanation. Suddenly a hideous thought caused her to collapse on the edge of her bed—she had left her Chinese coat behind!



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The day after the loss of her Chinese coat was the last day at sea. They were to land sometime in the morning. When she woke from her troubled dreams, Isabelle's thought was that she would stay in her stateroom until it was time to disembark. She could not decide whether to tell Miss Watts the story of her mistake and ask her advice, or whether it was sufficiently disgraceful to be kept a secret.

She reviewed it for the thousandth time,—the open doors, all alike, the entrance into the wrong one, her leisurely disposal of her coat, and then her hand planted firmly in the middle of that strange face—that moustached face! Could he have seen her and recognized her in the moment she stood before him? It was dark in the room, except for a dim light from the corridor. Was there anything about the coat which could identify her? Should she give the stewardess twenty-five dollars and tell her to get it, and answer no questions? But how would she explain its being in that room? It was simple enough to her, how it got there, but you never could tell how other people would take a thing. She decided to let the coat remain, and tell no one of the incident.

But granted that there was no way for the man to identify her, why need she hide? It was a beautiful warm day and the cabin was stuffy. No, she would go forth and count the number of men aboard who wore moustaches.

He wore one!!!

It flashed into her mind in italics! Captain Larry O'Leary wore one! Suppose . . . ! She blushed at the thought, and began hurriedly to dress. Miss Watts had already gone forth for a promenade before breakfast. Arrayed in one of her white linen suits and a close boyish white hat, Isabelle fared forth to join her companion. But half way down the deck, she hesitated, for her companion was already companioned. None other than the gallant Captain O'Leary strode the deck by her side. Before Isabelle could flee, they turned suddenly and saw her. They came toward her. Two feet from where she stood, the Captain halted, bowed, said audibly:

"Thus far, and no farther, Miss Watts. Here lies the safety line." He indicated an imaginary line with an immaculate boot.

Miss Watts looked her surprise.

"You know Captain O'Leary, Isabelle? Surely I saw you talking. Miss Bryce, Captain O'Leary."

He bowed gravely.

"Miss Bryce," he said, formally.

"Captain O'Leary," she replied, looking intently at his moustache.

He passed his hand over his face slowly with inquiry in his eyes.

"I beg your pardon," mumbled Isabelle, blushing.

"I know. I remind ye of somebody. I always remind everybody of somebody," he added, with his pleasant suggestion of brogue.

Isabelle seized upon the opportunity.

"You do, rather. Isn't he like Patsy Reilly, the gardener's boy at The Beeches, Miss Watts?"

"Why no!" exploded Miss Watts. "Certainly not."

The Captain laughed.

"I told ye so. Mine is the universal physiognomy! Stuffy night, wasn't it?" he added, changing the subject abruptly.

Isabelle glanced at him quickly.

"I didn't find it so," she said. "Coming to breakfast, Miss Watts?"

"Yes. Walk round the deck with us once, as an appetizer?"

"No, thanks. I'm famished."

"Miss Bryce would rather devour an Irishman as an appetizer before breakfast. 'Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of an Irishman'."

"I'd prefer an Englishman, or a German!" retorted Isabelle, as she nodded and led the way to breakfast.

She pondered his remark about the stuffy night with a fluttering heart. Did he know? Did he suspect her? She watched men with moustaches, and tried to listen to their conversation. There were a good many English officers aboard with the regulation hirsute adornment of the upper lip. True to our custom of following English fashions, more than half the American men aboard had diminutive twisted affairs on the upper lip. There was no use trying to identify "the man" by the moustache. She listened for conversation verging upon the Far East—incidentally Chinese embroideries—but in vain.

She watched her chance when no one was about, to consult the ship register to see what men were in that corridor. She discovered five English officers were in that tier. In short they arrived, and disembarked without Isabelle finding a single clue to the gentleman who had her treasured coat.

Captain O'Leary was civil about their baggage, and getting them a vehicle to go to the hotel.

"Are ye sure that ye have everything that belongs to ye?" he inquired, his eyes on Isabelle.

What did he mean? Did he mean anything except what he said?

"Yes, thanks," replied Miss Watts. "So glad you are staying at our hotel. We'll see you later," she added, and they rode off, leaving him smiling after them, bare-headed in the sunlight.

"Most charming man I ever met!" exclaimed Miss Watts.

"Umm-m," said Isabelle.

It was like a miracle to step out on to the terrace of the hotel, after dinner that night. To have left New York on a cold, raw fall day, and in two days to find oneself in this warm, odorous night air. The band played, and white-clad figures walked, danced, sat in groups over coffee. Everywhere relaxed, happy, laughing people.

It was not the season on the island but so many English officers came to recuperate here, so many Americans, shut out of Europe, came down from New York for a week or so, that it was unusually gay.

Mrs. Darlington and Captain O'Leary were dancing when Miss Watts and Isabelle entered the large gallery at the edge of the platform. Mrs. Darlington was regal in evening dress, and the pair attracted much attention as they danced. The Captain bowed as he passed and evidently spoke to his partner about them, for she glanced back at them. She shrugged her shoulders, and he led her in their direction.

"Lovely night, isn't it? Mrs. Darlington, Miss Watts and Miss Bryce," he said.

"I tried to meet Miss Bryce on the boat, but she snubbed me," laughed Mrs. Darlington, making Isabelle feel very young and crude.

Isabelle frowned and made no denial, so Captain O'Leary remarked:

"Do you disdain the dance, Miss Bryce?"

"No."

"Would you honour me?"

Isabelle glanced at Miss Watts, who looked uncomfortable.

"Isabelle is not out yet. Her mother wishes her to be inconspicuous here," she began.

"Imagine Isabelle inconspicuous," laughed Mrs. Darlington again.

Isabelle decided that she hated her!

"But it's different out here—it's not a ball room, ye know. It's just dancin' round," said the Irishman.

"Yes, that's true. Oh, I think it would be all right," agreed Miss Watts, unable to deny him the moon, if he asked for it.

"The next then, Miss Bryce?"

"Thank you," she said.

He went away with his partner, who was decidedly bored with the conversation.

"Surly little thing," she remarked, audibly.

"She is certainly a beautiful woman," Miss Watts remarked, looking after them.

"Beautiful? Oh, yes, if you like a vamp."

"A what?"

"Vampire; you see them in movies."

"Isabelle!" protested the older woman.

They strolled about, drank in the rich tropical perfume of the night, and looked off to where the sea lay—huge, mysterious, and musical—lipping the beach. There was a moon and the stars hung low and yellow in a deep blue velvet sky.

The band swung into a waltz, and the dancers began to revolve. Isabelle's heart beat an extra tap or two. She saw Captain O'Leary's closely cropped head in the distance. He caught sight of her, and hurried toward them with that swinging, marching gait of his. He bowed and offered his arm. Isabelle took it in silence and they went to the dancing floor.

She looked like a little girl in her straight white gown, and the top of her head came well below his shoulder. They glided off without a word. The Captain was an accomplished dancer, also he danced because he loved it. In the same way it was speech to Isabelle; it expressed her, it was a natural gift. They were like one person, moved by one will. Encore followed encore. Only once was a word exchanged between them; and then, as they waited for the music to begin again, she lifted shining eyes to his, and he leaned toward her quickly:

"Ye little moonbeam!" he said, softly.

Then they went on again. Time and space were not, for Isabelle. She was a part of elemental Nature—a part of sea and sky and deep bosomed tropical night. Even as Larry O'Leary had said, she was a child of the lady moon, a beam of her silver light.

When, finally, it was over, they found Miss Watts waiting for them, a few steps away.

"Here I am," she said, in her usual voice, as if the whole world had not changed its face. "You had a nice long dance, didn't you?"

"Wonderful!" said the Irishman, in a voice that thrilled. "Now we're getting acquainted," he added, bending down to Isabelle. "I thank you, Miss Moonbeam," he whispered.

Isabelle smiled at him. She had not said one word since he led her forth. She felt a little dizzy with everything. Speech was unnecessary. He left them, then, and Miss Watts smiled at her.

"Did you enjoy it, Isabelle?" she asked pleasantly.

"No!" flashed the girl, unexpectedly. "I am going to bed."

"That's sensible. We will enjoy our sleep to-night in a real bed."

But Isabelle was not thinking of sleep!



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The next morning floated in upon Isabelle's senses, warm and fragrant. She felt that this was to be one of the most important days of her life. She loved and she was loved at last! It never entered her head that there could be any doubt of Captain O'Leary's feelings for her. He had called her, tenderly, "little moonbeam," and in one long rapturous dance it had come to them that the meaning of life was love.

She dressed in a daze of happiness, in the knowledge that presently she was to see him again. How would they meet? Where? What would the odious Darlington woman say when she knew that "the surly little thing" had captured her captain?

She took great pains with her toilet, stared at herself long in the glass. She wished she were beautiful, like Mrs. Darlington, or Max. He deserved the most radiant creature in the world! How could he care for a plain mite like herself? Did he?

In a sudden collapse into deep depression she sought Miss Watts and hurried her downstairs. No signs of him in the breakfast room. Later she led Miss Watts up and down every veranda, but a complete survey of the grounds brought no results.

"We ought not to exercise so violently right after breakfast, Isabelle. Let us sit down in the shade for a little."

Isabelle agreed; it did not matter to her what they did just now, and these seats gave a view of every one who came out of the hotel.

"What shall we do to-day?" inquired Miss Watts.

"Oh—I don't know"—indifferently.

Some people were coming out now. A tall woman, a girl, and a boy. The girl stared at Isabelle and then advanced.

"Aren't you Isabelle Bryce?" she asked.

"Why, Agnes Pollock!" exclaimed Isabelle.

Introductions and explanations followed. The girls had known each other at Hill Top School. Agnes was convalescing from an appendicitis operation. She was with her mother and her brother, who greeted Isabelle cordially.

"Heard a lot about you!" said Percy Pollock, who was a beautiful blond person, slightly older than the girls. "You were the terror at Hill Top, weren't you?"

"I didn't have much chance. I was only there one year," laughed Isabelle.

"I hope you'll wake up this dull isle," said he.

"Dull?" cried Isabelle, blushing furiously at her tone.

They all sat down together, in the aimless way of holiday makers, but Isabelle's eyes were ever on the door. Where was the man? Did he lie abed all morning? And such a morning!

"Isabelle, let's go for a walk down the beach. I've such heaps to tell you about Hill Top."

"Good idea," said Percy, promptly.

"Not you. Just Isabelle and me. We want to talk."

"I—think I won't this morning. I—I'd rather not," began Isabelle.

Then she stopped short. He, the Son of the Morning, was coming forth. She scarcely noticed that Mrs. Darlington was with him. Her face was suddenly so radiant that the others turned to look. He saw them. Now he would come to her—show them how it was between them!

But he did no such thing. He bowed, a trifle absently, and passed within a few feet of them—near enough for them to hear him say:

"Paula, ever young and ever fair!"

They also saw the ravishing look she threw him.

"What a handsome man!" exclaimed Agnes.

"Lady-killer, I bet you," jeered Percy.

"Come on, Agnes, let's go for that walk on the beach," cried Isabelle.

She started off almost before any one understood her purpose.

"Hi there! are you trailing me behind?" called Percy.

"No," said Isabelle, shortly.

Agnes hurried after her, and when they had tramped the beach for a while, they sat down in the sand. Agnes remembered that Isabelle was "queer," but there was something passionate about the way she threw herself into their reminiscences, that struck her as unnecessary. They spoke of Mrs. Benjamin, with tears on Agnes's part. She told of Mr. Benjamin's pitiful efforts to go on with the school. He had been forced to give up the struggle, and Agnes lamented the necessity of going to a new school when she returned to New York.

"Now tell me about you," she demanded. "Why are you out of school?"

"I hated the school they sent me to last year, so this year I struck and went on the stage for a while."

"Why, Isabelle Bryce!" cried her friend, thrilled to the bone.

"But I didn't like it; it made me sick. So I, too came down here to get well."

She evaded questions on the subject of her stage career, and after some desultory talk they went back to the hotel. People were strolling to the beach for the bathing hour.

"Let's find Percy and go in," said Agnes.

Isabelle, having agreed to meet them on the beach, hurried off to change. Miss Watts went down to the sea with her; she did not wait for Agnes and Percy. She struck out for the farther raft. There was one a hundred feet from shore, and one farther out, for expert swimmers. She had just passed the former when she became aware of some one in her wake, some one coming with speed. She slowed up a little.

"What do ye mean by swimmin' off alone like this?" demanded a well-known voice. She made no answer, but she did not increase her speed. He came up beside her. "This is plain childish folly, that's what it is," he blustered.

Isabelle rolled on her back and smiled faintly at the sky.

"Ye ought to be spanked, ye little devil."

"Some people are good at calling names," she remarked to the sky.

"I'm tellin' ye it's dangerous for you to start off for that far raft alone."

"Well, I'm asking you what business it is of yours?"

"Do ye want me to stand by and see ye drown yerself?"

"It's my privilege to drown myself if I like," she replied, as she struck off for the raft again. They swam to it in silence, and she pulled her slim satin body, like a shining eel, up onto the platform. He followed.

"You're a very disturbin' young person!" he said, sternly.

She lifted her eyebrows at him, with a baby stare. He looked away with a frown.

"Where is 'Paula! ever young and ever fair'?" she inquired. "Is she displaying herself on the beach?"

He grinned.

"Not she. Paula is a very clever woman—she knows her own limitations," he replied. "Hello! here comes somebody."

It proved to be Major O'Dell, the man who had looked after Larry on shipboard. He glared at them and climbed aboard the raft.

"Larry, ye fool, what do ye mean by takin' such a swim as this on yer first day?" he demanded, hotly.

"I came to rescue this young mermaid," he answered.

"It's damfoolishness—that's what it is. I beg yer pardon, Miss—Miss——"

"Bryce" from Larry.

"This man is here convalescing, and it is folly for him to over-exert himself in any such manner," he scolded her.

"I didn't invite him to come," said she. "He forced his society on me. Now that you're here to tow him in, I'll leave him to you," she added; and with that she dived off.

"Wait a minute. Major O'Dell wants to rest," cried the Captain.

"Let him. Let him rest a month," came back the answer, as the shining head turned toward the distant shore.

"I've got to go after her, O'Dell. It isn't safe," protested Larry.

"Who appointed you her nurse?"

"Damn it! man, the child might drown."

He went overboard and started after Isabelle. O'Dell, with a far-from-pretty word, followed. In some such procession they finally arrived at the beach. Isabelle stepped forth, shook her slim black self, ran up the beach and back like a colt, and joined Miss Watts, sedate as a debutante. Captain O'Leary approached them.

"Miss Watts," said he, "it is none of my affair, of course, but if you have any authority over this young woman, you will forbid her to swim alone to the farther raft."

Isabelle grinned at him, but he frowned and walked away without another word.

Isabelle spent the rest of the day near the hotel that she might be at hand if he came out, but there were no signs of him. Percy Pollock had introduced two boys, who urged the girls on all sorts of expeditions, but Isabelle was adamant. She could not bother with boys if there was any chance of another encounter.

Major O'Dell came out on the terrace, saw her, and strolled over.

"May I speak to you, Miss Bryce?"

She joined him and they walked over to a seat by a wall.

"I wish to apologize for being so short-tempered this morning," he began.

"Yes, you were," she replied.

"Captain O'Leary has been in bed since that junket you took him on this morning."

"I didn't take him," said she, "he came."

"He is in no condition to endure such a strain. I ask you not to let him do such a thing again."

"I'm not his mother," she burst out. "He is old enough to take care of himself and I do not intend to act as his trained nurse."

She looked—and sounded—so young that Major O'Dell laughed.

"All right. I'll tell him. You were on our boat, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you travel much, Miss Bryce?"

"Oh, not much. Why?"

"Have you ever been in the Far East?"

She glanced at him quickly. He was twisting the ends of his little moustache and gazing off to sea. Heavens! was this the man? She had almost forgotten the Chinese coat in the emotions which had swept her since landing.

"The Far East?" she managed to repeat with a semblance of indifference.

"Yes, the Philippines, Japan, or China."

"No, I've never been there."

"Um. You should go. Full of treasures, jewels, embroideries, brocades—all the things that women like"—he continued, looking directly at her.

"So?" queried Isabelle, obviously bored.

"I'm afraid I am keeping you from your friends. So I'm to look elsewhere for a nurse for Captain O'Leary?"

"Why don't you try Mrs. Darlington?" she inquired. Then with a nod, she went back to her playmates.

An hour or so later a group of people, Mrs. Darlington among them, took a near-by table for tea. Major O'Dell and Captain O'Leary, the latter looking very white, came out and joined them. They did not look in her direction until she heard Mrs. Darlington remark:

"Larry, just see what a collection of little boys your ugly duckling has made."

At this they all looked. Isabelle glanced at her little boys, and said something that made them shout with laughter. But it was not so loud but that the wind carried her his reply:

"She's not my ugly duckling. She's a wicked little leprechaun, born under a mushroom, on a black night, but she swims like a fish, and dances like a pixie. I tell ye she's not human at all at all!"

She heard their laughter, and her eyes smarted. What a fool he had made of her! How she despised herself. There was only one way to square it, to get back her self-respect. She would find out what a leprechaun meant, and she would bedevil the honourable Captain O'Leary, like the pixie that he named her!



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Bright-coloured days followed, like beads slipping along a thread. Isabelle did not formulate any plan of bedevilment for the Captain, but she watched for opportunities with lynx-eyed attention.

She and Agnes were very intimate, and while Isabelle was not given to confidences, she allowed her friend to see that there was something between her and the handsome O'Leary—a sort of flirtatious feud. Agnes adored him from afar, and envied the other girl her power to attract him. She did not understand just what Isabelle wanted of him, but she stood ready to help her get it.

Early in their friendship Agnes had fired Isabelle with a new zeal. She told her about the wonderful patriotic work to be done by writing letters to soldiers, who had no relatives, and to keep them cheered up. She, Agnes, had become marraine to half a dozen Frenchmen; she considered them more exciting than plain English "Tommies" or American "Sammies." Besides, it was good practice for your French. You made them presents, sent cigarettes and candy, and they sent you back the most thrilling letters.

Agnes displayed some of hers, in confidence, and at once Isabelle felt the call of duty to rescue a French soldier. She could not wait to go through with the formality of applying to the organization in charge of this work, for names of the letter-needy; instead, she borrowed two from Agnes. She chose the two who wrote the most picturesque letters and "adopted" them at once.

Together they worked out her first letters, telling the gentlemen in question of the transfer of god-mothers. After much consideration she adopted the tone of maternal concern for their comfort and welfare, with a cheerful optimism intended to be elderly.

"Jean" and "Edouard" were told of life in Bermuda; pictures (cut from society weeklies) of the island and the people there were enclosed for their entertainment. Cigarettes and candy were promised at once and the letters despatched with much excitement.

The other patriotic offering which grew out of this beginning was the preparation of gift boxes for the soldiers. Not knitted things, but things intended to amuse them. The girls searched every gift shop and delighted in the discovery of some new trinket for "their sons."

In the meantime an earnest contest for Isabelle's favour was going on between Percy and one of his friends, Jack Porter. She accepted their attentions indifferently, played with them when it was convenient, and disposed of them cruelly when it was not. She loved to dance and, as they both danced well, they were useful after dinner; unless, of course, Captain O'Leary danced with her more than once, which sometimes happened.

Major O'Dell had shown signs of appreciating her talents since her brief encounter with him on the raft and later. She decided to cultivate him, and—eventually—to ask him for her Chinese coat.

Major O'Dell asked her to take tea with him one day. Mrs. Darlington, and a Miss Devoe, who made eyes at O'Leary, were also his guests. The Captain, and the fat little man, named Monty Haven, who had been on the ship, were there.

"I've captured a charming recruit," said the host as he presented Isabelle.

"I didn't know that you could be captured, Miss Bryce," said Mrs. Darlington, insolently.

"It takes the military!" retorted Isabelle.

"That's right. Plain civilians haven't a chance with you girls any more, have we?" Haven asked Isabelle.

"Not much," she agreed.

"What could a nice fellow like me do to get into the running, Miss Bryce?"

"Why don't you train down?" she answered, literally.

"Oh, Miss Bryce! you're stepping on Haven's toes," laughed Captain O'Leary.

"Am I?" she said, peering under the table.

"The dear, ingenuous little thing," said Mrs. Darlington, tartly.

She turned and deliberately engaged the men next her in an aside. She had no intention of letting this impertinent miss occupy the entire attention during tea.

Captain O'Leary turned to the protection of Isabelle.

"Haven't seen much of you lately," he began.

"No?"

"I see you are always followed by a retinue of boys. No chance for an old fellow like me."

"The young ones are more diverting."

"Who is the blond Adonis, me chief rival?"

"You refer to Percy?"

"Percy? Am I to be cut out by a youth named Percy?" he cried.

"You are—if you don't look out."

"Never! What can I do to reinstate meself?"

"You can't expect me to think up ways."

"What does Percy do?"

"Ask him."

"Give me two dances to-night, and take a walk with me in the morning," he demanded.

"I make no promises. You will have to take your chances"—airily.

Miss Devoe, on O'Leary's other side, said audibly:

"Give her a spoon to play with, Larry, and pay some attention to me."

Isabelle leaned across to her.

"I'm using him now," she said.

"Do you know what Captain O'Leary calls you?" retorted Miss Devoe.

"No"—with great interest.

"A leprechaun."

"It sounds naughty," said Isabelle, turning reproachful eyes upon him; "is it?"

"Very," he admitted.

"That is just his pet name for me. What does he call you?" she inquired of Miss Devoe.

Miss Devoe ignored the rejoinder, by whispering to Larry. Isabelle turned to Major O'Dell.

"You'd better talk to me about something. I don't seem to be a popular favourite."

"Yours is the unforgivable sin."

"What?"

"Youth."

"But they are much prettier than I am, every one of them."

"I'll take your eyes and your tongue, thanks," he laughed. "Let's take a look at the sunset."

They rose.

"Where are ye going, you two?" inquired O'Leary.

"Sunsetting," replied Isabelle.

Then, turning to the ladies, she made a curtsey.

"Good afternoon," said she.

"Lord, that was wonderful!" exclaimed the Major.

"What?"—innocently.

"You know what, ye clever little rascal."

* * * * *

Captain O'Leary got only one of his dances that night, but he announced his intention of taking her to walk on the beach at ten the following morning. When, at that hour, he presented himself to Miss Watts, she looked distressed—thought Isabelle must have misunderstood, for she had gone off to walk with Percy Pollock.

The Captain thanked her and set off in pursuit. He was annoyed at himself for being annoyed with this chit of a girl. But she should not play tricks with him! In due course of time he spied them ahead of him. He increased his speed and caught up.

"Good morning," he said, briefly.

"Oh, good morning, Captain O'Leary," said she.

"Miss Watts gave me your message."

"Message?"

"That you would meet me here. By the way, Pollock, your mother asked me to say that something important came for ye in the morning mails. She wants ye at once."

With a firm and masterly hand he detached Percy and sent him off. Then he turned to Isabelle.

"Ye can play tricks on Percy and your other youngsters, but not on me."

"I haven't the slightest interest in playing tricks on you," she answered. She sat down, opened a parasol, and planted it in the sand. He threw himself down beside her.

"You are a very interesting little girl," he remarked, "but you have a great deal to learn."

"Teach me!" she exclaimed, with such ingenuous enthusiasm that he was at a loss to know whether she was making fun of him or not.

"I will. First, you mustn't be so pricklish."

"It's the only way to protect yourself."

"Against what?"

"People."

"Ye start on the basis that people are your enemies?"

"I think they are."

"Look here, tell me about yourself. What shall I call you? Do I have to say 'Miss Bryce'?"

"My name is Isabelle."

"Doesn't suit ye. Have ye no pet name?"

"Somebody I liked once called me 'the cricket'."

"That's it—Cricket—may I call ye that?"

"Yes."

"Now, Cricket, tell me all about yourself."

She looked at him intently for a moment. He lay stretched out on the sand, his elbow crooked to support his head. He looked frankly back at her.

"Go on, as friend to friend," he urged.

And she did. She did not touch it up a bit. She made him see her life, her people, the Benjamins, her experience at Miss Vantine's—all—through the eyes of her youth, her wistful youth. She told him about Martin Christiansen; she even confessed the fearful catastrophe with Cartel; and she did not mind when he rolled on his back and sent gusts of laughter up to the clouds.

"O ye delicious, crickety Cricket!" he groaned. "Go on."

"There isn't any 'on'. That's up to now. Tell me about you."

And he did. He told her about his people, his young life near Dublin. How he went to an English University, how he enlisted in the war. He told her about his life in the trenches, about his wounds, about his decoration. He talked as he had talked to no one else about the whole experience of war.

She sat tense and still, concentrated on his every word. When he had finished, they sat in silence for several seconds.

"And that's up to now, for me."

"You've got to go back?—there?"

"When I'm well again."

Her tell-tale face registered her distress. He laid his hand over her little brown one.

"Not for a while. I shall often think of this place and this day," he said, gazing off over the sea. "Ye're a comfortable cricket, when ye want to be. I'd like to capture ye, to sing on my hearth!"



She sprang up.

"Well, I'm not ready to settle yet, so your hearth must go bare."

"Like Mother Hubbard's cupboard! Where are ye hoppin' off to?"

"Hotel, for lunch."

"Is it time?"

She nodded. He fell in step beside her.

"Ye haven't missed Percy?"

"I wonder what Percy's mother wanted with him," she evaded.

"So does Percy's mother," he retorted.

She looked up at him.

"You didn't——?"

"I did, Cricket; I jumped a longer jump than you did," he boasted.

"Why, you old grasshopper!" she exploded.



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Miss Watts found Isabelle more reasonable, more amenable than ever before in their association, and as she had made some pleasant acquaintances, she was thoroughly enjoying herself. She hoped their stay would be long. In her reports to the Bryces she conscientiously mentioned Isabelle's good behaviour and her improvement in health.

She watched the career of her charge with interest and some concern. She saw with surprise that the girl had hit upon the only possible way of intriguing the interest of a spoiled darling like Captain O'Leary. She flitted like a will-o'-the-wisp before him.

Larry thought that their talk on the beach had established a new relation, but he soon found that he could not rely on it. When she was particularly annoying he reminded her how sweet she had been that day, but all she could recall of it was that he had cut Percy out! If he ignored her completely, suddenly she was like a soft little rabbit in his hands, all heart-beat. She puzzled and annoyed him.

These were busy days for Isabelle. Percy and Jack were always under foot. They furnished comic relief when her military intrigue threatened to become serious. Then her "god-son," Jean Jacques Petard, who was wounded and in a hospital, replied to her maternal solicitude with prolonged and passionate devotion. Isabelle shared the treasure with Agnes, who protested that none of her godsons wrote to her like that; and she asked to have Jean back. Isabelle stoutly refused. A gift was a gift. Agnes had given her Jean and she intended to keep him.

"But you took my two best ones."

"You gave me my choice, didn't you?"

"Yes, and I was a silly to do it. I might have known you'd take the best ones"—hotly.

"But you had letters from him. You say yourself he never wrote to you like that. It's me he's writing to, not you."

"Well, of all the conceited things!" cried Agnes.

"I'm glad I am. I'll give you Edouard back, if you're going to make such a row."

"I don't want him."

"All right, that settles it. It wouldn't be fair to Jean to give him back to you."

"Fair! Lots you care about fair."

"Do you think it's fair to pass a soldier of France—one of our allies—back and forth between mothers, like a bean-bag?"

"I have nothing more to say. I have found you out, Isabelle Bryce. I give to you generously, and you prove a false friend."

Agnes walked away with her face flushed and her head high. It was too bad to be treated like this when you were doing your patriotic duty. She brooded on the matter for several days, avoiding her false friend, and then an idea of revenge took possession of her.

Chance played into her hands at the moment, by putting into her lap a copy of a fashionable magazine. It had two pages of pictures of the idlers at Bermuda. An enlarged snapshot of Isabelle coming out of the sea, was featured with a brief biographic sketch of her meteoric career as actress, of her family, and her wealth. Agnes cut this out, enclosing it with an anonymous letter to Petard. She told of the miserable trick played upon him. Isabelle was only seventeen and a half, and in no way fit to be a god-mother to him. She was infatuated with him, and pretended to be old, so she would have an excuse to write him.

This malicious mischief mailed and headed for France, Agnes felt better, and awaited results. She would make up with Isabelle in time to hear what Jean Jacques Petard would say now. She hoped he would denounce her as a traitor!

So far as Isabelle was concerned, Agnes and her injured feelings were of no moment. It was a trifle awkward when Percy and Jack arranged a foursome, but by strict formality of intercourse, they managed the situation. The boys were soon aware of it, and found much amusement in urging the combatants to battle. Percy tried to pump Agnes as to the cause of the rupture, but nothing could unseal her lips on the secret. She could imagine what those boys would do if they knew the truth. So poor Agnes suffered in silence, nursed her secret triumph, and staged the moment of Isabelle's downfall.

Major O'Dell, whom by this time Isabelle counted a friend, approached one day as she dallied with her two admirers.

"I impersonate Mercury, bearing an invitation," he said.

"I'll do anything with you, Major O'Dell, but I don't want to play with your crowd."

"Why not?"

"I don't like the women. They pick on me."

"Larry and I will protect you."

"Humph!"

"I have the permission of the amiable Miss Watts. It is all arranged."

"What is it?"

"Monty Haven's yacht is at anchor and he wants you to come for a sail and lunch aboard."

"Sorry. I'm engaged to-day with Percy."

"May I add that a certain gentleman, not at the moment in your good graces, entreats you to come?"

"Sorry. You wouldn't let me off, would you, Percy?"

"No"—firmly.

"Alas! This is final?" asked the Major.

"Convey my thanks to Mr. Haven, please, dear Major O'Dell, and mention——"

"'Percy'," he interrupted with a smile, and left.

"What did you put it on me for?" complained Percy.

"Come down on the beach and watch them go," ordered Isabelle, leading the way.

They sat them down and watched preparations on the yacht. A motor boat came ashore and carried off the guests.

"Now aren't you sorry?" said Percy.

"Nope."

The motor boat presently put off again—in their direction. It came as near shore as it dared, and stopped. Captain O'Leary stepped overboard into the shallow water, and advanced upon the puzzled three. He bowed, leaned over, picked up Miss Isabelle Bryce in his arms, and marched into the sea and toward the boat.

"Hi there! what are you doing?" cried Percy.

"Come and get me, you big idiots!" called Isabelle over O'Leary's shoulder.

The two boys plunged in. O'Leary laughed and ran. He set her in the boat, jumped in himself, and they were off, leaving the two swains hip deep and helpless.

Isabelle turned smouldering eyes on the Captain.

"Cricket, my dear," said he, "I feel that there is an excess of Percy!"

She blazed in silent fury.

"Cricket, don't be cross. It was only a joke to tease your beaux. They were funny, standin' there in their neat white flannels, weren't they now?"

No answer.

They were received with a shout of delight from the boat. Haven met them at the rail and greeted Isabelle.

"Larry, you win!" he shouted, and they all shook hands with the Captain and beat him on the back.

"Win?" inquired Isabelle.

"Major O'Dell bet Larry that he couldn't get you aboard and Larry took him."

"Major O'Dell, that wasn't fair," cried Isabelle.

They all stared at him, and she added with a chuckle:

"It happened just as we planned it, didn't it?"

"Did you put something up on me, O'Dell?" cried Larry. "Ye cheat—ye old pirate!"

He fell upon him, and a rough-and-tumble inaugurated the party. When O'Dell found a chance he joined Isabelle.

"You little witch!" he said. "Ye certainly made a booby of ole Larry. But don't you be coming between me and my best friend."

"I won't if he keeps out of my way," she blazed, "but I'm mad!"

"'Twas only a joke. We wanted ye to come. For my sake, be nice and funny, an' like yourself."

"All right," she answered amiably. "But you owe me something, if I am."

"Name it, and it's yours."

"It's mine already. I want my Chinese coat back."

He stared at her for a full second.

"It is yours, then?"

"Yes."

"I told him it was——"

"Told him?"

"It wasn't my room ye left it in."

"No? How did you know, then?"—in alarm.

"The man who found it asked every woman aboard and never thought of you, because—well—you're such a baby," he added, staring.

"What's that got to do with it? I went out in the corridor to get some air, and I went in the wrong door, by mistake. I took off my coat, and started to climb up to my berth, when the boat joggled, and I put my hand on a moustache! I was so scared that I ran off without my coat."

The Major began to laugh.

"What's the joke?" inquired Larry, joining them.

"It's a secret between Major O'Dell and me. On your sacred honour, Major, you won't tell," said Isabelle.

"On my sacred honour."

"Go away, O'Dell, and let me make my peace with the Cricket."

"Major O'Dell, you will stay, if you please."

True to her promise to O'Dell, she played up and kept them all amused, but she never so much as looked at Larry. Thoroughly annoyed, he devoted himself conspicuously to Mrs. Darlington and Miss Devoe. But he might have been in China for all the impression his flirtation made on Isabelle. They landed late in the afternoon, with the Bryce-O'Leary feud still on.

Isabelle told the story of her capture to Miss Watts, but with that lady's perverted English sense of humour, she thought O'Leary's prank was funny. She knew that she ought to disapprove of it, but she only laughed.

Isabelle went off to read a letter which she found awaiting her, from her god-son Jean. It proved rather a surprise. She read it twice. It was undeniably a love-letter. In it he told her—that he adored her in a great many ways and a great many times. He had known all along that she was not old, and now that he saw how young she was, how lovely . . . it went on and on. He wished to address her father at once, and ask her hand in marriage. He enclosed a photograph of himself; he was quite good looking. It was a thrilling letter, but it took her breath away. How could he know she was young and lovely?

She answered it instantly, tearing up many sheets of paper in the process. She assured him that he was mistaken, that she was too old to think of marriage, even if she loved him—which she could not say she did, because she didn't know him. Her father was long since dead, so he could not address him, etc., etc. In short, unless he could think of her as his devoted marraine they must end the correspondence, there and then.

She despatched it at once, with a resolve to handle "her son Jean" with more restraint in the future. Needless to say she did not mention the letter to Agnes, whose overtures to peace she had finally accepted.

* * * * *

Life went on its interesting way. Captain O'Leary made his peace with her, too, and lost it again. Major O'Dell acted as intermediary in their battles. He was delightful, in this capacity, but he would not tell any more about the coat. He said he would see that it was returned to her, but that it might take some time.

The next letter from Jean Jacques Petard was a flaming torch of passion. She might as well drop her disguise. He knew her for her true self. He loved her madly; he read her love, in the cold lines she forced her pen to write. One word of love from her and he would come. He was on convalescent leave and at her service.

She was really alarmed now. Nothing but the impossibility of getting a cable sent kept her from that extravagance. She wrote him at length. It was all a mistake. She admitted that she was young. She told him that she did not love him, and that—deeply grateful though she was for his beautiful devotion—she felt that this must be her last communication to him. She added, in the hope of putting an end to his letters, that she was about to leave Bermuda. With a sigh of relief she posted this dismissal, and at that moment she ceased to be marraine to Jean and Edouard. It was too bad that duty should carry so amiss!

Two weeks later, with no explanation or excuse, a cable came from Wally to Miss Watts:

"Come home by next boat."

It was a blow to them both, they were having such a good time. But it was "theirs not to question why"—so they packed hastily, to catch the steamer leaving on the morrow.

It happened that hostilities were on at the moment, between Isabelle and the Captain. She did not want to leave him without a farewell, nor did she want to make overtures toward peace. He was off on Haven's yacht when the news of the approaching sudden departure spread about. It happened that on his return no one spoke to him about it. Isabelle saw him after dinner on the terrace. He lit a cigarette and strolled off alone toward the gardens. She followed him. He wandered into a sort of kiosk, where the view was fine, and she darted in after him, and straight into his arms.

"Good-bye," she said, "good-bye. I hope it isn't for ever."

He held her to him in complete surprise, and laid his cheek upon her hair.

"Cricket," he said softly, "little old crickety-Cricket! Good-bye for what?"

She started back and looked up at him.

"You! You!" she cried. "Oh! But I thought you were——"

"Not Percy!" he exploded.

But she ran away fast, through the garden, and he heard her laughter.

This was the memory that Isabelle carried with her on the way home. It was sweet and warm. She was content with it for a while.

* * * * *

Wally met them at the pier. It was plain that he was excited. After hasty greetings, he turned to his daughter.

"Who in thunder is this Frenchman you're engaged to?"

"What?" she demanded, startled.

"Jean Jacques Petard visits me; Jean Jacques Petard patrols our house; Jean Jacques Petard shadows your mother——"

"But I—but he isn't——"

"None of your tricks!" ordered Wally. "What we want to know is who is this Jean Jacques Petard, who demands your hand in marriage?"



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

On the way home from the pier Isabelle demanded explanations about the Frenchman, but Wally refused to talk.

"Your mother has something to say on the subject. Wait until we get home."

She and Miss Watts were summoned before the bar of judgment as soon as they reached the house. Max met them in the library and after a perfunctory greeting opened fire.

"Miss Watts, what does this mean?"

"I am sorry, Mrs. Bryce, but I must ask you to be more explicit."

"Explicit? I send my daughter away in your charge and you bring her back engaged to some unknown poilu. Then you ask me to be explicit!"

"But I know nothing of this affair, Mrs. Bryce. It is as much a surprise to me as it is to you."

Mrs. Bryce turned an exasperated look to the girl.

"It's true," said Isabelle, "she doesn't know anything about it."

"But how could you get engaged to him without her knowing it? She could see him around, couldn't she?"

"But he wasn't around. We met no Frenchman in Bermuda," protested Miss Watts, utterly at sea.

"Will you kindly explain this mystery?" inquired Mrs. Bryce, hotly.

"Yes, if you'll keep your temper and let me. In the first place, I'm not engaged to him."

"He says you are practically engaged and that you love him," contributed Wally.

"But I've never seen him."

"What?"—in chorus from both parents.

"It's true."

"You'd better have a look at him," said Wally, going, to the window.

Isabelle followed him hastily. A man in French uniform gazed up at the windows.

"Is that Jean Jacques?" inquired Isabelle with interest. "He isn't bad looking, is he?"

"He patrols the block day and night. But get ahead with the plot. What hold has he got on you?"

"None," said she, promptly. "I merely adopted him as my son."

"Are you crazy?" inquired her mother.

Even Miss Watts looked alarmed.

"No, I'm a patriot. Down at Bermuda I met a girl I knew at school, Agnes Pollock. She told me about being patriotic, and how she wrote cheerful letters to soldiers in the trenches. So I borrowed two from her, Jean and Edouard. I wrote them nice motherly letters, about keeping their feet dry——"

Wally burst into laughter, but Mrs. Bryce hushed him with a violent gesture.

"They called me 'Ma chere marraine,' and wrote long letters back. It was splendid practice for my French," she added.

"But this man wouldn't be wanting to marry his 'chere marraine'," challenged Mrs. Bryce.

"No. He wrote rather warm letters from the first, but Agnes and I decided that he had a warm, appreciative nature."

"Little fools! Then what?"

"I wrote a very cooling letter, but it didn't work. He was worse than ever; he said he knew I was beautiful and young; that he loved me madly—wanted to ask Wally for my hand in marriage, and a lot of stuff like that."

"And you accepted him?—this man you've never seen?"

"Of course I didn't accept him. I told him that I was old; that I didn't love him; that Wally was dead, so he couldn't address him; and that that was my last letter."

Again Wally laughed.

"But Isabelle, why didn't you tell me something of all this?" begged Miss Watts.

"Why should I boast of doing my bit?"

"Rubbish!" exploded her mother. "You've got yourself into a nice scrape. How do we know what she said in these letters?" she asked Wally.

"But I've told you what I said."

"You didn't keep copies of them, did you?" asked Wally.

"No, of course not."

"Have you got his letters?" from her mother.

"Yes, in my trunk."

"There's nothing to be done until we see them," said Mrs. Bryce, impatiently.

"They are private letters, and I must say . . ." began Isabelle, hotly.

"You be quiet," ordered her mother, angrily. "I can't see that you were much use, Miss Watts."

"Mrs. Bryce, I had no idea that this was going on. I knew she wrote letters, but I supposed they were to you or to school friends. I did not feel it necessary to censor her mail."

"You ought to know her well enough by now to know that when she seems to be behaving she is doing her worst."

Mrs. Bryce summoned a maid and ordered Isabelle's trunk to be reported the moment it arrived. While they waited Mrs. Bryce interrogated Miss Watts as to whom Isabelle had met in Bermuda. Isabelle was at the window, gazing from behind the curtain at her admirer, but she noticed that Captain O'Leary's name was merely mentioned in a list of the English officers they had met.

"Look here, Isabelle, how about Edouard?" whispered Wally, at her elbow. "Does he think he is engaged to you, too?"

She felt the laugh behind his words, so she answered gravely:

"No, Wally, Edouard was a dutiful son."

He chuckled. Max turned at the sound.

"Don't encourage her, Wally."

"I can't. It's too late."

"Don't worry. I disinherited them both," Isabelle assured him.

"Did she have any violent love affairs?" inquired Mrs. Bryce.

"There were two very devoted young men, Percy Pollock and Jack Porter. But I thought Isabelle handled them very well," replied Miss Watts.

"Are you engaged to them?" whispered Wally again.

"Wally, I'm not engaged to anybody," answered his child.

The maid announced the trunks and Isabelle went in search of her treasures. When she returned she carried in each hand a bundle of letters tied with ribbons.

"Son Jean's," she said, offering one bundle to Max. "We need not go over Son Edouard's."

Mrs. Bryce began to read. As she finished a page, she handed it to Wally, and he in turn passed it to Miss Watts. The two women read solemnly, but Wally laughed occasionally. Isabelle sat by, now and then taking a peek at the author of this new trouble.

"Well!" remarked Mrs. Bryce when the last tender words had been read.

"Going some, Isabelle!" added Wally.

"We'll have him in," said Max.

"Oh, no; now, I wouldn't do that."

"I would. Matthews will go across the street and tell him to come."

"For Heaven's sake, Max, what are you going to do?"

"Get her letters back, of course."

"Isabelle, you and Miss Watts go somewhere else and wait," Wally urged, as his wife gave the butler instructions.

"No. I shall stay here."

"You'll do no such thing. You've done your part, now you leave the rest of it to us," ordered her mother.

"It is my hand he is asking for; those are my letters, and this is my affair. I shall stay right here and see it through," Isabelle asserted with firm determination.

Max saw that, except by force, there was no way to eject her, and it was too late for that, as Matthews was approaching with the Frenchman.

The hero entered with a ceremonious bow. He was good-looking in a dare-devil way, with a somewhat dissipated face. His eyes went from one to another until they came to Isabelle.

"Ah! mon adoree, c'est toi!" he cried, and before any one could stop him, he seized her hands and covered them with kisses.

"None of that!" shouted Wally, jerking Isabelle away.

Max took command. She spoke, curtly, in French.

"Monsieur Petard, we have read your letters to our daughter, and heard her story of her correspondence with you. She is, as you see, a mere child. I appeal to you as a soldier and a gentleman, to return her letters to us, and to close this painful incident."

He turned to the girl.

"I ask you one question. Do you love me?"

"Why, no," she said, simply, "I told you I didn't."

"I did not believe. Your friend, the Mademoiselle Pollock, she say you are infatuate wiz me; she send ze picture; she tell me you are crazy about me."

"Agnes Pollock? Why, the dirty little liar!" cried Isabelle.

"My daughter is a schoolgirl, she knows nothing about love. Will you or will you not, give us those letters?"

He considered a second.

"I have come all ze way to zese countree, because of ze lettaires of your schoolgirl!"

"That does not interest us"—firmly.

"No-o? It ees an expenseef voyage."

Max looked at Wally.

"Now, we're getting to the point," she said. "How much do you want for those letters?"

"Oh, Madame, you——"

"Hurry up! What is your price?"

"Ver' good. I say five sousand dollaires."

"Nonsense! I'll give you $1,000."

"But I cannot accept zese."

"That or nothing."

"I have already an offaire of five sousand dollaires."

"From whom?"

"Ze editor of what you call Chit-Chat."

"So, you threaten us, do you?"

"I would not say zat. I geef you a chance Madame, to regain ze indiscretions of ze schoolgirl daughter. But five sousand dollaires is five sousand dollaires."

"What is your address?"

He gave it.

"Our lawyer will call on you at ten in the morning at this hotel, with our offer. Good morning."

He bowed.

"Five sousand dollaires is my price, Madame."

Wally started to speak, but she stopped him.

"You will hear from us to-morrow," she said.

He bowed again, most formally.

"Ma petite marraine, vous etes tres charmante," he sighed as he left.

"Why didn't you give him what he asked? We don't want the thing hashed up in Chit-Chat," objected Wally.

"You are going right now to the editor of Chit-Chat and make a bargain with him. Get your lawyer, Clifford, on the 'phone and have him meet us there."

"You needn't come, Max. It may be nasty."

"I'll come," said she.

Mrs. Bryce went hastily out of the room, without a look at Isabelle. Miss Watts followed her.

"Well, Isabelle?"

"Wally; I'm sorry!" she said, earnestly.

He looked at her speculatively.

"It may cost a pretty penny to get rid of him. Are you sure Edouard knows that he is disinherited?"

"I hope so," she said, solemnly. "Wally, it does discourage you with being patriotic, or having children or anything!"

"Wally, are you coming?" called Mrs. Bryce, sharply.

He hurried away, trying his best to cover a smile with a befitting dignity.



CHAPTER THIRTY

The negotiations between Monsieur Petard, the editor of Chit-Chat, and the Bryces were neither so brief nor so simple as Mrs. Bryce had supposed that they would be. She did not have to be told that, after the notoriety of the Cartel incident, the name of Isabelle Bryce was one for editors to conjure with. This wily editor, who made his living by scandal, obligingly outlined the advertising campaign he would follow, to lead up to the publication of the letters.

Anxious as Mrs. Bryce was to have the scandal suppressed, she was unwilling that Wally should pay the price which these rascals demanded. So lengthy and irritating meetings followed—discussion and bargaining. Wally insisted upon paying anything they asked, and putting a period to the affair. But Mrs. Bryce was upheld by Clifford, in the idea that they would beat them down to a much lower figure, if they persisted.

During this period Max was so furious at both Isabelle and Miss Watts that it seemed wise for them to keep out of her way. They were like two conspirators slipping in and out of the house. But the most annoying detail was the espionage of Jean Jacques Petard. They soon discovered that he lay in wait for them, near the house, and on all occasions save when he was closeted with Bryce pere et mere, he was at the heels of Bryce fille.

He made Miss Watts so nervous that she could hardly be induced to go out. Isabelle was all for having a talk with the man, and speaking her mind, but Miss Watts prevented this. She repeatedly said that she must tell Mr. Bryce of his behaviour, but Isabelle begged her not to do that as it would only result in their being ordered to stay indoors. After all, he did not speak to them, his presence could not hurt them. Let him follow!

These were the most difficult days Isabelle had ever known. Usually, before, she had rescued herself with a high hand, from her escapades. But this thing had descended upon her head, like an avalanche, and for once, she saw no way of extricating herself.

Then, too, she was so homesick for Bermuda that she could scarcely bear the thought of it. The long, happy days, with Percy and Jack at heel, and Captain Larry O'Leary somewhere on the horizon, they haunted her. It was ten whole days since they left them, and not a word from any of them. To come from that paradise into this prison—from that atmosphere of devotion to this one of reproach—from that freedom—to this—tagged by the horrid little Frenchman!

The strain was telling upon poor Miss Watts, too. She was thinner than ever, and she looked haunted. Isabelle begged her to leave her, but she always replied: "My dear, we will face this together."

But in her innermost heart Miss Watts lamented that Isabelle had not tried harder to interest Captain O'Leary. He was the right man for her, she knew it; and they certainly did need a man on their side. Wally might be there in spirit, but Mrs. Bryce did not allow him to express it.

The twelfth day since their return was a dark one for everybody. Max and Wally had to meet the enemy at eleven, in the lawyer's office. The air was electric with Mrs. Bryce's irritability. She left the two culprits in a state of collapse.

"One more performance like that, and I shall marry Jean Jacques Petard, and disappear," announced Isabelle, violently, as the door closed on them.

"Isabelle, don't talk like that," begged Miss Watts.

"Let's go back to Bermuda; I hate it here!" said the girl, going to the window. "We've got to get out of this hateful house. The spy will be busy this morning, so we'd better make the best of it."

A motor drew up to the curb and a man got out, looking up at the numbers.

"O my Lord!" cried Isabelle, as if it were a prayer. She ran out of the room and down the hall, with Miss Watts, startled into action, hurrying after her. Before the bell sounded, Isabelle had the door open. Captain O'Leary looked, first surprised and then delighted.

"Cricket!" said he.

"Larry—Larry!" she cried.

He took both her hands and beamed on her—beamed. Then suddenly he was aware of Miss Watts, and he surprised everybody, including himself, by saluting that lady's cheek.

"Captain O'Leary!" she exclaimed, and kissed him back.

They all went into the living room, talking in chorus—asking questions, answering them—incoherent and excited.

"Larry, when did you come?"

"Just landed. Where are your parents?"

"They're out. Oh, I'm in an awful lot of trouble with them."

"Why didn't ye tell me ye were leavin' down there?"

"I thought you knew. We left on a cable from Wally to hurry home. I told everybody."

"I didn't know. What's this trouble ye speak of?"

"I oughtn't to begin the moment you come."

"Yes, ye ought. Let's hear."

Miss Watts gave a deep sigh of relief. Isabelle began the story of her patriotism. Here and there Larry asked a question, and when the climax was reached, he leaned back and roared. Isabelle's eyes suddenly misted with tears.

"Oh, but Larry, it isn't funny, it's awful! He's trying to make Wally pay a lot of money for my letters, and if Wally doesn't pay up, he is going to sell them to a nasty society sheet called Chit-Chat."

His face was grave enough to suit her now.

"Where is the little whelp?"

"He's usually across the street looking at the house, or following me around," she began.

"Ye mean to say he follows ye?"

"You may think I'm to blame, Captain O'Leary, for not telling Mr. Bryce of this, but Isabelle thought it would mean that her parents would keep her indoors. She is dreadfully in disgrace with her parents," Miss Watts said.

"Poor little crickety-Cricket," he murmured.

"You don't blame me, do you, Larry? I know it was silly, but I just wanted to be a patriot, and to practise my French."

"Sure I don't blame ye, ye blessed baby," he laughed.

She choked a little; it was so good to be championed.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bryce have gone for a conference with these men this morning, and we all hope they may settle it," sighed Miss Watts.

"Where is this conference?"

"At Wally's lawyer's office," said Isabelle.

"Get your hat, Cricket; we'll go say a word or two at this conference."

She looked at him inquiringly, and went for her wraps without a word.

"Oh, Captain O'Leary, we have needed you so!" exclaimed Miss Watts.

"Woman, woman, why didn't ye cable me? As it is I took the first boat."

"I know you and Isabelle want to be alone, but I'm so in disgrace now, with Mrs. Bryce, that I dare not let her go with you, unless I go."

He frowned, then smiled.

"Of course, get your bonnet. Isabelle and I will have enough time later, to catch up on our affairs."

So all three of them got into the Captain's taxi, and hurried to the address which Isabelle gave the driver.

There was some little difficulty in Mr. Clifford's outer office, but Captain O'Leary simplified it, by lifting the office boy out of the way, bodily, opening the door and marching in, followed by the two women.

Startled glances were lifted to this tall officer, stranger to them all, who strode in, unannounced. The lawyer rose angrily.

"How did you get in?" he demanded.

"Walked. Present me to the Bryces, Miss Watts," he replied.

Miss Watts in a trembling voice said:

"Mrs. Bryce, this is Captain O'Leary, a friend of Isabelle's and mine from Bermuda."

Mrs. Bryce stared—too astonished to speak. The tall, young man bowed.

"This is my father," said Isabelle. The two men shook hands.

"I object to this man's coming in here," began the editor of Chit-Chat.

Captain O'Leary fixed him with a stormy eye.

"We'll hear your objections later. I know all about this rotten deal. Is this Jean Jacques Petard?"

"This is none of your business," began Clifford, but he never finished it. With one long arm Captain O'Leary reached for Monsieur Petard, lifted the gentleman by the seat of his trousers and his collar, bore him toward the door. Isabelle opened it for him.

"Don't kill him," she said, as he went out.

Wally and Clifford rushed after him. Isabelle followed and Miss Watts got as far as the door. Max and the editor sat still, but sounds came to them from the outer hall.

It was about ten minutes later that O'Leary strode into the room again, with heightened colour but otherwise undisturbed.

"We'll hear no more of Mr. Petard, I think. Now sir, it is your turn."

The editor defended himself with a chair.

"What business is this, of yours?" he yelled.

"Miss Bryce is going to do me the honour of marrying me, and you'll jolly well see how much it is my business. Put down that chair, it is words for you, not blows. Mr. Bryce, if the ladies will leave us, we can settle shortly with this gentleman."

Max and Miss Watts lost no time in obeying the hint.

"Close the door, Isabelle, please," he said to her.

"Who is this man?" demanded Mrs. Bryce.

"Don't talk! If that creature hurts him," said Isabelle, her ear at the door.

There were sounds of angry voices inside, loud argument. Then silence. After what seemed a long time, Larry opened the door.

"Come in, now, please."

They filed in. The editor was huddled in his chair. He was pretty much to pieces, nervously. Larry held up a package of letters.

"Mrs. Bryce, the letters are in my possession. May I keep them, for the present, Isabelle?"

She nodded.

"This gentleman has just signed a paper, drawn up by Mr. Bryce and me, signed by Mr. Clifford. This will be held by Mr. Clifford, in case of need. That ends this conference, I believe," he said affably.

The editor left hastily. Mr. Clifford went into the outer office, and Max turned to Isabelle.

"Why didn't you tell us you were going to marry this man?" she demanded.

Isabelle looked at Larry inquiringly, whereupon he took her hand and drew it through his arm.

"Ye must forgive her, Mrs. Bryce, ye see she didn't know it. I've never had a chance yet to ask her."

Max was used to shocks, but this morning had been too much for her. At this astounding statement on the part of their god-like liberator, she sat down suddenly, bereft of words, and stared at the two young people.

"Take me home, Wally," she said, "I can't stand any more!"



CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

"Suppose,"—said Mrs. Bryce, as they got into the limousine, "—suppose we postpone explanations until after lunch. I'm too worn out to understand anything you may say."

So conversation was casual enough on the way home. Once there, Isabelle manoeuvred to get Larry alone, but Wally stuck to him like a father.

"Wally," said his daughter, sternly, "Max wants you."

"What does she want?"—impatiently.

"You."

He went, reluctantly. Larry held out two eager hands to Isabelle, but she ignored them.

"Sweetheart," he said, anxiously.

"Larry, you told a lie."

"Many of 'em, darlin'. Which one?"

"You said I was going to marry you."

"Aren't you, crickety-Cricket?"—anxiously.

"I haven't decided—yet."

"But won't ye decide, dearie?"

"I may—when I'm properly asked."

"What is properly, Mavourneen?"

"I don't know. I've never been proposed to before, except by Jean Jacques Petard."

She was entirely in earnest, so he humoured her.

"Would ye prefer the formal 'Will-ye-do-me-the-honour-to-become-me-bride?' sort, or a more impassioned style?"

"Oh, Larry, you must advise me! Which would you take?"

With a laugh—half amused, wholly tender—he took her into his arms.

"I'd take the quickest way to get ye, little wee leprechaun."

"Larry, I won't let you off. I do so want to be proposed to."

"My dear," he said gently, "I love ye a very great deal. I want ye to love me a very great deal, and to be my wife."

Both arms went around his neck. She drew his tall head down to her, and kissed him.

"Thank you, Larry; I will," she said.

He gathered her up and went to sit in a chair big enough to hold them both. He kissed her eyes, her saucy chin, her hair. He told her in tender ways, known only to the Irish, how he loved her, how he wanted to make for her a shield of his love, to keep her safe and happy.

"Do ye love me, Cricket?" he begged her.

"Larry," she said, solemnly; "I feel as if you were all the people I have loved in my whole life—Ann, Mrs. Benjamin, Jerry, and Herbert——"

"And Percy?" he teased her. "When did ye begin to love me?" he asked, in the old way of lovers.

"On the boat, going down."

"Ye didn't."

"I did."

"I felt it comin' on me, stronger and stronger, at Bermuda, but that night when ye came into my arms in the garden settled it. I had to come and find out who ye thought ye were lovin'."

She only laughed. Luncheon was announced and the family appeared. The meal was more or less the usual midday repast, but to Isabelle and Larry it might have been ambrosia, or sawdust. They made motions of eating, between long glances. Wally and Max tried not to notice, but Miss Watts's face was wreathed in a fatuous smile of satisfaction.

Later, when they went to the living room, she started to slip away, but Isabelle put her arm through the older woman's and led her along.

"We'll face this out together," she whispered.

"We seem to have had the end of this story, Isabelle; suppose we now have the first of it," said her mother in an amused tone.

The Captain and Isabelle smiled at each other.

"Will you recite it, or shall I?" he asked.

"Together."

* * * * *

"Chapter One. The good ship 'Astra.' The hero forces his acquaintance upon the heroine . . ." he began.

"Didn't you want to meet him?" inquired Max, curiously.

"Certainly, but I didn't want him to know it. All the women on board made fools of themselves about him."

"Deceivin' little minx! Is this the way ye brought her up, Mrs. Bryce?"

"I didn't bring her up. She's brought herself up. Go on with the story."

"The hero curried favour with one Miss Watts in hope of advancing his suit . . ."

"Miss Watts was foolish about him, too," announced Isabelle.

"I was," admitted Miss Watts.

"The heroine promptly acquired one Major O'Dell, of the English army, one odious youth, named Percy, one nondescript yclept Jack——"

"And an Irishman named O'Leary," boasted Isabelle.

"And an Irishman named O'Leary. She led them all a pretty dance, and when her affairs were so complicated that a lawyer couldn't straighten them out, whist! she disappears."

"Engaged to a Frenchman!" supplied Wally. "Catholic tastes, our Isabelle, a regular internationalist."

Larry looked at Wally as if seeing him for the first time, and laughed appreciatively.

"The Irishman followed," prompted Isabelle.

"The Irishman followed. Now he wishes to apologize for the abrupt way in which he intruded into the peace conference. He makes the proper, if somewhat belated request, that Mr. and Mrs. Bryce will look upon him kindly as a son-in-law."

His gay smile went swiftly from Max to Wally.

"Isabelle, has he proposed yet?" asked Max.

"Yes."

"Did you accept him?"

"Yes."

"I cannot believe that you could ever do anything so sensible."

"Thank you," bowed the Captain. "Mr. Bryce, the British consul has full information about me. I am a captain in the —— Regiment. I am on sick leave, wounded at Ypres."

Wally put out his hand and grasped O'Leary's.

"I'll have a talk with the Consul this afternoon, but if Isabelle likes you as well as I do, your case is safe right now."

Isabelle fell upon Wally and hugged him. The next victim was Miss Watts.

"I know you'll be happy, my dear. You know how to take care of her, Captain O'Leary."

"Trust me," he said.

Isabelle went and stood in front of her mother.

"Well?" said Isabelle.

"I think you ought to kiss me, don't you?"

She did.

"It is ridiculous for you to be engaged before you're out," remarked Mrs. Bryce.

"Max, I never intended to come out. I made up my mind about that long ago."

Max shrugged her shoulders and held out a hand to Larry.

"I'm glad we are going to have such a handsome person in the family," she said.

He bowed over the hand.

"Ye're remindin' me that 'handsome is as handsome does.' I invite ye to watch me."

She laughed.

"Don't talk any nonsense about getting married, for this child is only eighteen."

"I'm expectin' my orders any day," he said, turning to the girl.

"To go back—there?" she cried.

He nodded. She went to stand in the circle of his arm.

"Max, when Larry goes, I go with him, if it is to-morrow," she said—quietly, firmly.

* * * * *

No more was said about it at that time, but it was an issue that had to be faced very shortly. Two halcyon weeks followed for the lovers, and then for Larry a summons came. He brought the news to her one afternoon. When he came into the room she knew. She went into his arms with a little cry—

"Dearest, when?"

He held her close for a moment.

"I must sail on Saturday, belovedest."

He felt the shiver that went through her, but she made no protest.

"I can be ready," she said.

"Little love, I've been thinkin', maybe ye'd better not go. Maybe ye'd better stay here and wait for me."

"I'll wait for you, just as close to those dreadful trenches as they'll let me come!" she said, fiercely.

She summoned the family and told them the news. She wished to be married on the morrow and sail with her boy on Saturday.

"But you've got no clothes!" protested Max.

"We'll be married to-morrow at five, Max; here or in a church, whichever you say."

"Here, of course," said Wally.

"We don't want any fuss, or people, or excitement. I will pack to-night so that Larry and I may have the whole day free to-morrow," said Isabelle, with a quiet authority that silenced them all.

For once Max let her have it her own way. She had always dreamed of Isabelle's wedding as a big fashionable event. It was like her daughter to do it this way. She actually went off for the entire day with her lover, coming back only in time to dress.

There were no guests except Miss Watts and Martin Christiansen. Major O'Dell, whose orders took him back on the ship with them, acted as best man for Larry. Just as she was hurrying downstairs, Isabelle met Wally, waiting for her. He slipped a box into her hand and said brokenly:

"Little secret between us, Isabelle. I know you're going to be happy with this chap, but I'm frightened,—it's all such a gamble!"

She put her arms about him and kissed him tenderly. He felt that she had grown into a woman over night.

"It's all right, dear. I'm not frightened. I'm sure!"

"Lord, but I'll miss you!"

"Dear old Wally—dear old Wally!" she said very close to tears.

It was a simple brief ceremony, this wedding. They were all a little solemn with the thought of what this world in dissolution might hold for these radiant young lovers. Larry O'Leary's face was something to remember, when Isabelle plighted him her troth, and there was a sudden womanly dignity in Isabelle's bearing that made the eyes smart.

But later, at the wedding supper, no one could resist the boyish happiness of Larry. He swept them all into his joyousness, and when the time came for their farewells, there were no tears, only good wishes and high hopes.

In the motor car on the way to the hotel, Larry's arm held Isabelle close.

"Wee wife," he said, softly; "wee wife."

There was no need of words, their happiness was folded round them like a cloak. They dined in their sitting room, as merry as larks.

"Happy, darlin'?" he asked her.

"I suppose that's what you call it! I've got a whole new world, Larry. That's your wedding gift to me!"

He kissed her hair and went into the other room for a second. When he came back he held something behind him.

"Heart of me," said he, "I've a confession!"

"Larry!"

"It's only luck that you're here to-night."

"What?"

"There once was a leprechaun visited me in the night, and she left me something to know her by. I've been lookin' for her ever since. I swore I'd marry her when I found her!"

"Yes?"—anxiously.

"Will ye see if ye'll fit my leprechaun coat?"

He held out the orange-and-black Chinese coat, and laid it about her shoulders.

"Larry! it was you!"

"Yes, darlin', an isn't it luck that it's you!"

The coat and its owner were folded close to Larry's heart. Both of them had come home.

THE END.





THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS

GARDEN CITY, N. Y.



Transcriber's Notes

Spacing around ellipses and em-dashes is as in the original.

An oe-ligature was used in the words manoeuvre and Phoebe. These have been replaced with the letters oe.

The following corrections have been made to the text:

Page 6: "{original had a single quotation mark}Well, if you want her to go to this party, you'd better make a bargain with her. I know her."

Page 12: "{original had a single quotation mark}I'm free an' a half, an' I don't take off my cloves at a party,"

Page 14: "{original had a single quotation mark}Why?"

Page 32: There was something about the little beggar——{original had superfluous closing quotation mark}

Page 46: "Put her down and let{original had ler} her walk then.

Page 67: "Most flattering. I would prefer that."{original omitted closing quotation mark}

Page 68: "Very well. I'll wear a white linen dress, with a black belt, and my black hat," announced the girl.{original had superfluous closing quotation mark}

Page 148: "I want thee to eat some lunch, my Isabelle."{original had a single quotation mark}

Page 183: "{original omitted opening quotation mark}Yes," she replied, "but it's chronic in our family!"

Page 233: Major O'Dell and Captain{original had Captaim} O'Leary, the latter looking very white,

Page 238: "Give{original had Giver} her a spoon to play with, Larry, and pay some attention to me."

Page 242: She nodded. He fell in step beside her.{original omitted the period}

Page 264: "I didn't know. What's this trouble ye speak of?"{original had a single quotation mark}

The following words appear with and without a hyphen. They have been left as in the original.

godlike/god-like

hothouse/hot-house

pincushion/pin-cushion

rewrote/re-wrote

THE END