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.

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