It was a strange throw of Chance that tossed Ann Barnes into the heart of the Bryce family—or rather into its midst, for it seemed to Ann that there wasn’t any heart to the family. The first weeks she spent at The Beeches were positively bewildering.

She was the eldest daughter of a small-town lawyer, in Vermont. There were five younger children, and after Ann’s graduation at the State University, she set forth to make fame and fortune, with the ultimate object of rescuing her father and mother from the financial anxieties which had always beset them.

She was just an average healthy, fine American girl brought up in a normal, small-town American family. As the eldest, she had been her mother’s assistant. She had served her apprenticeship in cooking, nursing babies, patching small clothes, turning old things around and upside down, in order to make them over. She could market wisely, she could “manage” on little.

So much for her practical training. She knew all the inconveniences and anxieties of an insufficient and variable income. But she also knew the unselfishness, the affectionate give-and-take of a big family. She knew what miracles the loving patience of her mother daily performed. She knew the selflessness of her father, which kept him at the treadmill of his profession that his children might have an education, might have their chance. Hospitality, kindness, love; these were of the very fibre of Ann’s being.

It was part of the trick Fate played on her that Wally’s offer had come to her the first week she was in New York, when the terror of the Big Town had just laid hold of her. New York, contemplated from Vermont, was the city of all opportunity; but New York, face to face, with a financial reserve of fifty dollars, was a very different matter.

Isabelle had amazed and interested her, and Wally had offered her what seemed a fabulous salary. No wonder she had seized the opportunity, with happy plans of sending the first check home, intact. But daily for the first week, amidst the undreamed-of luxuries of The Beeches she felt that she must run away, back to the things she knew and understood. And yet every day brought her evidences of Isabelle’s need of her, and Ann’s intrinsic sense of fairness made her feel that somebody ought to stand by the child.

Her first interview with Mrs.Bryce did not occur until the second day after her arrival. She waited to be summoned all of the first day, but heard nothing, saw nothing of her new employer. The second day she sent word asking for a conference. She was given an audience while Mrs. Bryce’s maid was dressing her to go out to lunch. She nodded casually to Ann.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes; I—I thought we would better talk over your plans for Isabelle.”

“I haven’t any plans for her. My only desire is to keep her out of the way.”

“But I don’t know what she is permitted to do,” Ann began.

“She is permitted to do anything she wants to,” laughed Mrs.Bryce.

“But that isn’t good for her”—earnestly.

Mrs.Bryce’s glance at the girl was full of scornful amusement.

“No, but it’s good for the rest of us. We can’t live in the house with her otherwise.”

Ann stared. She did not know how to cope with this kind of woman. Mrs. Bryce made her feel a clumsy fool, a sort of country bumpkin.

“This isn’t my job anyway, it’s Wally’s. He is guiding Isabelle’s destiny this summer. Didn’t he tell you?”

“Yes, but I thought the child’s mother would naturally want to say——” blundered Ann.

“Well, her mother doesn’t. Do anything you can to make her less of a nuisance, that’s my only advice.”

It was clear that the interview was ended, so Ann rose. With glowing appeal Mrs.Bryce turned her pretty face, with its sudden smile, upon the girl.

“Nice, kind Miss Barnes, don’t bother me about Isabelle, will you? She bores me to death.”

Ann got out of the room somehow. She felt cold shivers down her spine, as if she had touched something revolting. She thought of her mother, and Jinny, the little sister nearest Isabelle’s age. She was so homesick for them, she just thought she would die. She went to the nursery where she had left Isabelle, and, as she entered, the child was shaking hands with an imaginary guest, saying in perfect imitation of her mother’s manner: “Oh, howdye do, Mrs.Page?”

“Dorothy and Reginald and I are having a bridge party,” she explained.

But Ann didn’t listen. She just picked Isabelle up in her arms, and hugged her tight, kissing her over and over again.

“You poor baby—you poor little mite!” she said over and over.

But after the first shock of surprise, Isabelle rebelled.

“Don’t! Put me down! I don’t like to be kissed!” she cried.

Ann set her down and knelt before her.

“Why don’t you like to be kissed?” she demanded.

“Because”—defiantly.

“Isabelle, have you ever been rocked and sung to and tucked into bed at night?”

Isabelle shook her head, her big eyes fixed on Ann’s face, so full of emotion.

“Did you ever have anybody tickle you awake, in the morning, and kiss you until you laughed?”

The child shook her head again.

“It’s a shame!” cried Ann. “Why Jinny gets kissed a hundred times a day by everybody.”

“Who’s Jinny?”

“My little sister, who is your age.”

“Where is she?”

“In my home, up in Vermont.”

“What does she do?”

“Sit down, and I’ll tell you about her.”

Isabelle promptly sat down on the floor beside Ann.

“In the morning, after breakfast, she picks up the papers and school books and toys and things the children leave around——”

“What children?”

“My other brothers and sisters. There’s Walter and Helen and Tommy and Barbara, but Jinny is our baby. When she gets things picked up she dusts the bottoms of the chairs and the legs of the tables. Then she helps mother make the beds. She can beat up the pillows and tuck the sheets neatly.”

“Isn’t there any chambermaid?”

“No. Then she studies her letters. She almost knows them. She goes to market with mother, and then she plays in the yard until dinner.”

“Max doesn’t go to market.”

Ann ignored that.

“Then the children troop in to dinner, from school. Such a scramble, such a wrestling, and shouting, and face washing! You ought to hear it.”

“But it’s lunch at noon,” corrected Isabelle.

“No; we have dinner.”

“What do you have for dinner?”

“Boiled beef and potatoes, bread and butter and jam, and a pudding. Then the older ones tramp off to school again and Jinny takes her nap.”

“I hate naps.”

“Jinny doesn’t. She likes them. She knows they make her strong and sweet-tempered and pretty.”

“Would naps make me pretty?”

“I think so. Everybody is pretty who has pink cheeks, and a kind expression, don’t you think so?”

“Max hasn’t a kind expression; she’s cross”—quickly.

“But she has lovely skin, all pink and white.”

“I think you’re prettier than Max. Then what does Jinny do next?”

So the story went on with elaborate detail, until every waking moment of Jinny’s day was accounted for. It was absorbing to Isabelle, and it was a satisfaction for Ann to have this outlet for her homesickness. So it began, but it grew to be a significant make-believe, for as the days went by, she discovered that Isabelle could be absolutely ruled by her imagination. The new game was called “Playing Jinny.” She began to dust the nursery chairs and to pick up toys and playthings. She demanded lessons in letters. Any misdemeanour that was met with the remark, “Of course, Jinny would never do that,” was never repeated.

Day after day she demanded the story again, and daily Ann added to the picture of her mother, always at the call of her children, of her father, reading aloud on Friday nights, as a special treat, while they all sat round the fire in the shabby old living room.

She described how they all worked and saved to buy Christmas presents for one another; how happy they were over simple gifts, even a red lead pencil. How they hid the presents all over the house and had a “hunt” on Christmas morning, instead of having a tree. The story went on and on, until Isabelle actually lived in the circle of the Barnes family.

But one unfortunate day, Isabelle strayed into her mother’s room, determined upon experiment.

“Max, will you take me to market with you?” she inquired.

“I don’t go to market, silly; the housekeeper markets.”

“Why don’t you tuck me in, and kiss me good-night?” the child continued, her eyes fixed on her mother’s startled face.

“I’m never here when you go to bed,” defended Mrs.Bryce. “What is all this? I thought you didn’t like to be kissed.”

“I wish you’d have six children,” Isabelle sighed.

“Good heavens! Isabelle, don’t be silly!”

So Isabelle gave it up. She realized that something was lacking. She sought out Miss Barnes with the problem.

“Why don’t Max and Wally do like father and mother Barnes?”

“Well,” Ann evaded, “it is different, you see. Your father and mother are rich, and mine are poor. Your parents have lots to do—golf and bridge and parties—and father and mother Barnes have only their children to interest them. They’re just regular parents,” she added, lamely.

“But I want some regular parents,” replied Isabelle.

Ann was nonplussed.

“We can’t all have them, honey,” she said. “Jinny would like lots of things you have—a pony, and toys, and pretty clothes.”

“She can have mine.”

“She has to do many things you would not like to do.”

“I don’t care. I’d do them.”

“But you can’t change your parents. God gives them to you, and you have to keep them,” she laughed.

“Then why didn’t God give me regular parents?”

Ann hastily diverted the youngster’s thoughts into other channels, but she came back to it again and yet again—her desire for “regular parents.”

One of the habits acquired from Jinny was a daily nap. She religiously put herself to bed, after luncheon, and each day upon rising she inspected herself in the glass to see if she was growing prettier.

“I don’t see that it helps much,” she said frequently.

But Ann encouraged her to persevere, partly because she felt that the highly strung child needed the rest, and partly because it was Ann’s only breathing space in the twenty-four hours. Usually she went for a walk, carrying a book under her arm.

One day as she started off on such a ramble Mrs.Bryce sent for her.

“Miss Barnes, would you do me a favour? The dry-cleaner in Rockville has a lace gown of mine which I want to wear this afternoon, when some people are coming to tea. Would you motor over and get it? You could take the imp with you.”

“Isabelle is asleep just now.”

“Go before she wakes up, then.”

“Could one of the maids look after her, if she wakes?”

“Yes, of course. I shall be so obliged.”

So Ann set forth in the motor, glad of a free hour or two in the open. She enjoyed it to the full, and although it took longer than she had anticipated, she carried the gown to Mrs.Bryce’s door at five.

“So much obliged,” said that lady, sweetly.

The nursery was empty, so were the bedrooms. Ann asked the maids where Isabelle was. No one had seen her. She went out into the grounds and to all her favourite haunts, but no Isabelle. Then, thoroughly alarmed, she went to Mrs.Bryce’s door again.

“Mrs.Bryce, did you send a maid to look after Isabelle?”

“Oh, no, I forgot it”—in an annoyed tone.

“I can’t find her.”

“Can’t find her? Oh, she must be somewhere,”—absently.

“But I have looked everywhere. No one saw her go out. I have been gone over two hours, you know.”

Something of Ann’s excitement affected Mrs.Bryce.

“Oh, she couldn’t get away far. Kate,” she called to a maid in the dressing room, “did you see Isabelle?”

“I saw her just after Miss Barnes left,” said the girl. “She had on her best hat and coat, and I sez to her: ‘Where ye goin?’ an’ she sez to me: ‘I’m goin’ to look for some reg’lar parunts’ an’ she went out the side door. I thought somebody was lookin’ after her.”

“Oh, Mrs.Bryce, she’s run away!” cried Ann.

“Wouldn’t you know she’d do it on a day when I was having a special tea!” she blazed.

“Oh!” said Ann, looking the other woman straight in the eyes, and Mrs. Bryce knew that this girl despised her. Not that it mattered, but it was annoying at the moment.

“Don’t stand there talking. Get the chauffeur and tell him to go look for her,” she ordered, turning to receive the lace gown that the maid held over her head.

Ann ran out of the room, and down the stairs. She started for the beach where they went swimming. Henry the chauffeur passed her, calling out that he was going to the neighbours to inquire. Ann turned back to go to the gardener’s lodge and find out the whereabouts of Patsy. As she ran she sobbed to herself, at the thought of the forlorn little figure in its best hat and coat, setting out on a crusade to find “regular parents!”

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