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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is your father handsome?”

Isabelle hesitated a second.

“Yes—very.”

“Mine isn’t. He’s fat—awf’ly fat. His head blouses over his collar all round.”

“You mean his neck.”

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

“Mine does.”

“Really?”

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

“Oh, Isabelle, he must be grand!” ejaculated Peggy.

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

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

“Isabelle’s father. Tell them about him, Isabelle,” urged Peggy, the adoring.

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

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

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

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

“Murder,” said Isabelle, promptly.

“Mercy! what did your father do?”

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

“Did the girl scream?”

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

“But, Isabelle, didn’t he fall in love with her?”

“Certainly.”

“But he was married.”

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

“And did he leave her?”—disconsolately.

“Yes, he left her.”

“Did the police find her?”

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

“How did you know about it?”—suspiciously.

“Oh, I am my father’s confidante,” boasted Isabelle. “We tell each other everything.”

“Does he still love her?”

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

A sigh of sentimental satisfaction went around.

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

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

“I’m anxious about Isabelle,” he said, early in their talk.

“Anxious?”

“Yes. You’ve never made any complaints about her, or threatened to send her home or anything.”

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

“Delightful? Isabelle?”

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

“How Isabelle must have changed!” said Wally, soulfully.

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

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

“Hello, Isabelle; thought I’d have a look at you, in passing.”

He kissed her cold cheek awkwardly.

“Don’t seem very pleased to see me,” he added.

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

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

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

Mrs.Benjamin left them.

“Wally, do me a favour,” said Isabelle, breathlessly.

“So soon?” he laughed.

“Take me off in the motor for the day.”

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

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

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

“Give me away?”—anxiously.

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

“No, you don’t,” she laughed. “I’m all new.”

She slipped her arm through his and urged him forth.

“Come on, Wally, be a dear.”

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

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

“You’re getting handsome, Isabelle.”

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

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

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

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

“Nothing, Wally—honest. I’m a reformed character.”

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

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

“I’ve always rather liked you, Wally,” she retorted, to their mutual amusement.

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

“You needn’t take me clear up to the school. You may drop me at what we call the cross roads.”

“Oh, I’ll get you back,” he protested.

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

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

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

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

“I’ll run you up,” he answered, casually.

“But I’d rather walk, Wally. I need the exercise.”

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

“What’s the plot?”

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

“Isabelle, have you murdered anybody?” he asked, gravely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten pairs of envious eyes were upon her.

“Perfect,” she sighed.

“Sorry we could not keep him overnight.”

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

“Engine wouldn’t work—tire punctured.”

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

“Adam, my dear, we have a guest. This is Isabelle’s father.”

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

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

“Shut up, Isabelle; shut up!”

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