The romantic adventure of running off with Jerry proved a dismal failure. She had failed to study the psychology of her particeps criminis in the fascination of analyzing her own. Far from being pleased with her company, he was greatly annoyed thereat. He wired her father the facts, begged him to follow to Jacksonville and take her off his hands. When Wally stepped from under, as it were, directing Jerry to hand the pest over to a teacher in New York, the young man’s irritation became excessive and he was at no trouble to conceal it.

Isabelle confessed that she had informed her mother “in a pin-cushion note” that she had eloped with Jerry. She pointed out to him that, after this public announcement of her intentions, it would be necessary for him to marry her, “to save her honour” as she phrased it. He laughed, brutally. He inquired her age, and when she boasted that she was “going on seventeen”—that many girls were “wooed and married and a’,” by that time—he laughed again.

When, however, she persisted in the idea, and declared her love for him, he talked to her like a disagreeable elder brother, casting reflections upon her breeding and her manners. He told her that she was a silly little thing, that she did not amuse him in the least, and that it was high time she began to conduct herself like a lady. He began to address her, coldly, as Miss Bryce.

She appealed to him, coquetted with him, abused him; all to no effect. He remained formal and distant during the entire journey. She was deeply hurt and humiliated by his actions, but on the whole she got considerable satisfaction out of the rÔle of blighted being.

They both concentrated upon the end of the trip. Jerry longed to be rid of his unwelcome responsibility, and Isabelle was interested because she had arranged a coup for the moment.

Wally had assured Jerry, by wire, that a teacher from the school would meet Isabelle at the station. Isabelle, in the meantime, had wired Miss Vantine that a change of plans made it unnecessary for the teacher to meet the train. She signed the telegram with her father’s name. She awaited the moment when Jerry realized that he was not to be rid of her, with considerable excitement.

Arrived in New York at ten o’clock, she preserved a demure silence while he stormed up and down the station looking for the teacher. He was finally convinced that there was no one to meet them.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

“Come along,” he replied, ungraciously, bundling her into a cab.

They went to a studio building and Jerry pounded on somebody’s door for ten minutes, in vain. Then he tried another.

“None of your friends care to see us, Jerry,” grinned Isabelle. Finally he unlocked a door and turned on a light.

“This is your place, Jerry,” she cried; and she began a swift inspection.

“You can turn in here for the night, and in the morning I will take you to the school.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“At a club.”

“And leave me in this spooky place alone? I won’t stay.”

“Don’t you see that I cannot take you around town at this hour of the night looking for lodgings?”

“I’ll go in the bedroom, and you can sleep on the couch. I won’t stay here alone.”

Eventually he telephoned a friend of his, named Miss Jane Judd. He invited her to stay with Isabelle. He even went and brought her and explained to her that he would call for Isabelle in the morning.

“Oh, Jerry, don’t leave me,” cried Isabelle, clinging to him. “I don’t want to stay with this strange woman. I want to go with you—always, Jerry—because I love you so. Won’t you take me, Jerry?”

“Don’t be a little goose, Isabelle.”

“Please don’t hate me, Jerry,” she sobbed.

“I don’t hate you when you’re sensible.”

“Won’t you call me Cr-Cricket, just once, Jerry?”

“If you’ll be a good girl and go to bed.”

“Kiss me good-night.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind. Miss Judd, take charge of this crazy kid. I’ll be back in the morning,” he said, desperately, as he escaped.

Isabelle wept, more from weariness and chagrin than anything else, but a sort of amused patience on Miss Judd’s part caused her to cut short any histrionic display. As they prepared for bed she began to regale Miss Judd with spicy descriptions of the yachting party. Jane Judd laughed heartily.

“You’re very naughty, but you are funny,” she said to the girl.

“I don’t suppose Mrs.Brendon and Althea think I’m funny. Poor old baby-doll Althea! She must be furious. She was so sure of Jerry.”

“You hop into bed and forget all about Altheas and Jerrys. Sleep is what you need,” said Miss Judd, putting out the light.

But the flow of Isabelle’s talk was not to be stayed. She was excited and keyed up high. There was a simplicity and directness about this Judd woman that made her think of Mrs.Benjamin, so she told all about Hill Top and her life there, her love of it, her despair at Mrs.Benjamin’s death.

Jane Judd listened with patience and understanding. Here was laid out before her the bared heart of the “poor little rich girl.” She pieced the bits together until she had the whole picture of this odd, unnatural, hothouse child—antagonistic to her parents, to her school, yet full of feeling, and coming into the age when the emotions play such havoc. No wonder she had settled her youthful affections upon Jerry. He was so preËminently the type one loves at sixteen, Jane smiled to herself.

“Do you think he will marry me?”

“I doubt it.”

“Don’t you think he loves me?”

“Lots of other women are in love with Mr.Paxton, too,” said Jane.

“You just say that to scare me!” cried Isabelle.

So the self-revelation of this young egotist went on and on until sleep laid a finger on her lips.

Long after she was silent the older woman lay awake, and thought about her, about the conditions in our world that produced her. She was so sorry for the child, even while she laughed at the memory of Jerry’s furious embarrassment, at the mercy of her jejune affections.

Jerry arrived early, and Jane and Isabelle parted like old friends.

“Miss Judd is very understanding,” remarked Isabelle, en route to the school.

“Yes, isn’t she?”

“She’s not at all snippy like so many people. It’s ridiculous to act as if it were so clever just to be grown up. It isn’t clever; it’s only luck.”

“The luck lies in being young, Isabelle.”

“Can’t you even remember how you hated being squelched by elders?” she inquired.

“Do they ever squelch you, Cricket?”

“You ought to know. You’ve done enough of it.”

“Let’s make a new compact. Let’s be good pals,” he said, heartily.

“I do not want your friendship,” she answered, coldly.

“O good Lord, you wretched baby!”—irritably.

“It is all right, Jerry. I see that it can never be, but I shall always care for you deeply,” she said with nobility.

When they came to the school Jerry left her with a deep sigh of relief. She certainly was too much for him. He was no longer surprised that Max and Wally avoided the problem.

There certainly was no fatted calf killed for the return of the prodigal in Miss Vantine’s school. At her reappearance an air of chastened endurance settled upon all the teachers from Miss Vantine down to the elocution teacher. But their fears were doomed to disappointment, because Isabelle was for the time being absorbed in her unrequited love affair.

She walked through her lessons like one in a trance; she devoted all her leisure, and some of her study hours, to a series of daily letters to the object of her passion. Most of these raptures were never to meet his eye, but they furnished an outlet for the girl’s over-full heart, and to the psychologist they would have proved interesting. To her schoolmates she was, as ever, an enigma.

“What is the matter with you, Isabelle? Trying to get one hundred in deportment?” they teased her.

“I have larger things to think of, than deportment,” she answered, airily.

“She’s in love again,” scoffed Margie Hunter.

This was greeted with a deep sigh.

“Who is he, Isabelle?” they demanded.

“He is a great artist whose name is sacred to me.”

“Do you know him?”

“Intimately.”

“And does he care for you?”

“I cannot betray his confidence”—nobly.

“Is he handsome?”

“He is wonderful.”

“Not so handsome as Shelley Hull, or Jack Barrymore,” they protested.

“Oh, heaps handsomer!”

“Do have him come here. Couldn’t we ask Miss Vantine to get him to lecture on art?”

“He hasn’t time. He goes from function to function. Many women love him, he’s a great social favourite,” boasted Isabelle.

This distinction set her apart as never before. She went among them as one baptized with greatness. When in the course of their daily walks with a teacher, they encountered a personable young man, Isabelle’s eyes would never swerve in his direction. When there were midnight spreads, Isabelle did not care for food, or she had her letter to write.

“Isabelle, will you marry him as soon as you graduate from here?” Margie inquired.

“Oh, no. I expect to spend years at work in the arts before I am worthy of him.”

“What arts?”

“It is not decided. I may paint, or sing, or act.”

“But you haven’t any talent for painting or singing.”

“You never can tell, Margie. I’ve had no chance ta show what I can do. Besides, I can act.”

“I think you’re too plain to go on the stage, myself,” was the withering reply, but it did not wither Isabelle.

“Beauty, my dear, is nothing; Art is everything,” was her unassailable reply.

So upon the wings of romance Isabelle floated through the spring term. She was to spend the summer at an inn in the mountains, as The Beeches was not to be opened. Her parents and teachers, encouraged by three months of good behaviour, believed that a permanent change of heart had taken place in the girl. On the day of her departure, Miss Vantine congratulated her upon her improvement, and alluded to the coming year as the crown of her achievements. Isabelle smiled politely, for she had thoroughly decided in her own mind that this was her farewell to school.

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