During the years that followed many were the governesses set up by Mrs. Bryce to be promptly knocked down, as it were, by Isabelle. They would either depart of their own accord, or they would be sent flying by the irate Mrs.Bryce after some escapade of her incorrigible offspring.

“She’ll end in a reform school!” she remarked to Wally one day, upon the dismissal of the latest one.

He sought out his daughter and laboured with her.

“Look here, kid, how many governesses have you had lately?”

“Oodles of ’em.”

“But what do you do to them?”

“Get rid of ’em, they’re no good. Can’t you get Max to let me have Ann again?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I won’t have any of these she gets me—old snoops!”

“She does the best she can,” Wally defended.

“She does not. She doesn’t even look at ’em, just telephones for one to be sent out. Let’s you and me go pick out another one, Wally.”

“I’m sorry, but your mother won’t stand for it. Ann gave her a piece of her mind before she left, and Max blames me for it.”

“If she’d get Ann, I’d be so good she’d never have to change again.”

“Why don’t you tell her that?”

“I did. It makes her mad. You tell her, Wally.”

“She gets mad at me, too.”

“If you get mad back and yell at her, she stops. That’s what I do,” she advised him.

“Look here, it would be a lot more comfortable for you to put up with some woman, even if you don’t like her. You always have to get used to a new one.”

“I don’t. They have to get used to me,” the imp replied. “Where you going?” she added.

“I’m going to exercise Nero.”

“Take me.”

“Can’t look after you and that horse, too.”

“I’m not a baby,” she scorned him. “Tell them to bring the pony round, Wally.”

Later when she threw her breeched leg over her horse, and waited for Wally to mount, he exclaimed:

“Lord, I wish you’d been a boy!”

“So do I.”

They started off. She had discarded the old Shetland pony as too childish, and demanded a real steed. So Wally had given her a small Peruvian horse, delicately made and fleet of foot. She rode him like a leaf on the wind. She jumped hedges and fences and ditches; she did circus tricks, and finally nagged Wally’s Nero into a race.

“You’re some rider, Isabelle,” he said, on the way home.

“You bet I am!” she replied.

At the door Matthews, the butler, announced that the new governess had arrived.

“Damn it!” ejaculated Isabelle.

Wally reproved her sharply, but she was inattentive.

“Let’s fire her, Wally, and you take care of me.”

“Would you like that?” he said, touched by this unusual mark of affection.

“Yes. You always do what I want you to,” replied his tactless child.

“I have other things to do than to look after a fresh little shrimp like you.”

The “new one” was a middle-aged English gentlewoman of the usual governess type. Isabelle knew the kind thoroughly. She had initiated whole companies of them into life at The Beeches. Miss Watts, this one was called. She was putting her things into bureau drawers, when Isabelle appeared at the door of the bathroom which joined their rooms.

“Is this Isabelle?” inquired the new victim.

The child nodded.

“How do you do? I am Miss Watts.”

“I know.”

“I hope we are going to be friends——”

“I never like governesses—only one.”

“Why did you like this one?” inquired Miss Watts.

She was so used to the lack of manners in the children she taught, that this one seemed no worse than usual.

“Because she was young and could swim and ride and tell me stories.”

“I’m too old to swim and ride, but I can tell stories.”

She went on with her unpacking.

“What kinds of stories?”

“All kinds. I know hundreds of stories. Can you read?”

“I know letters, and ‘cat’ and ‘rat,’ but I can’t read big books. Let’s hear you tell a story.”

“I will, with pleasure, when I finish here.”

“But I want it now.”

“It will take me only a little while.”

“But I won’t wait.”

Miss Watts became aware that this was the initial clash of arms.

“No? Well, don’t let me keep you then. Is that your room?”

“If you don’t do what I want, I’ll yell so everybody in the house will come to see what’s the matter.”

Miss Watts glanced at her and smiled.

“That will be interesting,” she said.

Whereupon Isabelle opened her mouth and emitted long, loud shrieks. Miss Watts continued counting handkerchiefs. The howls grew more artificial in quality, but louder in volume. Isabelle grew red in the face. This was hard work. After about three minutes of bedlam Miss Watts remarked:

“But where is the audience, Isabelle? I’m afraid you have cried ‘Wolf! Wolf!’ too often.”

Isabelle stopped long enough to shout:

“I didn’t cry ‘Wolf!’”

“No?” said Miss Watts, seating herself by the window. “I’ve finished now. Is your concert over?”

The child stared at her.

“Maybe you’d be interested in the story of the man who cried ‘Wolf! Wolf!’”

Isabelle smarted under a sense of defeat.

“I won’t have any stories now.”

“Very good. Of course, I only tell stories as a favour,” she added, pointedly.

The youngster went into her own room. Miss Watts heard her banging around in there. Presently she appeared again.

“Why did the man cry ‘Wolf! Wolf!’?” she demanded.

“Sit down, and I’ll tell you,” answered Miss Watts, pleasantly.

So the story was told, and the new relationship inaugurated which was to last for several years.

Miss Watts was a woman of considerable intellectual capacity, with a passion for books. She was ill-fitted for the sole charge of a five-year-old girl of Isabelle’s vitality, but her poise and sense of humour won the child’s respect. After that first experiment there were no more spasms of howling. Miss Watts never tried to sentimentalize their relationship. She recognized the child’s unusual quality, and her precocity. She was at present an unendurable human being, thanks to her bringing up. Her ideas and ideals were servant-made. If she could be brought to see herself as socially an outcast, because of her bad manners, Miss Watts knew it would effect a cure.

On her side, Isabelle found Miss Watts’s mind a storehouse of treasures. She told stories of all countries, and all times, and she told them well. The only punishment ever inflicted was the abolishment of the story hour, and this was the only chastisement Isabelle had ever regarded as such. There was a marked improvement in her behaviour and the members of her household drew a long breath of relief.

Miss Watts piqued the girl’s interest in the study hours, and, as if by a miracle, she learned to read. The teacher found an extraordinary concentration of effort to acquire anything the girl desired. Promised the joy of finding stories for herself, the student applied herself and learned by magic. She was extremely proud of the new accomplishment, and would have read constantly if Miss Watts had not settled upon literary pursuits as the reward of virtue.

One of the by-products of the new ability was a tighter hold on her leadership of the children she played with. Everything she read suggested new and wonderful games. As originator and inventor she always played the leading rÔles, assisted by the others.

Summer days provided uninterrupted opportunity for her talents. She turned the playhouse into a theatre, and organized a supporting company. Sometimes Miss Watts assisted with the scenario, sometimes Isabelle was sole author or adapter.

It was the year when she was eight, and just beginning to read Dickens, that she prepared a presentation of “A Tale of Two Cities.” She worked at it with great enthusiasm for fully a week. Then she appeared in her mother’s room.

“Max, can I have lemonade and cake for the audience this afternoon?”

“What audience?”

“At the Isabelle Theatre.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Everybody. Parents and relatives. I rode around to all the houses this morning and issued the invitations. They all accepted.”

“Why didn’t you consult me before you invited the neighbourhood in?”—hotly.

“I thought you’d kick about the refreshments.”

“If you ever do this again you will get no refreshments and I will send your friends home.”

“They’re yours too. Martin Christiansen said he would not miss it for a kingdom.”

“You call him Mr.Christiansen, when you speak of him, Miss Impudence. What do you intend to do to entertain all these people?”

“‘A Tale of Two Cities,’ by Charles Dickens.”

“In the playhouse?”

“Yes; it will be crowded, but people can sit on the floor.”

“You can’t ask people to sit on the floor in that stuffy box!”

“Well, I asked you to let me use the garage and you wouldn’t.”

“So that’s why you asked all these people.”

“That’s only one reason. Matthews and Henry can carry chairs to the garage this morning. We can move the stage our own selves. The play begins at two.”

“Hottest time in the day.”

“You don’t have to come.”

“Who’s in your show?”

“I am the star, and Tommy Page is Carton. He’s no good because he giggles, but Mr.Christiansen wouldn’t play it. I asked him first.”

Mrs.Bryce laughed.

“I suppose you could do with ice cream and cake.”

“We could”—promptly.

“What are you going to wear?”

“I have several costumes. I took your velvet opera coat for the rehearsal. Do you mind?”

“Mind? Certainly I mind. Don’t you dare touch anything in my closet.”

“All right,” replied her daughter, coolly; “Tommy brought over his mother’s best coat in case you were huffy.”

“I shall call Madge Page up this minute and tell her.”

“Very well, but if you do, I’ll announce before the curtain goes up, that because of traitors there are no costumes.”

She saw that that shot took effect.

“You’d better let it alone, Max. I’ve got it all thought out,” she added.

“I’d like to spank you!” Max exploded.

At the door Isabelle turned.

“Don’t you care anything about ART?” she demanded.

Table of Contents