The period of adjustment to life at the Hill Top School was a very bewildering one to Isabelle. The excitement over Peggy’s accident was soon past, to that heroine’s intense regret. She prolonged her nervous prostration as long as possible, and was duly petted and made much of by the girls. Isabelle, full of remorse for the trouble she had brought upon her room-mate, adopted her as her special charge.

The routine of the school, if you could call it that, began. Mr.and Mrs.Benjamin had strange ideas in regard to the training of the young. They kept the school small, so that they might not be hampered in their experiments, and strangely enough, they drew their pupils largely from the families of the rich. When he was asked about this once, Mr. Benjamin said:

“It seems to be our mission to teach these little richlings to

“They get life so crookedly from servants and such,” he added. “Phoebe and I just try to straighten them out.”

The process by which these two rare souls accomplished this straightening out was quite their own. There was only one extra teacher, a Frenchwoman who came from Boston twice a week. For the rest, Mr.and Mrs.Benjamin conducted the school, and did all the teaching.

During October and November, and again in late April and May, lessons were all out of doors. The whole school studied Botany and Zoology with Mr.Benjamin. They wandered over the hills, on the brisk autumn days, with their boxes and cases and bottles for specimens. These lessons were a series of enchanted tales to Isabelle, of how the life force persists in bugs and plants. The whole morning on certain days of the week would be devoted to this peripatetic grazing, then note books would be written up before lunch.

This function was also a lesson. Certain girls took charge of it each day—planned, ordered, prepared and cooked the meal, in the open, over a gypsy fire. The girls in charge were limited in expenditure, and there was great rivalry among them to find something new and toothsome to make in the skillet or the big kettle. Careful accounts were kept by each set of managers, and if, at the end of the school term, there was credit balance, a special party was given on the savings.

A second committee took charge of serving the meal; a third, of the clearing away and dishwashing. Mr.and Mrs.Benjamin were always treated as guests on these occasions.

Arithmetic was accompanied by instruction in banking. Allowances were deposited in a central bank, with elected officers. All money was drawn by check. Books were balanced weekly, and penalty imposed upon careless financiers.

Mrs.Benjamin conducted the classes in English Literature, and because she loved books truly, she led these girls step by step into the realm of the best. Shakespeare was studied and loved, and played under the trees. Wordsworth and Tennyson and Longfellow read in the open, are very different from Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Longfellow parsed indoors. Poetry was not a “study” to be pored over in the schoolroom; it was a natural beautiful expression of life, sung instead of spoken. So they came to our modern poets with interest and understanding, because these new poets, forsooth, spoke the language of these children of the present.

Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot, Victor Hugo, read aloud and discussed; these were a treat—no task—here. These great artists were considered not only as makers of romance, creators of literature, but also as historians of their times. Their books were studied along with the history of the countries and the peoples that they described. Then came the geography of the places wherein the stories were laid, then a study of the social conditions and customs of the periods to which they gave expression.

American history was taught by both the Benjamins. It was their hobby. Not the sort of history taught in most schools, “fixed up” for the young, but the true history of our country—its blunders, its stupidities, its triumphs.

So through the whole curriculum, acquiring knowledge was a pleasant thing. It was not a matter of being fed with little unrelated chunks of information, on this or on that. It was rather being led into a great field, where now this part, now that, held your interest, but you never lost sight of the whole expanse.

As for play, there were nutting expeditions, hay rides, marshmallow roasts, any number of out-of-door joys. It was as nearly a normal life as can be reached in these days of ours.

To Isabelle it was unbelievable. Everything they did during the day interested her. Her old passion for leadership spurred her on, but now it was a spur to excel in legitimate things. Her sense of rebellion was laid away, because she liked nearly everything she had to do, and her days were so busy that there was no excess vitality to work itself off in pranks.

Not that she was a reformed soul—far from it! There were times when she balked the duties she liked least, and was gently called upon by Mrs. Benjamin to punish herself. After the first amusement of this novelty wore off, it became plain to her that the punishment she administered to herself was always more severe than any one else would have prescribed. Sometimes punishment was decided upon by the community as a whole. By degrees the girls all began to realize “the social spirit” for the first time in their self-centred, individualistic lives.

“Mrs.Benjamin,” Isabelle said one day, bursting into the presence of that lady, “I feel full of the devil to-day!”

“Dost thou, Isabelle? Dear me! we must think of something to dispossess him.”

“Better give me something hard to do.”

“It is now half past eight. Suppose thee goes down to the big field to help Henry pitch hay until ten.”

“All right,” agreed Isabelle.

“Thee might speak to Mr.Benjamin on thy way out, about the seven devils that possess thee,” smiled her teacher.

Another influence that was working in the development of the girl was the dependent devotion of Peggy Starr. Her young room-mate worshipped Isabelle. She began by following her through fire, and she would not have stopped at water. What Isabelle did and said and thought was Peggy’s law.

Now Mrs.Benjamin took hold of the situation at once. She disapproved of the school girl “crush.” She had a long talk with Isabelle and urged her to look after the younger girl, to help her forget her “claim” to invalidism, to influence her to normal activity. Isabelle accepted the responsibility and felt it deeply. She restrained herself from this and that because of Peggy. If she did things, Peggy would do them. So again, wise Mrs.Benjamin let her teach herself her first lessons in self-control.

“Isabelle,” Mr.Benjamin said to her, when she had been at the school about two months, “I have a letter from thy father. He says thee does not write home.”

“I’ve been busy,” Isabelle said, frowning.

“But what does thee do on Sunday afternoons, when the other girls write home?”

“I’d rather not tell.”

“But thee writes; I’ve seen thee.”

She nodded.

“I want thee to write thy mother to-day, Isabelle,” he said, sternly.

He told his wife of this conversation later.

“She writes volumes on Sunday,” he said, “now what does she do with it?”

“She is one of the strangest children we’ve ever had, Adam,” she answered.

“She is rather exhausting to me,” he said.

“She’s lived under abnormal conditions of some sort. I cannot seem to visualize her parents at all. She never speaks of them. She was so bitter and sullen when she came to us,” Mrs.Benjamin mused. “I must try to get her confidence about her parents, she may be needing help.”

“She came to thee just in time, my Phoebe.”

“Yes, that’s true. A little more and she would have been a bitter cynic at eighteen. Even now when she just begins to respond, like a frost-bitten plant, I am not sure of the blossom.”

“Hot-house growth, thee must remember.”

“She interests me deeply, and I’m growing very fond of her.”

“Lucky Isabelle,” her husband smiled.

Later in the day when the other girls were out at play Mrs.Benjamin came upon Isabelle, pen in hand, gazing into the distance.

“What is troubling my child?”

“Mr.Benjamin told me to write to Max.”

“Who is Max?”

“My mother.”

“Thy mother, and thee calls her Max?”

“I always have.”

“But it is not respectful, is it?”

“No, but I don’t respect her much.”

“Doesn’t thee?”—calmly.

“No, you can’t”—earnestly.

“And what does thee call thy father?”

“Wally.”

Mrs.Benjamin smiled. Here was all the clue she needed to the kind of parents Isabelle possessed.

“It may have been considered precocious, when thee was little, to call them so. But if I were in thy place, I would not do it now. It gives the wrong impression of thy manners. I think thee has very pretty manners,” she added.

Isabelle flushed with pleasure.

“You see, Max—my mother—doesn’t really care where I am, or what I do, so long as I’m not in her way, so I don’t know what to write her.”

“Couldn’t thee write thy father, then?”

“Well, it would be easier,” she admitted. “Wally is a good sort, and understands more.”

“Write to him then. That will do, I’m sure.”

“All right. But nobody writes me letters. I never get any.”

“To whom does thee write in the letter hour, my dear?”

Isabelle was on her guard at once.

“Oh, to somebody I like.”

“Some friend of thine?”

“Um—yes.”

“Couldn’t thee tell me about this friend? Mr.Benjamin and I are especially interested in the friends of our girls. I have never seen thee post thy letters.”

“I don’t post them”—shamefacedly.

“Oh, they are to an imaginary friend,” said Mrs.Benjamin, seizing an idea.

Isabelle nodded.

“That’s delightful. I used to have an imaginary companion, too. Is thine a girl?”

“No.”

Mrs.Benjamin ignored Isabelle’s uncommunicativeness.

“Why wouldn’t that be a good idea for the theme class, Isabelle? ‘Letters to an imaginary chum’?”

“Mine isn’t a chum.”

“Would thee care to tell me?”

Isabelle rose.

“I’ll show them to you,” she said; and she ran upstairs, and brought a collection of letters to lay in Mrs.Benjamin’s lap.

“Thank thee, dear. May I read them?”

The girl nodded. Mrs.Benjamin lifted the first one. It was addressed to: “My Regular Parents.” Isabelle went and threw herself down by the fire, her face turned away, while Mrs.Benjamin read:

Mrs.Benjamin finished them, then looked at the girl, whose face was turned away, and her smile was very tender. She spoke simply, without a touch of sentimentality.

“Dear, they are very sweet and loving letters. I am glad thee thinks Mr. Benjamin and I are like thy ‘regular parents.’”

Isabelle looked at her shyly.

“Suppose we make an agreement, Isabelle. Thee is to write a short letter to thy father every Sunday, and the rest of the letter hour can be devoted to thy ‘regular parents.’ This letter thee will post to me, and—since I have no ‘regular daughter’—every Sunday afternoon I will post a letter to thee. Is that a bargain?”

“Oh, yes!” cried the girl, flaming to meet this suggestion—this understanding. “Oh, dear Mrs.Benjamin,” she added, “you are so love-ful!”

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