Bright-coloured days followed, like beads slipping along a thread. Isabelle did not formulate any plan of bedevilment for the Captain, but she watched for opportunities with lynx-eyed attention.

She and Agnes were very intimate, and while Isabelle was not given to confidences, she allowed her friend to see that there was something between her and the handsome O’Leary—a sort of flirtatious feud. Agnes adored him from afar, and envied the other girl her power to attract him. She did not understand just what Isabelle wanted of him, but she stood ready to help her get it.

Early in their friendship Agnes had fired Isabelle with a new zeal. She told her about the wonderful patriotic work to be done by writing letters to soldiers, who had no relatives, and to keep them cheered up. She, Agnes, had become marraine to half a dozen Frenchmen; she considered them more exciting than plain English “Tommies” or American “Sammies.” Besides, it was good practice for your French. You made them presents, sent cigarettes and candy, and they sent you back the most thrilling letters.

Agnes displayed some of hers, in confidence, and at once Isabelle felt the call of duty to rescue a French soldier. She could not wait to go through with the formality of applying to the organization in charge of this work, for names of the letter-needy; instead, she borrowed two from Agnes. She chose the two who wrote the most picturesque letters and “adopted” them at once.

Together they worked out her first letters, telling the gentlemen in question of the transfer of god-mothers. After much consideration she adopted the tone of maternal concern for their comfort and welfare, with a cheerful optimism intended to be elderly.

“Jean” and “Edouard” were told of life in Bermuda; pictures (cut from society weeklies) of the island and the people there were enclosed for their entertainment. Cigarettes and candy were promised at once and the letters despatched with much excitement.

The other patriotic offering which grew out of this beginning was the preparation of gift boxes for the soldiers. Not knitted things, but things intended to amuse them. The girls searched every gift shop and delighted in the discovery of some new trinket for “their sons.”

In the meantime an earnest contest for Isabelle’s favour was going on between Percy and one of his friends, Jack Porter. She accepted their attentions indifferently, played with them when it was convenient, and disposed of them cruelly when it was not. She loved to dance and, as they both danced well, they were useful after dinner; unless, of course, Captain O’Leary danced with her more than once, which sometimes happened.

Major O’Dell had shown signs of appreciating her talents since her brief encounter with him on the raft and later. She decided to cultivate him, and—eventually—to ask him for her Chinese coat.

Major O’Dell asked her to take tea with him one day. Mrs.Darlington, and a Miss Devoe, who made eyes at O’Leary, were also his guests. The Captain, and the fat little man, named Monty Haven, who had been on the ship, were there.

“I’ve captured a charming recruit,” said the host as he presented Isabelle.

“I didn’t know that you could be captured, Miss Bryce,” said Mrs. Darlington, insolently.

“It takes the military!” retorted Isabelle.

“That’s right. Plain civilians haven’t a chance with you girls any more, have we?” Haven asked Isabelle.

“Not much,” she agreed.

“What could a nice fellow like me do to get into the running, Miss Bryce?”

“Why don’t you train down?” she answered, literally.

“Oh, Miss Bryce! you’re stepping on Haven’s toes,” laughed Captain O’Leary.

“Am I?” she said, peering under the table.

“The dear, ingenuous little thing,” said Mrs.Darlington, tartly.

She turned and deliberately engaged the men next her in an aside. She had no intention of letting this impertinent miss occupy the entire attention during tea.

Captain O’Leary turned to the protection of Isabelle.

“Haven’t seen much of you lately,” he began.

“No?”

“I see you are always followed by a retinue of boys. No chance for an old fellow like me.”

“The young ones are more diverting.”

“Who is the blond Adonis, me chief rival?”

“You refer to Percy?”

“Percy? Am I to be cut out by a youth named Percy?” he cried.

“You are—if you don’t look out.”

“Never! What can I do to reinstate meself?”

“You can’t expect me to think up ways.”

“What does Percy do?”

“Ask him.”

“Give me two dances to-night, and take a walk with me in the morning,” he demanded.

“I make no promises. You will have to take your chances”—airily.

Miss Devoe, on O’Leary’s other side, said audibly:

“Give her a spoon to play with, Larry, and pay some attention to me.”

Isabelle leaned across to her.

“I’m using him now,” she said.

“Do you know what Captain O’Leary calls you?” retorted Miss Devoe.

“No”—with great interest.

“A leprechaun.”

“It sounds naughty,” said Isabelle, turning reproachful eyes upon him; “is it?”

“Very,” he admitted.

“That is just his pet name for me. What does he call you?” she inquired of Miss Devoe.

Miss Devoe ignored the rejoinder, by whispering to Larry. Isabelle turned to Major O’Dell.

“You’d better talk to me about something. I don’t seem to be a popular favourite.”

“Yours is the unforgivable sin.”

“What?”

“Youth.”

“But they are much prettier than I am, every one of them.”

“I’ll take your eyes and your tongue, thanks,” he laughed. “Let’s take a look at the sunset.”

They rose.

“Where are ye going, you two?” inquired O’Leary.

“Sunsetting,” replied Isabelle.

Then, turning to the ladies, she made a curtsey.

“Good afternoon,” said she.

“Lord, that was wonderful!” exclaimed the Major.

“What?”—innocently.

“You know what, ye clever little rascal.”

Captain O’Leary got only one of his dances that night, but he announced his intention of taking her to walk on the beach at ten the following morning. When, at that hour, he presented himself to Miss Watts, she looked distressed—thought Isabelle must have misunderstood, for she had gone off to walk with Percy Pollock.

The Captain thanked her and set off in pursuit. He was annoyed at himself for being annoyed with this chit of a girl. But she should not play tricks with him! In due course of time he spied them ahead of him. He increased his speed and caught up.

“Good morning,” he said, briefly.

“Oh, good morning, Captain O’Leary,” said she.

“Miss Watts gave me your message.”

“Message?”

“That you would meet me here. By the way, Pollock, your mother asked me to say that something important came for ye in the morning mails. She wants ye at once.”

With a firm and masterly hand he detached Percy and sent him off. Then he turned to Isabelle.

“Ye can play tricks on Percy and your other youngsters, but not on me.”

“I haven’t the slightest interest in playing tricks on you,” she answered. She sat down, opened a parasol, and planted it in the sand. He threw himself down beside her.

“You are a very interesting little girl,” he remarked, “but you have a great deal to learn.”

“Teach me!” she exclaimed, with such ingenuous enthusiasm that he was at a loss to know whether she was making fun of him or not.

“I will. First, you mustn’t be so pricklish.”

“It’s the only way to protect yourself.”

“Against what?”

“People.”

“Ye start on the basis that people are your enemies?”

“I think they are.”

“Look here, tell me about yourself. What shall I call you? Do I have to say ‘Miss Bryce’?”

“My name is Isabelle.”

“Doesn’t suit ye. Have ye no pet name?”

“Somebody I liked once called me ‘the cricket’.”

“That’s it—Cricket—may I call ye that?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Cricket, tell me all about yourself.”

She looked at him intently for a moment. He lay stretched out on the sand, his elbow crooked to support his head. He looked frankly back at her.

“Go on, as friend to friend,” he urged.

And she did. She did not touch it up a bit. She made him see her life, her people, the Benjamins, her experience at Miss Vantine’s—all—through the eyes of her youth, her wistful youth. She told him about Martin Christiansen; she even confessed the fearful catastrophe with Cartel; and she did not mind when he rolled on his back and sent gusts of laughter up to the clouds.

“O ye delicious, crickety Cricket!” he groaned. “Go on.”

“There isn’t any ‘on’. That’s up to now. Tell me about you.”

And he did. He told her about his people, his young life near Dublin. How he went to an English University, how he enlisted in the war. He told her about his life in the trenches, about his wounds, about his decoration. He talked as he had talked to no one else about the whole experience of war.

She sat tense and still, concentrated on his every word. When he had finished, they sat in silence for several seconds.

“And that’s up to now, for me.”

“You’ve got to go back?—there?”

“When I’m well again.”

Her tell-tale face registered her distress. He laid his hand over her little brown one.

“Not for a while. I shall often think of this place and this day,” he said, gazing off over the sea. “Ye’re a comfortable cricket, when ye want to be. I’d like to capture ye, to sing on my hearth!”

She sprang up.

“Well, I’m not ready to settle yet, so your hearth must go bare.”

“Like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard! Where are ye hoppin’ off to?”

“Hotel, for lunch.”

“Is it time?”

She nodded. He fell in step beside her.

“Ye haven’t missed Percy?”

“I wonder what Percy’s mother wanted with him,” she evaded.

“So does Percy’s mother,” he retorted.

She looked up at him.

“You didn’t——?”

“I did, Cricket; I jumped a longer jump than you did,” he boasted.

“Why, you old grasshopper!” she exploded.

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