CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

She looked like a little girl in her straight white gown, and the top of her head came well below his shoulder. They glided off without a word. The Captain was an accomplished dancer, also he danced because he loved it. In the same way it was speech to Isabelle; it expressedher, it was a natural gift. They were like one person, moved by one will. Encore followed encore. Only once was a word exchanged between them; and then, as they waited for the music to begin again, she lifted shining eyes to his, and he leaned toward her quickly:

“Ye little moonbeam!” he said, softly.

Then they went on again. Time and space were not, for Isabelle. She was a part of elemental Nature—a part of sea and sky and deep bosomed tropical night. Even as Larry O’Leary had said, she was a child of the lady moon, a beam of her silver light.

When, finally, it was over, they found Miss Watts waiting for them, a few steps away.

“Here I am,” she said, in her usual voice, as if the whole world had not changed its face. “You had a nice long dance, didn’t you?”

“Wonderful!” said the Irishman, in a voice that thrilled. “Now we’re getting acquainted,“ he added, bending down to Isabelle. ”I thank you, Miss Moonbeam,” he whispered.

Isabelle smiled at him. She had not said one word since he led her forth. She felt a little dizzy with everything. Speech was unnecessary. He left them, then, and Miss Watts smiled at her.

“Did you enjoy it, Isabelle?” she asked pleasantly.

“No!” flashed the girl, unexpectedly. “I am going to bed.”

“That’s sensible. We will enjoy our sleep to-night in a real bed.”

But Isabelle was not thinking of sleep!

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The next morning floated in upon Isabelle’s senses, warm and fragrant. She felt that this was to be one of the most important days of her life. She loved and she was loved at last! It never entered her head that there could be any doubt of Captain O’Leary’s feelings for her. He had called her, tenderly, “little moonbeam,” and in one long rapturous dance it had come to them that the meaning of life was love.

She dressed in a daze of happiness, in the knowledge that presently she was to see him again. How would they meet? Where? What would the odious Darlington woman say when she knew that “the surly little thing” had captured her captain?

She took great pains with her toilet, stared at herself long in the glass. She wished she were beautiful, like Mrs. Darlington, or Max. He deserved the most radiant creature in the world! How could he care for a plain mite like herself?Didhe?

In a sudden collapse into deep depression she sought Miss Watts and hurried her downstairs. No signs of him in the breakfast room. Later she led Miss Watts up and down every veranda, but a complete survey of the grounds brought no results.

“We ought not to exercise so violently right after breakfast, Isabelle. Let us sit down in the shade for a little.”

Isabelle agreed; it did not matter to her what they did just now, and these seats gave a view of every one who came out of the hotel.

“What shall we do to-day?” inquired Miss Watts.

“Oh—I don’t know”—indifferently.

Some people were coming out now. A tall woman, a girl, and a boy. The girl stared at Isabelle and then advanced.

“Aren’t you Isabelle Bryce?” she asked.

“Why, Agnes Pollock!” exclaimed Isabelle.

Introductions and explanations followed. The girls had known each other at Hill Top School. Agnes was convalescing from an appendicitis operation. She was with her mother and her brother, who greeted Isabelle cordially.

“Heard a lot about you!” said Percy Pollock, who was a beautiful blond person, slightly older than the girls. “You were the terror at Hill Top, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t have much chance. I was only there one year,” laughed Isabelle.

“I hope you’ll wake up this dull isle,” said he.

“Dull?” cried Isabelle, blushing furiously at her tone.

They all sat down together, in the aimless way of holiday makers, but Isabelle’s eyes were ever on the door. Where was the man? Did he lie abed all morning? And such a morning!

“Isabelle, let’s go for a walk down the beach. I’ve such heaps to tell you about Hill Top.”

“Good idea,” said Percy, promptly.

“Not you. Just Isabelle and me. We want to talk.”

“I—think I won’t this morning. I—I’d rather not,” began Isabelle.

Then she stopped short. He, the Son of the Morning, was coming forth. She scarcely noticed that Mrs. Darlington was with him. Her face was suddenly so radiant that the others turned to look. He saw them. Now he would come to her—show them how it was between them!

But he did no such thing. He bowed, a trifle absently, and passed within a few feet of them—near enough for them to hear him say:

“Paula, ever young and ever fair!”

They also saw the ravishing look she threw him.

“What a handsome man!” exclaimed Agnes.

“Lady-killer, I bet you,” jeered Percy.

“Come on, Agnes, let’s go for that walk on the beach,” cried Isabelle.

She started off almost before any one understood her purpose.

“Hi there! are you trailing me behind?” called Percy.

“No,” said Isabelle, shortly.

Agnes hurried after her, and when they had tramped the beach for a while, they sat down in the sand. Agnes remembered that Isabelle was “queer,” but there was something passionate about the way she threw herself into their reminiscences, that struck her as unnecessary. They spoke of Mrs. Benjamin, with tears on Agnes’s part. She told of Mr. Benjamin’s pitiful efforts to go on with the school. He had been forced to give up thestruggle, and Agnes lamented the necessity of going to a new school when she returned to New York.

“Now tell me about you,” she demanded. “Why are you out of school?”

“I hated the school they sent me to last year, so this year I struck and went on the stage for a while.”

“Why, Isabelle Bryce!” cried her friend, thrilled to the bone.

“But I didn’t like it; it made me sick. So I, too came down here to get well.”

She evaded questions on the subject of her stage career, and after some desultory talk they went back to the hotel. People were strolling to the beach for the bathing hour.

“Let’s find Percy and go in,” said Agnes.

Isabelle, having agreed to meet them on the beach, hurried off to change. Miss Watts went down to the sea with her; she did not wait for Agnes and Percy. She struck out for the farther raft. There was one a hundred feet from shore, and one farther out, for expert swimmers. She had just passed the former when she became aware of some one in her wake, some one coming with speed. She slowed up a little.

“What do ye mean by swimmin’ off alone like this?” demanded a well-known voice. She made no answer, but she did not increase her speed. He came up beside her. “This is plain childish folly, that’s what it is,” he blustered.

Isabelle rolled on her back and smiled faintly at the sky.

“Ye ought to be spanked, ye little devil.”

“Some people are good at calling names,” she remarked to the sky.

“I’m tellin’ ye it’s dangerous for you to start off for that far raft alone.”

“Well, I’m asking you what business it is of yours?”

“Do ye want me to stand by and see ye drown yerself?”

“It’s my privilege to drown myself if I like,” she replied, as she struck off for the raft again. They swam to it in silence, and she pulled her slim satin body, like a shining eel, up onto the platform. He followed.

“You’re a very disturbin’ young person!” he said, sternly.

She lifted her eyebrows at him, with a baby stare. He looked away with a frown.

“Where is ‘Paula! ever young and ever fair’?” she inquired. “Is she displaying herself on the beach?”

He grinned.

“Not she. Paula is a very clever woman—she knows her own limitations,” he replied. “Hello! here comes somebody.”

It proved to be Major O’Dell, the man who had looked after Larry on shipboard. He glared at them and climbed aboard the raft.

“Larry, ye fool, what do ye mean by takin’ such a swim as this on yer first day?” he demanded, hotly.

“I came to rescue this young mermaid,” he answered.

“It’s damfoolishness—that’s what it is. I beg yer pardon, Miss—Miss——”

“Bryce” from Larry.

“This man is here convalescing, and it is folly for him to over-exert himself in any such manner,” he scolded her.

“I didn’t invite him to come,” said she. “He forced his society on me. Now that you’re here to tow him in, I’ll leave him to you,” she added; and with that she dived off.

“Wait a minute. Major O’Dell wants to rest,” cried the Captain.

“Let him. Let him rest a month,” came back the answer, as the shining head turned toward the distant shore.

“I’ve got to go after her, O’Dell. It isn’t safe,” protested Larry.

“Who appointed you her nurse?”

“Damn it! man, the child might drown.”

He went overboard and started after Isabelle. O’Dell, with a far-from-pretty word, followed. In some such procession they finally arrived at the beach. Isabelle stepped forth, shook her slim black self, ran up the beach and back like a colt, and joined Miss Watts, sedate as a debutante. Captain O’Leary approached them.

“Miss Watts,” said he, “it is none of my affair, of course, but if you have any authority over this young woman, you will forbid her to swim alone to the farther raft.”

Isabelle grinned at him, but he frowned and walked away without another word.

Isabelle spent the rest of the day near the hotel that she might be at hand if he came out, but there were no signs of him. Percy Pollock had introduced two boys,who urged the girls on all sorts of expeditions, but Isabelle was adamant. She could not bother with boys if there was any chance of another encounter.

Major O’Dell came out on the terrace, saw her, and strolled over.

“May I speak to you, Miss Bryce?”

She joined him and they walked over to a seat by a wall.

“I wish to apologize for being so short-tempered this morning,” he began.

“Yes, you were,” she replied.

“Captain O’Leary has been in bed since that junket you took him on this morning.”

“I didn’t take him,” said she, “he came.”

“He is in no condition to endure such a strain. I ask you not to let him do such a thing again.”

“I’m not his mother,” she burst out. “He is old enough to take care of himself and I do not intend to act as his trained nurse.”

She looked—and sounded—so young that Major O’Dell laughed.

“All right. I’ll tell him. You were on our boat, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you travel much, Miss Bryce?”

“Oh, not much. Why?”

“Have you ever been in the Far East?”

She glanced at him quickly. He was twisting the ends of his little moustache and gazing off to sea. Heavens! was this the man? She had almost forgotten theChinese coat in the emotions which had swept her since landing.

“The Far East?” she managed to repeat with a semblance of indifference.

“Yes, the Philippines, Japan, or China.”

“No, I’ve never been there.”

“Um. You should go. Full of treasures, jewels, embroideries, brocades—all the things that women like”—he continued, looking directly at her.

“So?” queried Isabelle, obviously bored.

“I’m afraid I am keeping you from your friends. So I’m to look elsewhere for a nurse for Captain O’Leary?”

“Why don’t you try Mrs. Darlington?” she inquired. Then with a nod, she went back to her playmates.

An hour or so later a group of people, Mrs. Darlington among them, took a near-by table for tea. Major O’Dell and Captain O’Leary, the latter looking very white, came out and joined them. They did not look in her direction until she heard Mrs. Darlington remark:

“Larry, just see what a collection of little boys your ugly duckling has made.”

At this they all looked. Isabelle glanced at her little boys, and said something that made them shout with laughter. But it was not so loud but that the wind carried her his reply:

“She’s notmyugly duckling. She’s a wicked little leprechaun, born under a mushroom, on a black night, but she swims like a fish, and dances like a pixie. I tell ye she’s not human at all at all!”

She heard their laughter, and her eyes smarted. Whata fool he had made of her! How she despised herself. There was only one way to square it, to get back her self-respect. She would find out what a leprechaun meant, and she would bedevil the honourable Captain O’Leary, like the pixie that he named her!

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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 becomemarraineto 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 raftand 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 onesaremore 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’musing him now,” she said.

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

“No”—with great interest.

“A leprechaun.”

“Itsoundsnaughty,” said Isabelle, turning reproachful eyes upon him; “isit?”

“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!”

“Ye’re a comfortable cricket, when ye want to be. I’d like to capture ye, to sing on my hearth!”“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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Miss Watts found Isabelle more reasonable, more amenable than ever before in their association, and as she had made some pleasant acquaintances, she was thoroughly enjoying herself. She hoped their stay would be long. In her reports to the Bryces she conscientiously mentioned Isabelle’s good behaviour and her improvement in health.

She watched the career of her charge with interest and some concern. She saw with surprise that the girl had hit upon the only possible way of intriguing the interest of a spoiled darling like Captain O’Leary. She flitted like a will-o’-the-wisp before him.

Larry thought that their talk on the beach had established a new relation, but he soon found that he could not rely on it. When she was particularly annoying he reminded her how sweet she had been that day, but all she could recall of it was that he had cut Percy out! If he ignored her completely, suddenly she was like a soft little rabbit in his hands, all heart-beat. She puzzled and annoyed him.

These were busy days for Isabelle. Percy and Jack were always under foot. They furnished comic relief when her military intrigue threatened to become serious. Then her “god-son,” Jean Jacques Petard, who was woundedand in a hospital, replied to her maternal solicitude with prolonged and passionate devotion. Isabelle shared the treasure with Agnes, who protested that none of her godsons wrote to her like that; and she asked to have Jean back. Isabelle stoutly refused. A gift was a gift. Agnes had given her Jean and she intended to keep him.

“But you took my two best ones.”

“You gave me my choice, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and I was a silly to do it. I might have known you’d take the best ones”—hotly.

“But you had letters from him. You say yourself he never wrote to you like that. It’smehe’s writing to, not you.”

“Well, of all the conceited things!” cried Agnes.

“I’m glad I am. I’ll give you Edouard back, if you’re going to make such a row.”

“I don’t want him.”

“All right, that settles it. It wouldn’t be fair to Jean to give him back to you.”

“Fair! Lots you care about fair.”

“Do you think it’s fair to pass a soldier of France—one of our allies—back and forth between mothers, like a bean-bag?”

“I have nothing more to say. I have found you out, Isabelle Bryce. I give to you generously, and you prove a false friend.”

Agnes walked away with her face flushed and her head high. It was too bad to be treated like this when you were doing your patriotic duty. She brooded on thematter for several days, avoiding her false friend, and then an idea of revenge took possession of her.

Chance played into her hands at the moment, by putting into her lap a copy of a fashionable magazine. It had two pages of pictures of the idlers at Bermuda. An enlarged snapshot of Isabelle coming out of the sea, was featured with a brief biographic sketch of her meteoric career as actress, of her family, and her wealth. Agnes cut this out, enclosing it with an anonymous letter to Petard. She told of the miserable trick played upon him. Isabelle was only seventeen and a half, and in no way fit to be a god-mother to him. She was infatuated with him, and pretended to be old, so she would have an excuse to write him.

This malicious mischief mailed and headed for France, Agnes felt better, and awaited results. She would make up with Isabelle in time to hear what Jean Jacques Petard would say now. She hoped he would denounce her as a traitor!

So far as Isabelle was concerned, Agnes and her injured feelings were of no moment. It was a trifle awkward when Percy and Jack arranged a foursome, but by strict formality of intercourse, they managed the situation. The boys were soon aware of it, and found much amusement in urging the combatants to battle. Percy tried to pump Agnes as to the cause of the rupture, but nothing could unseal her lips on the secret. She could imagine what those boys would do if they knew the truth. So poor Agnes suffered in silence, nursed her secret triumph, and staged the moment of Isabelle’s downfall.

Major O’Dell, whom by this time Isabelle counted a friend, approached one day as she dallied with her two admirers.

“I impersonate Mercury, bearing an invitation,” he said.

“I’ll do anything with you, Major O’Dell, but I don’t want to play with your crowd.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like the women. They pick on me.”

“Larry and I will protect you.”

“Humph!”

“I have the permission of the amiable Miss Watts. It is all arranged.”

“What is it?”

“Monty Haven’s yacht is at anchor and he wants you to come for a sail and lunch aboard.”

“Sorry. I’m engaged to-day with Percy.”

“May I add that a certain gentleman, not at the moment in your good graces, entreats you to come?”

“Sorry. You wouldn’t let me off, would you, Percy?”

“No”—firmly.

“Alas! This is final?” asked the Major.

“Convey my thanks to Mr. Haven, please, dear Major O’Dell, and mention——”

“‘Percy’,” he interrupted with a smile, and left.

“What did you put it on me for?” complained Percy.

“Come down on the beach and watch them go,” ordered Isabelle, leading the way.

They sat them down and watched preparations on theyacht. A motor boat came ashore and carried off the guests.

“Now aren’t you sorry?” said Percy.

“Nope.”

The motor boat presently put off again—in their direction. It came as near shore as it dared, and stopped. Captain O’Leary stepped overboard into the shallow water, and advanced upon the puzzled three. He bowed, leaned over, picked up Miss Isabelle Bryce in his arms, and marched into the sea and toward the boat.

“Hi there! what are you doing?” cried Percy.

“Come and get me, you big idiots!” called Isabelle over O’Leary’s shoulder.

The two boys plunged in. O’Leary laughed and ran. He set her in the boat, jumped in himself, and they were off, leaving the two swains hip deep and helpless.

Isabelle turned smouldering eyes on the Captain.

“Cricket, my dear,” said he, “I feel that there is an excess of Percy!”

She blazed in silent fury.

“Cricket, don’t be cross. It was only a joke to tease your beaux. They were funny, standin’ there in their neat white flannels, weren’t they now?”

No answer.

They were received with a shout of delight from the boat. Haven met them at the rail and greeted Isabelle.

“Larry, you win!” he shouted, and they all shook hands with the Captain and beat him on the back.

“Win?” inquired Isabelle.

“Major O’Dell bet Larry that he couldn’t get you aboard and Larry took him.”

“Major O’Dell, that wasn’t fair,” cried Isabelle.

They all stared at him, and she added with a chuckle:

“It happened just as we planned it, didn’t it?”

“Did you put something up on me, O’Dell?” cried Larry. “Ye cheat—ye old pirate!”

He fell upon him, and a rough-and-tumble inaugurated the party. When O’Dell found a chance he joined Isabelle.

“You little witch!” he said. “Ye certainly made a booby of ole Larry. But don’t you be coming between me and my best friend.”

“I won’t if he keeps out of my way,” she blazed, “but I’m mad!”

“’Twas only a joke. We wanted ye to come. For my sake, be nice and funny, an’ like yourself.”

“All right,” she answered amiably. “But you owe me something, if I am.”

“Name it, and it’s yours.”

“It’s mine already. I want my Chinese coat back.”

He stared at her for a full second.

“It is yours, then?”

“Yes.”

“I told him it was——”

“Toldhim?”

“It wasn’t my room ye left it in.”

“No? How did you know, then?”—in alarm.

“The man who found it asked every woman aboard and never thought of you, because—well—you’re such a baby,” he added, staring.

“What’s that got to do with it? I went out in the corridor to get some air, and I went in the wrong door, by mistake. I took off my coat, and started to climb up to my berth, when the boat joggled, and I put my hand ona moustache! I was so scared that I ran off without my coat.”

The Major began to laugh.

“What’s the joke?” inquired Larry, joining them.

“It’s a secret between Major O’Dell and me. On your sacred honour, Major, you won’t tell,” said Isabelle.

“On my sacred honour.”

“Go away, O’Dell, and let me make my peace with the Cricket.”

“Major O’Dell, you will stay, if you please.”

True to her promise to O’Dell, she played up and kept them all amused, but she never so much as looked at Larry. Thoroughly annoyed, he devoted himself conspicuously to Mrs. Darlington and Miss Devoe. But he might have been in China for all the impression his flirtation made on Isabelle. They landed late in the afternoon, with the Bryce-O’Leary feud still on.

Isabelle told the story of her capture to Miss Watts, but with that lady’s perverted English sense of humour, she thought O’Leary’s prank was funny. She knew that she ought to disapprove of it, but she only laughed.

Isabelle went off to read a letter which she found awaiting her, from her god-son Jean. It proved rather a surprise. She read it twice. It was undeniably a love-letter. Init he told her—that he adored her in a great many ways and a great many times. He had known all along that she was not old, and now that he saw how young she was, how lovely . . . it went on and on. He wished to address her father at once, and ask her hand in marriage. He enclosed a photograph of himself; he was quite good looking. It was a thrilling letter, but it took her breath away. How could he know she was young and lovely?

She answered it instantly, tearing up many sheets of paper in the process. She assured him that he was mistaken, that she was too old to think of marriage, even if she loved him—which she could not say she did, because she didn’t know him. Her father was long since dead, so he could not address him, etc., etc. In short, unless he could think of her as his devotedmarrainethey must end the correspondence, there and then.

She despatched it at once, with a resolve to handle “her son Jean” with more restraint in the future. Needless to say she did not mention the letter to Agnes, whose overtures to peace she had finally accepted.

Life went on its interesting way. Captain O’Leary made his peace with her, too, and lost it again. Major O’Dell acted as intermediary in their battles. He was delightful, in this capacity, but he would not tell any more about the coat. He said he would see that it was returned to her, but that it might take some time.

The next letter from Jean Jacques Petard was a flaming torch of passion. She might as well drop her disguise. He knew her for her true self. He loved her madly;he read her love, in the cold lines she forced her pen to write. One word of love from her and he would come. He was on convalescent leave and at her service.

She was really alarmed now. Nothing but the impossibility of getting a cable sent kept her from that extravagance. She wrote him at length. It was all a mistake. She admitted that she was young. She told him that she did not love him, and that—deeply grateful though she was for his beautiful devotion—she felt that this must be her last communication to him. She added, in the hope of putting an end to his letters, that she was about to leave Bermuda. With a sigh of relief she posted this dismissal, and at that moment she ceased to bemarraineto Jean and Edouard. It was too bad that duty should carry so amiss!

Two weeks later, with no explanation or excuse, a cable came from Wally to Miss Watts:

“Come home by next boat.”

It was a blow to them both, they were having such a good time. But it was “theirs not to question why”—so they packed hastily, to catch the steamer leaving on the morrow.

It happened that hostilities were on at the moment, between Isabelle and the Captain. She did not want to leave him without a farewell, nor did she want to make overtures toward peace. He was off on Haven’s yacht when the news of the approaching sudden departure spread about. It happened that on his return no one spoke to him about it. Isabelle saw him after dinner on the terrace. He lit a cigarette and strolled off alone towardthe gardens. She followed him. He wandered into a sort of kiosk, where the view was fine, and she darted in after him, and straight into his arms.

“Good-bye,” she said, “good-bye. I hope it isn’t for ever.”

He held her to him in complete surprise, and laid his cheek upon her hair.

“Cricket,” he said softly, “little old crickety-Cricket! Good-bye for what?”

She started back and looked up at him.

“You! You!” she cried. “Oh! But I thought you were——”

“Not Percy!” he exploded.

But she ran away fast, through the garden, and he heard her laughter.

This was the memory that Isabelle carried with her on the way home. It was sweet and warm. She was content with it for a while.

Wally met them at the pier. It was plain that he was excited. After hasty greetings, he turned to his daughter.

“Who in thunder is this Frenchman you’re engaged to?”

“What?” she demanded, startled.

“Jean Jacques Petard visits me; Jean Jacques Petard patrols our house; Jean Jacques Petard shadows your mother——”

“But I—but he isn’t——”

“None of your tricks!” ordered Wally. “What we want to know is who is this Jean Jacques Petard, who demands your hand in marriage?”

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On the way home from the pier Isabelle demanded explanations about the Frenchman, but Wally refused to talk.

“Your mother has something to say on the subject. Wait until we get home.”

She and Miss Watts were summoned before the bar of judgment as soon as they reached the house. Max met them in the library and after a perfunctory greeting opened fire.

“Miss Watts, what does this mean?”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Bryce, but I must ask you to be more explicit.”

“Explicit? I send my daughter away in your charge and you bring her back engaged to some unknown poilu. Then you ask me to be explicit!”

“But I know nothing of this affair, Mrs. Bryce. It is as much a surprise to me as it is to you.”

Mrs. Bryce turned an exasperated look to the girl.

“It’s true,” said Isabelle, “she doesn’t know anything about it.”

“But how could you get engaged to him without her knowing it? She could see him around, couldn’t she?”

“But he wasn’t around. We met no Frenchman in Bermuda,” protested Miss Watts, utterly at sea.

“Will you kindly explain this mystery?” inquired Mrs. Bryce, hotly.

“Yes, if you’ll keep your temper and let me. In the first place, I’m not engaged to him.”

“He says you are practically engaged and that you love him,” contributed Wally.

“But I’ve never seen him.”

“What?”—in chorus from both parents.

“It’s true.”

“You’d better have a look at him,” said Wally, going, to the window.

Isabelle followed him hastily. A man in French uniform gazed up at the windows.

“Isthat Jean Jacques?” inquired Isabelle with interest. “He isn’t bad looking, is he?”

“He patrols the block day and night. But get ahead with the plot. What hold has he got on you?”

“None,” said she, promptly. “I merely adopted him as my son.”

“Are you crazy?” inquired her mother.

Even Miss Watts looked alarmed.

“No, I’m a patriot. Down at Bermuda I met a girl I knew at school, Agnes Pollock. She told me about being patriotic, and how she wrote cheerful letters to soldiers in the trenches. So I borrowed two from her, Jean and Edouard. I wrote them nice motherly letters, about keeping their feet dry——”

Wally burst into laughter, but Mrs. Bryce hushed him with a violent gesture.

“They called me ‘Ma chère marraine,’ and wrote long letters back. It was splendid practice for my French,” she added.

“But this man wouldn’t be wanting to marry his ‘chère marraine’,” challenged Mrs. Bryce.

“No. He wrote rather warm letters from the first, but Agnes and I decided that he had a warm, appreciative nature.”

“Little fools! Then what?”

“I wrote a very cooling letter, but it didn’t work. He was worse than ever; he said he knew I was beautiful and young; that he loved me madly—wanted to ask Wally for my hand in marriage, and a lot of stuff like that.”

“And you accepted him?—this man you’ve never seen?”

“Of course I didn’t accept him. I told him that I was old; that I didn’t love him; that Wally was dead, so he couldn’t address him; and that that was my last letter.”

Again Wally laughed.

“But Isabelle, why didn’t you tell me something of all this?” begged Miss Watts.

“Why should I boast of doing my bit?”

“Rubbish!” exploded her mother. “You’ve got yourself into a nice scrape. How do we know what she said in these letters?” she asked Wally.

“But I’ve told you what I said.”

“You didn’t keep copies of them, did you?” asked Wally.

“No, of course not.”

“Have you got his letters?” from her mother.

“Yes, in my trunk.”

“There’s nothing to be done until we see them,” said Mrs. Bryce, impatiently.

“They are private letters, and I must say . . .” began Isabelle, hotly.

“You be quiet,” ordered her mother, angrily. “I can’t see that you were much use, Miss Watts.”

“Mrs. Bryce, I had no idea that this was going on. I knew she wrote letters, but I supposed they were to you or to school friends. I did not feel it necessary to censor her mail.”

“You ought to know her well enough by now to know that when she seems to be behaving she is doing her worst.”

Mrs. Bryce summoned a maid and ordered Isabelle’s trunk to be reported the moment it arrived. While they waited Mrs. Bryce interrogated Miss Watts as to whom Isabelle had met in Bermuda. Isabelle was at the window, gazing from behind the curtain at her admirer, but she noticed that Captain O’Leary’s name was merely mentioned in a list of the English officers they had met.

“Look here, Isabelle, how about Edouard?” whispered Wally, at her elbow. “Does he think he is engaged to you, too?”

She felt the laugh behind his words, so she answered gravely:

“No, Wally, Edouard was a dutiful son.”

He chuckled. Max turned at the sound.

“Don’t encourage her, Wally.”

“I can’t. It’s too late.”

“Don’t worry. I disinherited them both,” Isabelle assured him.

“Did she have any violent love affairs?” inquired Mrs. Bryce.

“There were two very devoted young men, Percy Pollock and Jack Porter. But I thought Isabelle handled them very well,” replied Miss Watts.

“Are you engaged to them?” whispered Wally again.

“Wally, I’m not engaged to anybody,” answered his child.

The maid announced the trunks and Isabelle went in search of her treasures. When she returned she carried in each hand a bundle of letters tied with ribbons.

“Son Jean’s,” she said, offering one bundle to Max. “We need not go over Son Edouard’s.”

Mrs. Bryce began to read. As she finished a page, she handed it to Wally, and he in turn passed it to Miss Watts. The two women read solemnly, but Wally laughed occasionally. Isabelle sat by, now and then taking a peek at the author of this new trouble.

“Well!” remarked Mrs. Bryce when the last tender words had been read.

“Going some, Isabelle!” added Wally.

“We’ll have him in,” said Max.

“Oh, no; now, I wouldn’t do that.”

“I would. Matthews will go across the street and tell him to come.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Max, what are you going to do?”

“Get her letters back, of course.”

“Isabelle, you and Miss Watts go somewhere else and wait,” Wally urged, as his wife gave the butler instructions.

“No. I shall stay here.”

“You’ll do no such thing. You’ve done your part, now you leave the rest of it to us,” ordered her mother.

“It is my hand he is asking for; those are my letters, and this is my affair. I shall stay right here and see it through,” Isabelle asserted with firm determination.

Max saw that, except by force, there was no way to eject her, and it was too late for that, as Matthews was approaching with the Frenchman.

The hero entered with a ceremonious bow. He was good-looking in a dare-devil way, with a somewhat dissipated face. His eyes went from one to another until they came to Isabelle.

“Ah! mon adoree, c’est toi!” he cried, and before any one could stop him, he seized her hands and covered them with kisses.

“None of that!” shouted Wally, jerking Isabelle away.

Max took command. She spoke, curtly, in French.

“Monsieur Petard, we have read your letters to our daughter, and heard her story of her correspondence with you. She is, as you see, a mere child. I appeal to you as a soldier and a gentleman, to return her letters to us, and to close this painful incident.”

He turned to the girl.

“I ask you one question. Do you love me?”

“Why, no,” she said, simply, “I told you I didn’t.”

“I did not believe. Your friend, the Mademoiselle Pollock, she say you are infatuate wiz me; she send ze picture; she tell me you are crazy about me.”

“Agnes Pollock? Why, the dirty little liar!” cried Isabelle.

“My daughter is a schoolgirl, she knows nothing about love. Will you or will you not, give us those letters?”

He considered a second.

“I have come all ze way to zese countree, because of ze lettaires of your schoolgirl!”

“That does not interest us”—firmly.

“No-o? It ees an expenseef voyage.”

Max looked at Wally.

“Now, we’re getting to the point,” she said. “How much do you want for those letters?”

“Oh, Madame, you——”

“Hurry up! What is your price?”

“Ver’ good. I say five sousand dollaires.”

“Nonsense! I’ll give you $1,000.”

“But I cannot accept zese.”

“That or nothing.”

“I have already an offaire of five sousand dollaires.”

“From whom?”

“Ze editor of what you callChit-Chat.”

“So, you threaten us, do you?”

“I would not say zat. I geef you a chance Madame, to regain ze indiscretions of ze schoolgirl daughter. But five sousand dollaires is five sousand dollaires.”

“What is your address?”

He gave it.

“Our lawyer will call on you at ten in the morning at this hotel, with our offer. Good morning.”

He bowed.

“Five sousand dollaires is my price, Madame.”

Wally started to speak, but she stopped him.

“You will hear from us to-morrow,” she said.

He bowed again, most formally.

“Ma petite marraine, vous êtes très charmante,” he sighed as he left.

“Why didn’t you give him what he asked? We don’t want the thing hashed up inChit-Chat,” objected Wally.

“You are going right now to the editor ofChit-Chatand make a bargain with him. Get your lawyer, Clifford, on the ’phone and have him meet us there.”

“You needn’t come, Max. It may be nasty.”

“I’ll come,” said she.

Mrs. Bryce went hastily out of the room, without a look at Isabelle. Miss Watts followed her.

“Well, Isabelle?”

“Wally; I’m sorry!” she said, earnestly.

He looked at her speculatively.

“It may cost a pretty penny to get rid of him. Are you sure Edouard knows that he is disinherited?”

“I hope so,” she said, solemnly. “Wally, it does discourage you with being patriotic, or having children or anything!”

“Wally, are you coming?” called Mrs. Bryce, sharply.

He hurried away, trying his best to cover a smile with a befitting dignity.

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