and looked at her. Max was right; she was no prize beauty, with her baby face like an old woman’s, with her nondescript features, her short brown hair. But her eyes were disturbing—big dusky, wise eyes, with no effect of childishness.

“Look here, Isabelle, why do you act like this?” That was regular parent-talk, so she made no answer.

“Here you are, four years old, and you can’t behave at your own party,” he continued.

“I hate parties.”

“Well, but you have to have parties.”

“Why?”

“Oh, all children do.”

“Nasty things! I hate ’em all, except Patsy.”

“Hate those nice little girls?”

“Yes!”—hotly.

“And those handsome boys?”

“Yes. They’re ugly. Patsy is handsome.”

“Why are you so crazy about this Patsy?”

“Because he always does what I say.” Wally stifled a smile.

“But don’t you know you mustn’t take off your clothes before mixed company?”

“But we were playing barbarian.”

“Well, you shouldn’t play that kind of game.”

“Why not?”

“Because——” He floundered. “Now, look here, you must never take off your clothes again.”

“Not when I go to bed?”—with interest.

“I mean before people.”

“Not before Miss Wilder, or Mary?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he exploded. “You know what I mean—before boys and girls.”

“Why not?”

“Because it isn’t nice. Don’t you know what modesty is?”

“No; what is it?”

“It’s—it’s—well, it’s just that you mustn’t show your body to people.”

“Isn’t my face my body?”

“That’s different. Everybody shows his face.” She considered that.

“If everybody showed their bodies it would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“No,” Wally said, harshly, because he felt she was making a fool of him.

“But the barbarians never wore any clothes, and they were nice.”

“That’s different. They didn’t know any better.”

“Didn’t they? Why didn’t God tell them any better?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Jesus wear clothes?” she inquired.

“Who?” he demanded, caught unawares.

“Jesus. You know, God’s boy,” she replied, earnestly.

“Of course he wore clothes,” Wally protested.

“Why didn’t he tell the barbarians?”

“O Lord, I don’t know. This has got nothing to do with your performance this afternoon,” Wally urged, trying to get back to the subject and on to solid ground.

“What kind of punishing are you going to do?” she inquired.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “What do you think I ought to do?”

She thought about that with awakened interest.

“There’s whipping, but I don’t mind that.”

“You don’t?”

“No. There’s shutting up, but that’s fun. I play I’m a prisoner then.”

“Are there any punishments you don’t like?”

“Yes. Parties are punishment, and kindiegarden in winter is punishment.”

“You think the party this afternoon was punishment, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Who punished you?”

“Max.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call your mother ‘Max.’”

“Why not?”

“Why do you call her that?”

“Because you do.”

“I don’t have to be respectful to her—I mean——”

“If you call her that, I’m going to,” she said, dismissing that subject.

“You’re being punished now, you know, being sent off to bed in broad daylight.”

“But I like it, when you talk to me.”

He rose promptly.

“I’m not going to talk to you. Your punishment is that nobody will talk to you for the rest of the day.”

“All right”—cheerfully.

“You’ll just lie here, all alone.”

“Oh, no,” she corrected him, “my playmates will be here, and God’s always around.”

“No playmates shall come in here,” he reiterated.

“But you can’t keep Dorothy and Reginald out, because they’re just pretend,” she defied him.

Wally knew he was beaten. He had never felt so futile in his life. She sat there with her straight little back, her wise eyes fixed on him, and he wished he were well out of the room.

“I hope you will lie here and think of what I have said to you,” he remarked sonorously. “I’m surprised at you, Isabelle,” he added sternly.

He rose and hurried toward the door.

“Good night, Wally,” she said pleasantly, and smiled at him.

It is not too much to say that Wally fled. He sought out his wife, who was dressing for dinner.

“Well, did you whip her?” she inquired.

He evaded that.

“I’ve had a good talk with her”—firmly.

She turned her face over her shoulder at him, and laughed.

“Terrified her, no doubt.”

“Where on earth does she get her ideas?”

“Not from me,—” indifferently.

“She’s—she’s uncanny, that kid.”

“Hurry and dress, we’re dining at the club. I wish you the joy of your job,” she added, as he left her.

A day or two later, when Wally came out of the bath house on the way to swim, he encountered his daughter on the beach.

“I’ll swim with you, Wally,” she said.

“No, thanks. I’m going to the raft.”

“So am I,” she answered.

He looked at her and laughed. She looked like a Kewpie in her abbreviated bathing suit, with water wings fastened to her back. She walked rapidly into the sea, and, perforce, he followed. Miss Wilder shouted orders in vain from the shore. The tide was running in, and nearly high, so she was over her depth in a second, but she paddled out toward the distant raft, her head well out of the water, thanks to her wings. Much amused, Wally swam beside her into deep water.

“It was a great surprise to me, the day I found I could swim,” she said.

“It must have been,” he laughed.

“It was a pleasant day,” she added.

“It is deep here,” he said, to test her.

“I know it. Don’t you put your hands on me, Wally. I don’t want to be touched,” she admonished him.

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“No.”

In due time they reached the raft. The youngster was winded, but undaunted. Bryce watched her with real admiration. Here was a dare-devil courage he vastly respected. He was timid and cautious himself.

“Throw me off the raft, Wally; I like to splash,” she ordered.

“You’re crazy,” he said.

“No. Mr. Page threw me off the club raft, when I asked him to.”

“Better not let me catch him at it. You sit still and get your breath and then we’ll start back.”

He dived off the raft and instantly she followed him. He caught her by the arm, strangling and coughing.

“You little devil,” he said; “you’ll drown.”

“No, I won’t. Let go, Wally; I won’t be helped.”

He headed her for shore, by pretending to race her, and once on land he urged Miss Wilder to watch her every minute, lest she swim for the raft alone.

But this adventure had fixed Isabelle on her father’s mind. He thought about her a good deal, and laughed at the thought. She certainly was a sport, and she was nobody’s fool. He wondered if other children were like her, and began to watch them. He asked their fathers about them, but the fathers never knew. They always said: “I don’t see much of the kids; too busy,” or: “That’s Mabel’s