job (or Kate’s or Mary’s).”

He could not seem to remember seeing much of his father when he was a boy, save on state occasions when his parent was called upon to administer extra stiff punishment. He wondered if the other mothers knew more about their youngsters than Max did about hers? But when he asked them at the club, or on the golf course, they looked surprised and said: “I don’t know anything about them, Wally; the governess looks after them.”

It evidently wasn’t the thing, in their set, to bother about children. So he did not get much help from his friends in the difficult situation in which Max had placed him. She stood by her determination to leave the child to him, with irritating completeness. She even refused to give advice or help.

Of course, he could leave well enough alone, let Miss Wilder blunder along with her somehow. That was evidently the way the rest of them did. He had almost decided upon this course, when he met Isabelle, standing on the pony’s bare back, making him run, while poor Miss Wilder panted behind, protesting at every step.

It brought him to a resolution. The kid ought to have a younger woman to look after her, one who could swim and ride and take some interest in her sports. If she was going to leap head first into every danger, she needed a girl to stand by, and leap in after her, if necessary.

It took him several days to get up his nerve to dismiss Miss Wilder, but in the end, she met him half way. She said she could not stand the strain, that she had aged ten years in the two months she had been in charge of his daughter.

“She is a very remarkable child, Mr. Bryce, and she needs very special treatment.”

“I suppose that is it. I will give you a month’s extra salary, Miss Wilder, so you may take a rest. I know you need it.”

The next morning he bustled into Mrs. Bryce’s room, where she was taking her breakfast in bed.

“Mercy, Wally, are you sick?” she inquired; “it’s barely nine o’clock.”

“I’ve got to go to town.”

“Town, this hot day?”

“Yes. I fired old Wilder and I’ve got to get a new victim for our offspring. Where do you get ’em?”

“Poor Wally,” laughed his wife. “I advertise, or go to teachers’ agencies, or any old way. Telephone in, and they’ll send you something.”

“No; I’m going to get a young one.”

“And pretty, I suppose.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

He turned as the door opened and Isabelle came in. She was booted and hatted.

“Good morning, Max,” she said, sweetly.

“Morning. Where are you going?”

“To town, with Wally.”

“What?”

“Well, I thought I’d better take her. She has to live with ’em, you know, and she has ideas on the subject.”

Mrs. Bryce laughed aloud.

“You two!” she exclaimed.

“Come on, Wally,” urged Isabelle, taking her father by the hand.

“Which car are you using?” inquired Max.

“She prefers the train,” he explained.

This brought another outburst of mirth.

“My word, Wally! You’re becoming a wonderful parent!” exclaimed Mrs. Bryce; and they fled before her laughter.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER THREE

Wally was surprised to find the trip to town shorter than usual. His daughter conducted herself with great dignity, and never missed a thing. An unbroken stream of conversation flowed from her lips, to the amusement of the people in the seats near by.

There was one difficult moment, when in hurrying for their seats, Mrs. Page spied them out.

“For goodness sake, Wally, where are you going?”

“Taking Isabelle to town.”

“Without a nurse?”

“I have a governess, not a nurse,” protested Isabelle, indignantly.

“Oh, excuse me,” laughed Mrs. Page. “Where’s Max?”

“Home in bed,” replied Isabelle, before Wally had formed an excuse.

“I hear your infant introduced an Adam-and-Eve scene into her party,” Mrs. Page continued.

Wally glanced anxiously at Isabelle.

“This is Tommy Page’s mother,” he explained.

“I know. He’s a horrid boy,” she answered, feelingly.

Mrs. Page retired after this, and Wally undertook to argue with his daughter about unbecoming frankness.

“It’s true,” she protested.

“You don’t have to tell everything you know.”

“Don’t you have to tell the truth?”

“Not when it hurts people’s feelings.”

She thought that over, and he wondered what she would make of it. The little monkey seemed to remember every word that was said to her.

“Let’s have a punkin coach taxi,” she said when they arrived in town.

“What kind is that?”

“All yellow, like the Cinderella one.”

“They don’t have them at this station.”

“Make them get us one,” urged the young arrogant.

He laughed and they went out into the street and waited until a yellow taxi came. As they took their seats in the coach, Isabelle gazed at her father speculatively.

“I am Cinderella, an’ you’ve got to be the Fairy God-mother, I s’pose, but you don’t look like her.”

“Couldn’t I be the Prince?” inquired Wally.

“No. Besides, he didn’t ride in the coach,” she corrected him, scornfully.

They stopped at a drug shop to get a list of agencies, picked at random from the telephone book. The first one was very depressing. There were several governesses, but Isabelle would have none of them, and Wally did not blame her. The second agency offered to summon a dozen candidates if he would come back in two hours. He agreed to that, and made the same arrangement with the third place.

“Now, we’ve got two hours to kill. What do you want to do?” he inquired.

“I want to go on top the ’bus.”

“It’s too hot.”

“Well, that’s what I want to do.”

Wally sighed.

“All right, come along,” he said, aware of what her determination usually accomplished.

He thought of Max, and felt himself absolutely martyred. This was her job. She was a slacker to put it off on him. In his irritation he glanced down at the cause of it, and found her looking at him.

“Wally, does the hot make you sick?”

“Why?”

“We could go to the Zoo in a taxi.”

“Thank you, I should prefer that.”

“All right”—cheerfully.

“You’re a good old thing!” he remarked, as he called a second coach.

They inspected the animals, and endured the awful smells thereof, with great satisfaction on the part of Isabelle and much self-restraint on the part of her parent.

“Couldn’t we have a gorilla out at The Beeches, Wally?” she inquired.

“Lord, no! What do you want of a beast like that?”

“I like them. They’re so . . . different!” she said, hesitating over the adjective.

Wally burst out laughing.

“Don’t you think they are?” she inquired politely.

“Yes, all of that.”

On the way back to the agency, he counselled her on her behaviour.

“Now, don’t be fresh, Isabelle, and say, ‘I don’t like the wart on your nose,’ or that kind of thing.”

“Do I have to get one with a wart on her nose?” she asked seriously.