The Cricket Part 10

"Yes, but I thought the child's mother would naturally want to say----"

blundered Ann.

"Well, her mother doesn't. Do anything you can to make her less of a nuisance, that's my only advice."

It was clear that the interview was ended, so Ann rose. With glowing appeal Mrs. Bryce turned her pretty face, with its sudden smile, upon the girl.

"Nice, kind Miss Barnes, don't bother me about Isabelle, will you? She bores me to death."

Ann got out of the room somehow. She felt cold s.h.i.+vers down her spine, as if she had touched something revolting. She thought of _her_ mother, and Jinny, the little sister nearest Isabelle's age. She was so homesick for them, she just thought she would die. She went to the nursery where she had left Isabelle, and, as she entered, the child was shaking hands with an imaginary guest, saying in perfect imitation of her mother's manner: "Oh, howdye do, Mrs. Page?"

"Dorothy and Reginald and I are having a bridge party," she explained.

But Ann didn't listen. She just picked Isabelle up in her arms, and hugged her tight, kissing her over and over again.

"You poor baby--you poor little mite!" she said over and over.

But after the first shock of surprise, Isabelle rebelled.

"Don't! Put me down! I don't like to be kissed!" she cried.

Ann set her down and knelt before her.

"Why don't you like to be kissed?" she demanded.

"Because"--defiantly.

"Isabelle, have you ever been rocked and sung to and tucked into bed at night?"

Isabelle shook her head, her big eyes fixed on Ann's face, so full of emotion.

"Did you ever have anybody tickle you awake, in the morning, and kiss you until you laughed?"

The child shook her head again.

"It's a shame!" cried Ann. "Why Jinny gets kissed a hundred times a day by everybody."

"Who's Jinny?"

"My little sister, who is your age."

"Where is she?"

"In my home, up in Vermont."

"What does she do?"

"Sit down, and I'll tell you about her."

Isabelle promptly sat down on the floor beside Ann.

"In the morning, after breakfast, she picks up the papers and school books and toys and things the children leave around----"

"What children?"

"My other brothers and sisters. There's Walter and Helen and Tommy and Barbara, but Jinny is our baby. When she gets things picked up she dusts the bottoms of the chairs and the legs of the tables. Then she helps mother make the beds. She can beat up the pillows and tuck the sheets neatly."

"Isn't there any chambermaid?"

"No. Then she studies her letters. She almost knows them. She goes to market with mother, and then she plays in the yard until dinner."

"Max doesn't go to market."

Ann ignored that.

"Then the children troop in to dinner, from school. Such a scramble, such a wrestling, and shouting, and face was.h.i.+ng! You ought to hear it."

"But it's _lunch_ at noon," corrected Isabelle.

"No; we have dinner."

"What do you have for dinner?"

"Boiled beef and potatoes, bread and b.u.t.ter and jam, and a pudding. Then the older ones tramp off to school again and Jinny takes her nap."

"I hate naps."

"Jinny doesn't. She likes them. She knows they make her strong and sweet-tempered and pretty."

"Would naps make me pretty?"

"I think so. Everybody is pretty who has pink cheeks, and a kind expression, don't you think so?"

"Max hasn't a kind expression; she's cross"--quickly.

"But she has lovely skin, all pink and white."

"I think you're prettier than Max. Then what does Jinny do next?"

So the story went on with elaborate detail, until every waking moment of Jinny's day was accounted for. It was absorbing to Isabelle, and it was a satisfaction for Ann to have this outlet for her homesickness. So it began, but it grew to be a significant make-believe, for as the days went by, she discovered that Isabelle could be absolutely ruled by her imagination. The new game was called "Playing Jinny." She began to dust the nursery chairs and to pick up toys and playthings. She demanded lessons in letters. Any misdemeanour that was met with the remark, "Of course, Jinny would never do that," was never repeated.

Day after day she demanded the story again, and daily Ann added to the picture of her mother, always at the call of her children, of her father, reading aloud on Friday nights, as a special treat, while they all sat round the fire in the shabby old living room.

She described how they all worked and saved to buy Christmas presents for one another; how happy they were over simple gifts, even a red lead pencil. How they hid the presents all over the house and had a "hunt" on Christmas morning, instead of having a tree. The story went on and on, until Isabelle actually lived in the circle of the Barnes family.

But one unfortunate day, Isabelle strayed into her mother's room, determined upon experiment.

"Max, will you take me to market with you?" she inquired.