The Cricket Part 30

"Well, it would be easier," she admitted. "Wally is a good sort, and understands more."

"Write to him then. That will do, I'm sure."

"All right. But n.o.body writes _me_ letters. I never get any."

"To whom does thee write in the letter hour, my dear?"

Isabelle was on her guard at once.

"Oh, to somebody I like."

"Some friend of thine?"

"Um--yes."

"Couldn't thee tell me about this friend? Mr. Benjamin and I are especially interested in the friends of our girls. I have never seen thee post thy letters."

"I don't post them"--shamefacedly.

"Oh, they are to an imaginary friend," said Mrs. Benjamin, seizing an idea.

Isabelle nodded.

"That's delightful. I used to have an imaginary companion, too. Is thine a girl?"

"No."

Mrs. Benjamin ignored Isabelle's uncommunicativeness.

"Why wouldn't that be a good idea for the theme cla.s.s, Isabelle?

'Letters to an imaginary chum'?"

"Mine isn't a chum."

"Would thee care to tell me?"

Isabelle rose.

"I'll show them to you," she said; and she ran upstairs, and brought a collection of letters to lay in Mrs. Benjamin's lap.

"Thank thee, dear. May I read them?"

The girl nodded. Mrs. Benjamin lifted the first one. It was addressed to: "My Regular Parents." Isabelle went and threw herself down by the fire, her face turned away, while Mrs. Benjamin read:

Oh my dear Parents: I wish you could see this beautiful school I've come to. It has hills, and a large house, and Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin. Mr.

Benjamin has a wrinkly smile, and Mrs. Benjamin is so understanding. They are Quakers and say "thee" and "thou" for "you." It is sweet. When I come home let us say "thee" and "thou" to each other, will you? It sounds so very special.

We study out of doors, and it is fun. We play lots of things, like basketball in the field, so we are healthy. My room-mate is Peggy Starr, a very young girl, often tiresome.

This is Sunday, and all the girls write home, so I write you, dear, dear, regular parents. I think of you a great deal. Mr.

and Mrs. Benjamin are just like you, that is why I love them so dearly. I am glad we are poor and have only each other, aren't you? I know some people named Max and Wally, who are rich. They have so much golf, and parties that they can't ever bother with their child, except to scold her. But you care about me, don't you? And you like to hear what I do at school. I would be lonesome without you.

I will try hard to do good, because I love you so much.

Your loving daughter, ISABELLE.

Mrs. Benjamin finished them, then looked at the girl, whose face was turned away, and her smile was very tender. She spoke simply, without a touch of sentimentality.

"Dear, they are very sweet and loving letters. I am glad thee thinks Mr.

Benjamin and I are like thy 'regular parents.'"

Isabelle looked at her shyly.

"Suppose we make an agreement, Isabelle. Thee is to write a short letter to thy father every Sunday, and the rest of the letter hour can be devoted to thy 'regular parents.' This letter thee will post to me, and--since I have no 'regular daughter'--every Sunday afternoon I will post a letter to thee. Is that a bargain?"

"Oh, yes!" cried the girl, flaming to meet this suggestion--this understanding. "Oh, dear Mrs. Benjamin," she added, "you are so love-ful!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The new relations.h.i.+p established between Mrs. Benjamin and Isabelle was so precious to the little girl that she abandoned her banner of revolt once for all, and gave herself up to the congenial atmosphere of Hill Top. It was the only home she had ever known, since home is a matter of love and people rather than bricks and stones.

The secret correspondence was a complete outlet for Isabelle's imagination, and she pored over the letters her "regular mother" wrote her with utter devotion. She put them away to keep for all her life.

They were indeed wonderful letters, full of the fine idealism, the working philosophy that inspired the Benjamins. When there was some misdemeanour, or some fractured rule to be called to Isabelle's attention, it was delicately introduced into the weekly letter, instead of being talked out in the library.

Excess vitality got the girl into sc.r.a.pes sometimes, but as the Benjamins came to understand her better and to love her, they found ways of appealing to her common sense, or her instinct for justice, to which she never failed to respond. Her quick mind had already put her at the head of her cla.s.ses.

The out-of-door life and her enjoyment of everything began to show in her whole bearing. Her face lost its sharp curves, she took on some flesh, her colour was high and her eyes were bright. At last she was coming into her birthright of happy, normal girlhood.

The letters home continued to be written to Wally, and once in a long while she had a brief note from him.

"What kind of a father have you got?" she inquired of Peggy, one day, after the perusal of one of these epistles.

"He is very nice, I think. He was sorry I wasn't a boy, but he always gives me five dollars whenever he sees me. What kind is yours?"

"Wally is the nicest person in our family," she said guardedly.

"Is your father handsome?"

Isabelle hesitated a second.

"Yes--very."

"Mine isn't. He's fat--awf'ly fat. His head blouses over his collar all round."

"You mean his neck."

"No, he hasn't any neck--it's the back of his head. Don't you wish your father looked like a Gibson man?"

"Mine does."