r she finally burst out with:

"Wally, I'd _like_ one with a wart on the nose."

He finally approached the woman in charge.

"Look here," he said, "we want a young one, with some pep."

The woman stared in amazement.

"Isn't there some place where the new ones go to register?" he
continued.

"You might try the college agencies. Their graduates sometimes try
governessing."

She gave him some addresses.

"Thanks. I think we'll try them. My daughter, here, is rather exacting."

The manager peered over her desk at the child, hostilely.

"I don't like you, either," said Isabelle, promptly.

Wally hurried her out. He was about worn out with this unaccustomed and
exhausting strain. It had been years since Wally spent a whole day
boring himself. His rage at Max grew, and he vented it on Isabelle.

"For God's sake, don't sass the managers! We may have to go back there."

"Does God care?"

"What?"

"You said, 'for God's sake.'"

"Did I? Excuse me. Now go easy this time. We've got to get somebody, and
we won't find an archangel, either."

"I'd like an archangel," she remarked earnestly, her flagging interest
reviving. "But she couldn't swim with wings, could she?"

Wally groaned, but made no reply. At the college agency, they telephoned
for two applicants, and after what seemed to Wally a week of tedium,
they arrived. The first one was pretty and she knew it. She talked a
great deal, and was saccharine to the little girl. Isabelle shook her
head twice, but Wally seemed hypnotized by the woman's eloquence.

"Don't let her talk, Wally; I won't have her," announced Isabelle.

It took considerable finesse on Wally's part to get this explained and
to get the young woman out of the room.

"One more remark from you, like that last one, and I will engage the
next hatchet-face that appears," he thundered.

"What is a hatchet-face?" she asked, with interest.

The other girl was tall, and undeniably plain. She was deeply tanned by
the sun. She looked athletic, boyish in fact. She had a nice voice, and
clear grey eyes. She met Isabelle's inspection with a grin. The child
slid off her chair and went over to her.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Ann. Ann Barnes."

"Can you swim?"

"Yes," smiled the girl.

Isabelle took her hand.

"I'll take you," she said.

The girl stared at Wally, who, so far, had made no explanation.

"Is she your child?" she inquired.

"Yes."

"Is her mother dead?"

"No, Max is