ering one bundle to Max. "We need not go over
Son Edouard's."

Mrs. Bryce began to read. As she finished a page, she handed it to
Wally, and he in turn passed it to Miss Watts. The two women read
solemnly, but Wally laughed occasionally. Isabelle sat by, now and then
taking a peek at the author of this new trouble.

"Well!" remarked Mrs. Bryce when the last tender words had been read.

"Going some, Isabelle!" added Wally.

"We'll have him in," said Max.

"Oh, no; now, I wouldn't do that."

"I would. Matthews will go across the street and tell him to come."

"For Heaven's sake, Max, what are you going to do?"

"Get her letters back, of course."

"Isabelle, you and Miss Watts go somewhere else and wait," Wally urged,
as his wife gave the butler instructions.

"No. I shall stay here."

"You'll do no such thing. You've done your part, now you leave the rest
of it to us," ordered her mother.

"It is my hand he is asking for; those are my letters, and this is my
affair. I shall stay right here and see it through," Isabelle asserted
with firm determination.

Max saw that, except by force, there was no way to eject her, and it was
too late for that, as Matthews was approaching with the Frenchman.

The hero entered with a ceremonious bow. He was good-looking in a
dare-devil way, with a somewhat dissipated face. His eyes went from one
to another until they came to Isabelle.

"_Ah! mon adoree, c'est toi!_" he cried, and before any one could stop
him, he seized her hands and covered them with kisses.

"None of that!" shouted Wally, jerking Isabelle away.

Max took command. She spoke, curtly, in French.

"Monsieur Petard, we have read your letters to our daughter, and heard
her story of her correspondence with you. She is, as you see, a mere
child. I appeal to you as a soldier and a gentleman, to return her
letters to us, and to close this painful incident."

He turned to the girl.

"I ask you one question. Do you love me?"

"Why, no," she said, simply, "I told you I didn't."

"I did not believe. Your friend, the Mademoiselle Pollock, she say you
are infatuate wiz me; she send ze picture; she tell me you are crazy
about me."

"Agnes Pollock? Why, the dirty little liar!" cried Isabelle.

"My daughter is a schoolgirl, she knows nothing about love. Will you or
will you not, give us those letters?"

He considered a second.

"I have come all ze way to zese countree, because of ze lettaires of
your school