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 washing! 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 butter 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