"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. "I don't go to market, silly; the housekeeper markets." "Why don't you tuck me in, and kiss me good-night?" the child continued, her eyes fixed on her mother's startled face. "I'm never here when you go to bed," defended Mrs. Bryce. "What is all this? I thought you didn't like to be kissed." "I wish you'd have six children," Isabelle sighed. "Good heavens! Isabelle, don't be silly!" So Isabelle gave it up. She realized that something was lacking. She sought out Miss Barnes with the problem. "Why don't Max and Wally do like father and mother Barnes?" "Well," Ann evaded, "it is different, you see. Your father and mother are rich, and mine are poor. Your parents have lots to do--golf and bridge and parties--and father and mother Barnes have only their children to interest them. They're just regular parents," she added, lamely. "But I want some regular parents," replied Isabelle. Ann was nonplussed. "We can't all have them, honey," she said. "Jinny would like lots of things you have--a pony, and toys, and pretty clothes." "She can have mine." "She has to do many things you would not like to do." "I don't care. I'd do them." "But you can't change your parents. God gives them to you, and you have to keep them," she laughed. "Then why didn't God give me regular parents?" Ann hastily diverted the youngster's thoughts into other channels, but she came back to it again and yet again--her desire for "regular parents."