"I'd rather not tell." "But thee writes; I've seen thee." She nodded. "I want thee to write thy mother to-day, Isabelle," he said, sternly. He told his wife of this conversation later. "She writes volumes on Sunday," he said, "now what does she do with it?" "She is one of the strangest children we've ever had, Adam," she answered. "She is rather exhausting to me," he said. "She's lived under abnormal conditions of some sort. I cannot seem to visualize her parents at all. She never speaks of them. She was so bitter and sullen when she came to us," Mrs. Benjamin mused. "I must try to get her confidence about her parents, she may be needing help." "She came to thee just in time, my Phoebe." "Yes, that's true. A little more and she would have been a bitter cynic at eighteen. Even now when she just begins to respond, like a frost-bitten plant, I am not sure of the blossom." "Hot-house growth, thee must remember." "She interests me deeply, and I'm growing very fond of her." "Lucky Isabelle," her husband smiled. Later in the day when the other girls were out at play Mrs. Benjamin came upon Isabelle, pen in hand, gazing into the distance. "What is troubling my child?" "Mr. Benjamin told me to write to Max." "Who is Max?" "My mother." "Thy mother, and thee calls her Max?" "I always have." "But it is not respectful, is it?" "No, but I don't respect her much." "Doesn't thee?"--calmly. "No, you can't"--earnestly. "And what does thee call thy father?" "Wally." Mrs. Benjamin smiled. Here was all the clue she needed to the kind of parents Isabelle possessed. "It may have been considered precocious, when thee was little, to call them so. But if I were in thy place, I would not do it now. It gives the wrong impression of thy manners. I think thee has very pretty manners," she added. Isabelle flushed with pleasure. "You see, Max--my mother--doesn't really care where I am, or what I do, so long as I'm not in her way, so I don't know what to write her." "Couldn't thee write thy father, then?" "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 nobody 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 class, Isabelle? 'Letters to an imaginary chum'?" "Mine isn't a chum." "Would thee care to tell me?" Isabelle rose.