On the way to the library, after dinner, they came upon Ann in the hall.
"May I speak to you, Miss Barnes?" Max inquired coolly.
"Certainly," the girl replied, and followed them into the room beyond.
"Just what is it that you have been telling Isabelle, which sets her off on this ridiculous jaunt?" demanded Mrs. Bryce, insolently.
"I told her about my home, and my little sister, who is her age. She started off to find her," answered Ann, simply.
"Do you think it is a part of your duty to set her against her parents?"
"I have never discussed her parents with her."
"I'm sure Miss Barnes isn't to blame, Max," put in Wally.
"I think she is." Mrs. Bryce cut him off. "You may take the noon train to town to-morrow, Miss Barnes."
"It's all right, Mr. Bryce," Ann said. "I hate to leave Isabelle, but what can I do to help her? She's just doomed!"
"Doomed to live with us, Wally," laughed Mrs. Bryce.
"Yes, doomed to live with you," the girl replied. "To get along without help, or love. To see her mother occasionally--a strange woman in the house. What right have you and your crowd to have children?" she demanded, hotly.
"I've never known any one like you before, and you fill me with horror!" Ann retorted.
"This may amuse you, Wally, but it doesn't me," remarked Mrs. Bryce, walking out of the room.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bryce; I didn't mean to say all that. I am so tired and excited from hunting Isabelle, and it seemed so terrible to me that she didn't care about her own baby being lost, that I just burst out."
"I know how overstrained you are, but of course, under the circumstances you will see----" he answered miserably.
"Oh, I couldn't stay in the house another minute."
"Mrs. Bryce is very self-contained, she's not excitable as you and I are," he tried to explain.
"I hate to leave Isabelle. Oh, Mr. Bryce, try to look after her a little, try to love her a little, she does need it so!"
The next day as she stepped to the platform of the train the chauffeur handed her a letter from Wally. There was an enclosure of two hundred dollars, which he begged she would accept as a present from Isabelle. He thanked her and regretted the necessity of her going.
So Ann passed out of Isabelle's life, mourned and lamented for months by the child. She represented the only tenderness, the only understanding and sympathy that came into Isabelle's childhood. The little belated tendrils of affection she had put forth toward her world, under Ann's warm influence, shrivelled and died. Her wits against them all, that was the motto she decided upon, in the bitter wisdom of her four brief years.