"What fun," cried Isobel, sitting up against her pillows. A few weeks before Isobel would have scorned such a "babyish" suggestion from anyone. "Where shall we go?"

"I've always wanted to go to Venice. We got as far as Naples and then 'Liza Sloane's grandson got scarlet fever and Little-Dad went down and stayed with him. I'd love to live in a palace and go everywhere in little boats."

"Then we'll go to Venice and we'll travel by way of Milan and Florence.

Jerry, down in father's desk there are a whole lot of time-tables and folders he collected the spring he planned to go abroad. And you can get one of Stoddart's books in the library--and a Baedeker, too. We ought to have a whole lot of clothes--it's warm in Italy. Bring that catalogue from Altman's that's on mother's sewing table and we'll pick out some new dresses. What fun!"

Jerry went eagerly after all they needed for their "game." She sat on the other side of Isobel's bed and spread the books out around her.

First, they had to select from the colored catalogue suitable dresses and warm wraps for shipboard; then they had to fuss over sailing dates and cabin reservations. In the atlas Jerry traced from town to town their route of travel, reading slowly from Baedeker just what they must see in each town. She had a way of reading the guidebook, too, that made Isobel see the things. It was delightful to linger in Florence; Jerry had just suggested that they postpone going on to Venice for a few days, and Isobel had decided to send back to America for that pale blue dotted swiss, because it would blend so wonderfully with the Italian sky and the pastel colors of the old, old Florentine buildings, when they were interrupted by Gyp and Uncle Johnny.

Gyp was a veritable whirlwind of fury, her eyes were blazing, her cheeks glowed red under her dusky skin, every tangled black hair on her head bristled. She confronted Jerry accusingly.

"So _here's_ where you are!" Her words rang shrilly. "Here--fooling 'round with Isobel and you let the South High beat us by two points! You _know_ you were the only girl we had who could beat Nina Sharpe in the breast stroke. They put in Mary Reed and she was like a _rock_. And you swam thirty-eight strokes under water the other day. I saw you--I counted. And--and the South High girl only got up to _twenty_! _That's_ all you cared."

Jerry turned, a little frightened. She had hated missing the swimming meet--contests were such new things in her life that they held a wonderful fascination for her--but she had not dreamed that, through her failure to appear, Lincoln might be beaten! She faced Gyp very humbly.

"Isobel was alone----"

Gyp turned on her sister.

"You're the very selfishest girl that ever lived, Isobel Westley, and you're getting worse and worse. You never think of anyone in this whole world but yourself! You never would have hurt your knee so badly only you wanted to save your precious old dress, and you wouldn't give in and let Peggy Lee take your part! Maybe you _are_ lonely and get tired lying here and everyone's sorry 'bout that, but that's not any reason for your keeping Jerry here when we needed her so badly--and she missed all the fun, too!"

Isobel drew herself back into her pillows. She was no match for her indignant sister. And she was aghast at the enormity of her selfish thoughtlessness.

"I didn't know--honestly, Gyp. I thought the match was on Thursday----"

"It was. _This_ is Thursday," scornfully.

"Oh, it's _Wednesday_. Isn't it Wednesday? Mrs. Hicks said cook was out and----"

"As if the calendar ran by the cook! Cook's sister's niece's sister was married to-day and she changed her day out. If you'd think of someone else----"

Jerry took command of the situation.

"It's my fault, Gyp. I could have told Isobel but--I didn't. I sort of realized how I'd feel if I had to lie there in bed day after day when everyone else was having such a good time and--well, the swimming match didn't seem half as important as making Isobel happy and--I don't believe it was!" There was triumphant conviction in Jerry's voice, born of the grateful little smile Isobel flashed to her.

Gyp turned disgustedly on her heel. From the doorway where Uncle Johnny had been taking in the little scene came a chuckle. As Gyp walked haughtily out of the room he came forward and laid his hand on Jerry's shoulder.

"Right-o, Jerry-girl. There's more than one kind of a victory, isn't there? Now run along and make peace with Miss Gypsy and let me get acquainted with my Bonnie--four whole days since I've seen you." There was a suspicious crackling of tissue-paper in his pocket. One hand slowly drew forth a small, blue velvet box which he laid in Isobel's fingers.

"Oh, Uncle Johnny!" For, within, lay a dainty bracelet set with small turquoise. Quite unexpectedly Isobel's eyes filled with tears.

"What is it, kitten?"

"It's lovely only--only--everybody's too good to me for--I guess--I'm--what Gyp said I was!"

There was everything in Isobel's past experience to warrant her expecting that Uncle Johnny would vehemently protest the truth of her outburst and assure her that no one could do enough for her. She _wanted_ him to do so. But, alas, she read in his face that he, too, thought what Gyp had said was very true.

"Isobel, dear--I think I ought to try and make you see something--for your own good. Have you ever pictured the fight that's going on in the human blood all the time--the tiny warriors struggling constantly, one kind to kill and the other to keep alive? The same sort of fight's going on in our natures, too. Every one of us is born with a whole lot of good things; they're our heritage and it's our own fault when we don't keep 'em. I don't mean outward things, dear--like your golden hair and those sky-blue eyes of yours--I mean the inside things, the things that grow and make our lives. But they've got to fight to live. If vanity and selfishness get the upper hand--where do they lead you? Well," he laughed, "I can't make you understand any more clearly what I mean than just to point to poor old Aunt Maria!"

Isobel had turned her face away; he could not see how she was taking his clumsy little lecture.

"_She's_ just a pathetic waste of God's good clay--moulded once as He wants His children, but what has she done? She's lived--no one knows how many years--only to feed her own body and glorify her own nest; she's grown _in_ instead of _out_; she's never given an honest thought to making this world or anyone in it one bit better for her having lived in it. She's stealing from God. And what's done it--vanity, that years ago mastered all the good things in her. Poor old soul--she was once a young, pretty girl, like you----"

Isobel jerked her head petulantly. The blue velvet box lay neglected on the counterpane.

"I think you're horrid to lecture me, Uncle Johnny. Mother and father----"

Uncle Johnny smiled whimsically at the childish face.

"Mothers and fathers sometimes don't see things as clearly as mere uncles--because they're so close. And Bonnie, dear, it's because we all want so much of you! Let me tell you something else--this isn't a lecture, either. It's a little thing that happened when you were a baby and I've never forgotten it. I didn't see you until you were a year old--I was abroad, studying, when you were born. When I went up to your nursery that first time, and looked at you, I thought you were the most wonderful thing God ever made. You lay there in your little white crib and stared at me with your round, blue eyes, and then you smiled and thrust out the tiniest scrap of a hand. I didn't dare breathe. And everything around you was so perfect--white enamel, blue and yellow and pink birds and squirrels and dogs and things painted on your walls, the last word in baby furniture and toilet things. That very day a friend of mine asked me to help drive the orphans of the city on their annual outing. I was glad to do something for someone--you see, having a new niece made me feel as though I was walking on air. They loaded up my car with kids of all sizes and then the last moment someone snuggled a bit of humanity into the front seat between two older youngsters--a poor little mite with big, round, blue eyes like yours and the lower part of her face all twisted with a great scar where she'd been burned. I couldn't see anything on the whole ride but that little face--and always, back in my mind were your two blue eyes and your dimpled smile.

I wanted to get through with the whole trip and hurry back to your nursery to see if you were all right. But I stopped long enough at the orphanage to ask about the poor baby. She'd been found in a filthy cellar where she'd been abandoned--that's all they knew. How's _that_ for a heritage? Stripped of everything--except the soul of her--to fight through life with, and horribly disfigured in the bargain. I asked what they did for such children and they told me that they'd keep her until she was fourteen--then they'd have taught her some sort of work--probably domestic--and she could make her own way. God help her--fourteen, a little younger than our Gyp! I went back to your mother's. She was out and I rushed up to your nursery. Your very professional nurse thought I was mad. I sent her out. I took you in my arms. I had to hold you to feel that you were safe and sound and had all the arms and legs you needed and your face not half scarred away. And sitting there I sort of talked to God--I begged Him to let you keep the blessings you had at that moment and to make you worthy of them. You're a beautiful girl, Isobel, and you have every advantage that love and thought and money can give you, but--so was Aunt Maria beautiful at your age, before vanity and selfishness----"

"Uncle Johnny, I've known for a long time--that you didn't love me!

That's why I've been so nasty to Jerry. You love her----"

"Bonnie!" Uncle Johnny's arm was around her now. He half shook her.

"Foolish girl! I love you now just the way I loved that mite of a baby.

I've always been fonder of you than any of the others and I'm mighty fond of them. But you were the first--the most wonderful one."

"But you'd like to have me--like Jerry?"

"Yes," he answered, very decidedly. "I'd like to have you--that kind of a girl, who walks straight with her head up--and sees big visions--and grows toward them."

"I hate goody-goody girls," sighed poor Isobel.

"So do I!" laughed Uncle Johnny. "But you couldn't hate a girl who would rather make someone else happy than win in a swimming match?"

"N-no, and I wouldn't blame Jerry if she'd just enjoy seeing me miserable--I've been so nasty to her. And she _isn't_ goody-goody, either! She's just----"

"A very normal, unspoiled, happy girl who's always been so busy thinking of everything else that she's never had a moment to think of herself.

Now to show that you forgive my two-a-penny lectures, will you let me eat dinner with you off your tray? And what are you doing with these books? And did you know Dr. Bowerman's going to let you try crutches on Sunday?"

Two hours later, when Jerry, a little shyly, tiptoed into Isobel's room to say good-night, Isobel impulsively pulled her head down to the level of her own and kissed her. She wanted to tell Jerry what Uncle Johnny had made her feel and see but she could not find the right words, and Jerry wanted to tell her that she wouldn't for the world trade the jolly afternoon they had had together for any swimming match, but _she_ couldn't find the right words, so each just kissed the other, wondering why she was so happy!

"I'm going to walk on crutches Sunday, Jerry."

"Oh, great! It will only be a little while before you're back in school, Isobel."

"Good-night, Jerry."

"Good-night, Isobel!"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE THIRD VIOLINIST