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!”