The Benjamins had a conference of disappointment over it, and it was decided that Isabelle must be told. Mrs. Benjamin's face was so rueful over it that her husband offered to do the telling. He and Isabelle were going off on an expedition together, which would give him an opportunity, and Mrs. Benjamin could provide the comfort that must follow.
He found it no easy task. As he looked at his sturdy young companion, listened to her picturesque talk, he felt that he was called upon to tell a young vestal virgin that she was to be sacrificed to the god of mammon.
"This is good air, isn't it!" she said, breathing deeply. "How do people live in cities, do you suppose?"
Mr. Benjamin longed to shirk, but he took himself in hand.
"I have had a letter from thy mother, Isabelle."
"She wants thee to go to a school in New York this winter."
"But I won't! I won't go away from here. I love it here, I love you and Mrs. Benjamin. Oh, why does Max always interfere with me? I hate her!" she cried, passionately.
Mr. Benjamin laid a steadying hand on her shoulder, and walked beside her.
"I understand what a blow this is to thee, and how unhappy it makes thee. But one of the things that we want our girls to learn is to honour and respect their parents," he said gently.
"But how can I respect Max, Mr. Benjamin? She never respects me."
He saw the justice of her remark and strove not to play the moralist.
"Thee can put a curb on thy lips, my dear. I wish that thee might show Mrs. Benjamin and me that thy life here with us has meant something to thee, by obeying thy mother as cheerfully and willingly as thee can."
He felt the young body under his hand shudder with the effort for control. She lifted stricken eyes to him, as he said afterward, and nodded without a word. He helped her as well as he could, by talking of other things, but he felt her suffering as keenly as if it had been his own.
When they came back to the house, she went to her room, and he carried the report to his wife.
"Sorrow goes so deep with them, at this age," he said, tenderly.
"Poor, passionate child; she will always be torn by life," sighed Mrs. Benjamin. "I will not go to her yet. I'll let her try solitude first."
She did not appear at lunch, so Mrs. Benjamin carried a tray to her. The girl was not crying, she was sitting by the window, looking out over the hills, in a sort of dumb agony.