ur later Carmencita leaned back in her chair, hands in her lap
and eyes closed. Presently one hand went out. "Don't ask me anything
for a minute, will you? I've got to think about something. When you're
ready to go let me know."

Through the meal Carmencita's flow of words and flow of spirits had
saved the silences that fell, in spite of effort, between Van Landing
and Miss Barbour, and under the quiet poise so characteristic of her
he had seen her breath come unsteadily. Could he make her care for him
again? With eyes no longer guarded he looked at her, leaned forward.

"From here," he said, "where are you going?"

"Home. I mean to Mother McNeil's. Carmencita says you and she have
done my shopping." She smiled slightly and lifted a glass of water to
her lips. "The tree is to be dressed this afternoon, and to-night the
children come."

"And I--when can I come?"

"You?" She glanced at Carmencita, who was now sitting with her chin on
the back of her chair, arms clasping the latter, watching the strange
and fascinating scene of people ordering what they wanted to eat and
eating as much of it as they wanted. "I don't know. I am very busy.
After Christmas, perhaps."

"You mean for me there is to be no Christmas? Am I to be for ever kept
outside, Frances?"

"Outside?" She looked up and away. "I have no home. We are
both--outside. To have no home at Christmas is--" Quickly she got up.
"We must go. It is getting late, and there is much to do."

For one swift moment she let his eyes hold hers, and in his burned all
the hunger of the years of loss; then, taking up her muff, she went
toward the door. On the street she hesitated, then held out her hand.
"Good-by, Mr. Van Landing. I hope you will have a happy Christmas."

"Do you?" Van Landing opened the cab door. "Get in, please. I will
come in another cab." Stooping, he pushed aside some boxes and bundles
and made room for Carmencita. "I'll be around at four to help dress
the tree. Wait until I come." He nodded to the cabman; then, lifting
his hat, he closed the door with a click and, turning, walked away.

"Carmencita! oh, Carmencita!" Into the child's eyes the beautiful ones
of her friend looked with sudden appeal, and the usually steady hands
held those of Carmencita with frightened force. "What have you done?
What have you done?"

"Done?" Carmencita's fingers twisted into those of her beloved, and
her laugh was joyous. "Done! Not much yet. I've just begun. Did--di