on. We can walk home, and then I'll make the tea."

For a second Van Landing hesitated, then he followed the odd-looking
couple out into the street, but as they started to turn the corner he
stopped.

"I say"--he cleared his throat to hide its embarrassed
hesitation--"don't you want to do me a favor? Where I live I don't
buy the things I eat, and I've often thought I'd like to. If you are
going to make the tea and toast, why can't I get the--the chicken,
say, and some salad and things? That's a good-looking window over
there with cooked stuff in it. We'll have a party and each put in
something."

"Chicken?" Into his face the child gazed with pitying comprehension of
his ignorance, and in her voice was shrill amusement. "_Chicken!_ Did
you ever price one? I have, when I'm having kings and queens taking
dinner with me in my mind. People don't have chicken 'cept at
Christmas, and sometimes Sundays if there hasn't been anybody out of
work for a long time. Come on. I've got a box of sardines. Just think,
Father, he wants to buy a _chicken_!"

With a gay little laugh in which was shrewd knowledge of the
unthinkableness of certain indulgences, the child slipped one arm
through her father's and another through Van Landing's, and with a
happy skip led the way down the poorly lighted street. A solid mass of
dreary-looking houses, with fronts unrelieved by a distinguishing
feature, stretched as far as the eye could see, and when a few blocks
had been walked it was with a sense of relief that a corner was
turned and Van Landing found himself at the foot of a flight of steps
up which the child bounded and beckoned him to follow.

The house was like the others, one of a long row, and dull and dark
and dingy, but from its basement came a baby's wailing, while from the
floor above, as the hall was entered, could be heard the rapid click
of a sewing-machine. Four flights of steps were mounted; then
Carmencita took the key from her father's pocket and opened the door.

"This is our suite," she said, and courtesied low. "Please strike a
match, if you have one, Mr. Van. This house is very old, and history
houses don't have electric lights. The ghosts wouldn't like it. Some
of my best friends are ghosts. I'll be back in a minute."

As she ran into the little hall room adjoining the large room which he
saw comprised their "suite," Van Landing lighted the lamp near the
mantel and looked around. In the center was a marble-topped table,