get back yet, and she might not be
there." Carmencita glanced toward the clock. "And Father is always
right. He's had to sit so many hours alone and think and think and
think, that he's had time to ask God about a good many things we don't
take time to ask about. I pray a lot, but my kind of prayers isn't
praying. They're mostly asking, and Father says prayer is
receiving--is getting God in you, I mean. I don't understand, but he
does, and he doesn't ask for things like I do, but for patience and
courage and--and things like that. No matter what happens, he keeps on
trusting. I don't. I'm not much of a truster. I want to do things my
way, myself." She leaned forward. "If I tell you something will you
promise not to tell anybody, not even Miss Frances when--when it's all
right?"

"I promise."

Van Landing nodded at the eager little face upraised to his. It was
singularly attractive and appealing, and the varying emotions that
swept over it indicated a temperament that took little in life calmly,
or as a commonplace happening, and a surge of protest at her
surroundings swept over him.

"I promise," he repeated. "I won't tell."

"Cross your heart and shut your eyes and I will tell you."

Hands on his knees, Carmencita watched the awkward movements of Van
Landing's fingers, then she laughed joyously, but when she spoke her
voice was in a whisper.

"I'm writing a book."

"You are doing what?"

"Writing a book! It's perfectly grand. That is, some days it is, but
most days it is a mess. It was a mess yesterday, and I burned up every
single word I wrote last week. I'll show it to you if you want to see
it."

Without waiting for an answer Carmencita sprang to her feet, and with
noiseless movement skipped across the room, and from the middle drawer
of the chest between the windows took out a large flat box.

"This is it." Again taking her seat on the stool at Van Landing's
feet, she opened the box carefully. One by one she lifted out of it
pieces of paper of varying size and color and held them toward her
visitor, who, hands clasped between knees, was bending forward and
watching with amazed interest the seemingly exhaustless contents of
the box beside him.

"I use pad-paper when I have it." Several white sheets were laid in a
pile by themselves. "But most of the chapters are on wrapping-paper.
Mrs. Beckwith gives me all of hers, and so does Mrs. Rheinhimer when
her children don't chew it up before she can save i