"Oh, don't go--don't go, Mr. Van! It's going to be Christmas two days
after to-morrow, Father, and the Christ-child wouldn't like it if you
let him go!" Carmencita held the sleeve of Van Landing's coat with a
sturdy clutch. "He isn't a damanarkist. I can tell by his eyes. They
are so lonely-looking. You aren't telling a story, are you Mr. Van? Is
it truly truth that you haven't anybody?"

"It is truly truth," he said. "I mean anybody to make Christmas for."

"No mother or father or a little girl like me? Haven't you even got a
wife?"

"Not even a wife." Van Landing smiled.

"You are as bad as Miss Barbour. She hasn't anybody, either, now, she
says, 'most everybody being--"

"Miss who?" Van Landing turned so sharply that the child jumped. "Who
did you say?"

"Miss Barbour." The eyes which were so like those he could not forget
were raised to his. "If you knew Miss Barbour she could tell you of
plenty of people to make Christmas for. She's living right now with
Mother McNeil, who isn't really anybody's mother, but just
everybody's. But she don't live there all the time. Most of her people
are dead or married and don't need her, so she came to Mother McNeil
to see how children down there live. What's the matter, Mr. Van?"

To hide the upleaping flame in his face and the sudden trembling of
his hands Van Landing stooped down and picked up the handkerchief he