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, and
on it a lamp, a work-basket, and several magazines with backs half
gone. The floor was bare save for a small and worn rug here and there,
and on the sills of the uncurtained windows two hardy geraniums were
blooming bravely. A chest of drawers, a few chairs, a shelf of books,
a rug-covered cot, a corner cupboard, a wash-stand behind a screen,
and a small table near the stove, behind which a box of wood could be
seen, completed its furnishings; and still, despite its bareness,
there was something in it which was not in the place wherein he lived,
and wonderingly he again looked around. Had he found himself in the
moon or at the bottom of the Dead Sea it would be hardly less
remarkable than finding himself here. Adventures of this sort were
entirely out of his experience. As regulated as a piece of machinery
his life had become of late, and the routine of office and club and
house had been accepted as beyond escape, and the chance meeting of
this little creature--

"Oh, my goodness! I forgot to put the kettle on!"