that comes from a good cigar, and in silence he and his guest smoked
while Carmencita did her work. Not long was there silence, however,
for very shortly the child was on a stool at Van Landing's feet, in
her hands a pad of paper, and on her knee a backless magazine.

For half a minute she looked in Van Landing's face. "Isn't it nice and
funny--your being here? I like you." Her voice was joyous. "If I tell
you something, you won't tell?" She leaned forward, hands on his
knees. "This afternoon before I went out I asked God please to let
something nice happen. There hasn't anything very nice happened for so
long, I was afraid He had forgot. What must I write, Mr. Van?"

Into Van Landing's face the color surged, then died away and left it
strangely white. The child's eyes were holding his, and he did not try
to avoid them. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was to
get Frances quickly.

"Tell her I must see her to-night, that I must come to her. Why can't
I go to her, Carmencita?"

"Because she doesn't want anybody to come to see her that she doesn't
tell to come. She told me so herself, and I wouldn't break her rules
for a gold ring with a ruby in it. I know. I'll tell her I'm bound to
show her something to-night or I won't sleep a wink. And you'll be
_It_! You can go in Father's room, and when she comes in you will come
out and say--What will you say, Mr. Van?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I sha'n't say anything. Sometimes one can't."

"I'll look in that book I read once and see what he said, if you want