had given him back his ring. For a moment he had held it, and in the
dancing flames of the logs upon the hearth in the library of her
beautiful old-fashioned home its stones had gleamed brilliantly,
flashed protesting fire; then he had dropped it in the blaze and
turned and left the room. Had she forgotten, or had she suffered, too?

With mechanical monotony the words continued to come from his lips,
but his thoughts were afar off, and presently Carmencita took the
magazine out of his hand.

"Excuse me," she said, "but Father is asleep, and you don't know a
word you're saying. You might as well stop."

Putting the magazine on the table, Carmencita drew the stool on which
she was sitting closer to Van Landing's chair, and, hands clasped
around her knees, looked up into his eyes. In hers was puzzled
questioning.

"I beg your pardon." His face flushed under the grave scrutiny bent
upon him. "I was reading abominably, but I couldn't get my mind--"

"I know," Carmencita nodded understandingly. "I do that way sometimes
when I'm saying one thing and thinking another, and Father always
takes a little nap until I get out of the clouds. He says I spend a
lot of my time in the clouds. I'm bound to soar sometimes. If I didn't
make out I wasn't really and truly living here, on the top floor, with
the Rheinhimers underneath, but just waiting for our house to be fixed
up, I couldn't stand it all the time. I'd go--"

She hesitated, then again went on. "You see, it's this way. There 're