a lot of things I hate, but I've got to stand them, and the only way I
can do it is to get away from them in my mind sometimes. Father says
it's the way we stand things that proves the kind of person we are;
but Father is Father, and I am me, and letting out is a great relief.
Did you ever feel as if you're bound to say things sometimes?"

"I'm afraid I've not only felt I had to say them, but I said them."
Van Landing looked at his watch. "Your Father is doubtless right,
but--"

"Noodles hasn't had time to 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