as a--a desert person, and he doesn't want any one but you. Oh, Miss
Frances, what is his name?"

Frances Barbour leaned back in the chair in which she had taken her
seat, and her face whitened. "What are you talking about, and who
is--"

"I'm talking about--Him." On her knees Carmencita crouched against her
friend's chair, and her long, slender fingers intertwined with those
which had suddenly grown nerveless. "I'm talking about your
sweetheart, Miss Frances. I found him for you, and then I lost him.
I'll tell you how it happened after I know all of his name and--If you
had seen his face when I told him I knew you and knew where you lived
you'd hurry, you'd--"

"If he wishes to see me, why doesn't he--I mean--" Sudden color surged
into the face turned from the child's eager eyes. "What are we talking
about, Carmencita? There is evidently some mistake."

"There is. An awful one. It's three years old. And we're talking about
the gentleman Father and I met yesterday and lost last night. You're
his sweetheart, and he wants you for Christmas and for ever after, and
he may be dead by to-morrow if he doesn't find you. He came to our
house, and I wrote you a note to come, too, and when you didn't do it
he looked as if he'd been hit in the face and couldn't breathe good,
and he stumbled down the steps like a blind man, and we'd forgot to
tell him our name, and he didn't know the number of our house, and--"
She paused for breath and brushed back the curls from her face. "I
know he's been looking all day. Where does he live, Miss Frances, and
what is his name?"