e, and not hate my ugly clothes so, and despise the
smell of onions and cabbage and soap-suds, I might get more answers,
but you can't get answers just by praying. You've got to work like the
mischief, and be a regular policeman over yourself and nab the bad
things the minute they poke their heads out. If I'd prayed differently
yesterday I wouldn't have been looking for--for somebody all to-day,
and be a jumping-jack to-night for fear I won't find him. Did--did you
ever have a sweetheart, Mr. Damanarkist?" Before answer could be made
Mother McNeil's house was reached, and with steps that were leaps
Carmencita was at the door, and a moment later inside. Finding that
Miss Frances had returned, she called to Mr. Leimberg to come for her
on his way back from the station library where he was to get his book,
and breathlessly she ran to Miss Barbour's door and knocked violently
upon it.

To the "come in" she entered, eyes big and shining, and cheeks stung
into color by the bitter wind; and with a rush forward the hands of
her adored friend were caught and held with a tight and nervous grip.

"Miss Frances! Miss Frances!"

Two arms were flung around Miss Barbour's waist, and for a moment the
curly brown head was buried on her breast and words refused to come;
instead came breathing short and quick; then Carmencita looked up.

"What--oh, what is his name, Miss Frances? He was found and now is
lost, and I promised--I promised I'd get you for him!"

Frances Barbour lifted the excited little face and kissed it. "What's
the matter, Carmencita? You look as if you'd seen a ghost, and you're
talking as if--"

"I'm crazy--I'm not. And there isn't any time to lose. He said he
_must_ find you before Christmas. There isn't a soul to make Christmas
for him, and he hasn't anybody to buy things for, and he's as lonely
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 an