d 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?"

"If you will tell me of whom you are talking I will tell you whether
or not I know him. Until you do--"

"I told you I didn't remember any of his name but the Van part. Don't
you know the name of the person you love best on earth? It's his name
I want."

Frances Barbour got up and walked over to the bureau and opened its
top drawer. "You are asking questions that in any one else I would not
permit, Carmencita. I am sure you do not mean to be--"

"I don't mean anything but that I want to know all of Mr. Van's name,
and if you don't tell me you are not a Christian!"

With a change of expression Carmencita sprang to her feet and, hands
clasped behind her back, she stood erect, her eyes blazing with
indignation. "If you don't tell him where you are, don't let him come,
I'll think it's all just make-believe and put on, your coming and
doing for people you don't really and truly know, and doing nothing
for those you do, and letting the ones you love best be lonely and
miserable and having Christmas all by themselves when they're starving
hungry for you. What is his name?" Carmencita's voice was high and
shrill, and her foot was stamped vehemently. "What is his name?"

"Stephen Van Landing."

Face to face, Frances Barbour and Carmencita looked into each other's
eyes, then with a leap Carmencita was out of the room and down the
steps and at the telephone. With hands that trembled she turned the
pages of the book she was holding upside down, then with disgust at
her stupidity she r