be horrible to have a Christmas dinner of sardines or
toasted cheese and crackers--or one in a boarding-house. Other people
might think it queer that he should have accidentally met Carmencita,
and that Carmencita should have mentioned the name of Miss Barbour,
and that he should have walked miles and miles--it must have been
thousands of miles--trying to find her, and, after all, did not find
her. She found him. But it wasn't queer. He had been looking for her
ever since--for three years he had been looking for her, and what one
looks for long enough one always finds. To-morrow--to-morrow--would
--be--Christmas eve.

He opened his eyes slowly. The sun was blinding, and he blinked.
Mother McNeil and the doctor were standing at the foot of the bed,
and as he rubbed his eyes they laughed.

"It's a merry Christmas you're to have, my son, after all, and it's
wanting to be up and after it you are, if I'm a judge of looks." And
Van Landing's hand, holding the coverlid close to his neck, was patted
understandingly by Mother McNeil. "Last night the doctor was a bit
worried about your head--you took your time in coming to--but I didn't
believe it was as bad as he feared, and it's well it wasn't, for it's
a grand day in which to be living, and you'll need your head. Is it
coffee or tea, now, that you like best for breakfast? And an egg and a
bit of toast, doctor, I think will taste well. I'll get them." And
without answer Mother McNeil was gone.

The doctor sat down, felt his patient's pulse, took his temperature,
investigated the cut on the forehead, then got up. "You're all right."
His tone was one of gruff relief. "One inch nearer your temple,
however--You can get up if you wish. Good day." And he, too, was gone
before Van Landing could ask a question or say a word of thanks.

It was bewildering, perplexing, embarrassing, and for a moment he
hesitated. Then he got up. He was absurdly shaky, but his head was
clear, and in his heart humility that was new and sweet. The day was
great, and the sun was shining as on yesterday one would not have
dreamed it could ever shine again. Going over to the door, he locked
it and hurriedly began to dress. His clothes had a rough, dry
appearance that made them hardly recognizable, and to get on his
shoes, which evidently had been dried near the furnace, was difficult.
In the small mirror over the bureau, as he tied his cravat, his face
reflected varying emotions: disgust at his soiled coll