't go often." She waved her
hand in the direction of her father. "I'll send for her 'bout half
past nine. Which do you like best, sardines with lemon on 'em, or
toasted cheese on toast with syrup afterward? Which?"

The tone was one of momentous inquiry. Miss Barbour's coming was a
matter that could wait, but supper necessitated a solemn decision
which must be made at once. Hands clasped behind her, the blue eyes
grew big with suspense, and again she repeated, "Which?"

"I really don't know. Both are very good. I believe I like sardines
better than--Oh no, I don't." He had caught the flicker of
disappointment in the anxious little face. "I mean I think toasted
cheese the best thing to eat that's going. Let's have that!"

"All right." With another spring the child was at the cupboard, and
swiftly she went to work. "Read to father, won't you?" she called,
without looking round. "In that magazine with the geranium leaf
sticking out is where I left off. You'll have to read right loud."

Drawing his chair close to the lighted lamp, Van Landing took his seat
near the blind musician, and for the first time noticed the slender,
finely formed fingers of the hands now resting on the arms of the
chair in which he sat; noticed the shiny, well-worn coat and the lock
of white hair that fell across the high forehead; saw the sensitive
mouth; and as he looked he wondered as to the story that was his. An
old one, perhaps. Born of better blood than his present position
implied, he had evidently found the battle of life more than he was
equal to, and, unfit to fight, he had doubtless slipped down and down
in the scale of human society until to-day he and his child were
dwellers on the borderland of the slums.

He found the article and began to read. The technicalities of musical
composition had never appealed to him, but, though by him the writer's
exhaustive knowledge of his subject was not appreciated, by his
listener it was greatly so, and, in tense eagerness to miss no word,
the latter leaned forward and kept his sightless eyes in the direction
of the sound of his voice.

Not for long could he read, however. In a few moments Carmencita's
hands were outstretched, and, giving one to each, she led them to the
table, and at it he sat down as naturally as though it were a familiar
occurrence. In the center was a glass jar with a spray of red geranium
in it, and behind the earthen tea-pot the child presided with the
ease of long usag