t was much better than crying." She laughed. "There isn't much you
can do in this world, Carmencita, but you can dance. You've got to do
it, too, every time you feel sorry for yourself. I wonder if I could
see Miss Frances before I go for Father? I _must_ see her. Must! Those
Beckwith babies have got the croup, and I want to ask her if she
thinks it's awful piggy in me to put all my money, or 'most all, in
Father's present. And I want to ask her--I could ask Miss Frances
things all night. Maybe the reason I'm not a thankful person is I'm so
inquiring. I expect to spend the first hundred years after I get to
heaven asking questions."

Going over to the mantel, Carmencita looked at the little clock upon
it. "I don't have to go to the wedding-place for father until after
six," she said, slowly, "and I'd like to see Miss Frances before I go.
If I get there by half past five I can see the people get out of their
automobiles and sail in. I wish I could sail somewhere. If I could see
some grandness once and get the smell of cabbage and onions out of my
nose, which I never will as long as the Rheinhimers live underneath
us, I wouldn't mind the other things so much, but there isn't any
chance of grandness coming as high up in the air as this. I wonder if
God has forgot about us! He has so many to remember--"

With a swift turn of her head, as if listening, Carmencita's eyes grew
shy and wistful, then she dropped on her knees by the couch and buried
her face in her arms. "If God's forgot I'll remind Him," she said, and
tightly she closed her eyes.

"O God"--the words came eagerly, fervently--"we are living in the
same place, and every day I hope we will get in a better one, but
until we do please help me to keep on making Father think I like it
better than any other in town. I thought maybe You had forgotten where
we were. I'm too little to go to work yet, and that's why we're still
here. We can't pay any more rent, or we'd move. And won't You please
let something nice happen? I don't mean miracles, or money, or things
like that, but something thrilly and exciting and romantic, if You can
manage it. Every day is just the same sort of sameness, and I get so
mad-tired of cooking and cleaning and mending, before school and after
school and nights, that if something don't happen soon I'm afraid
Father will find out what a pretending person I am, and he mustn't
find. It's been much better since I knew Miss Frances. I'm awful much
o