The savory dish that passed caused a turn in Carmencita's head, and Frances Barbour, looking into the eyes that were looking into hers, held out her hand. At sight of Van Landing her face had colored richly, then the color had left it, leaving it white, and in her eyes was that he had never seen before. "There is nothing for which to thank me." Her voice with its freshness and sweetness stirred as of old, but it was low. She smiled slightly. "I am very glad you are all right this morning. I did not know you knew our part of the town." Her hand was laid on Carmencita's. "I didn't until I met your little friend. I had never been in it before. I know it now very well." "And he was so fighting mad because he couldn't see you when I sent the note that he went out, not knowing where he was or how to get back, and when his senses came on again and he tried to find out he couldn't find, and he walked 'most all night and was lost like people in a desert who go round and round. And the next day he walked all day long and 'most froze, and he'd passed Mother McNeil's house a dozen times and didn't know it; and he was chasing Noodles and just leaning against that railing when the cop came and you came. Oh, Miss Frances, it's Christmas! Won't you please make up and--When are we going to eat?" Miss Barbour's hand closed over Carmencita's twisting ones, and into her face again sprang color; then she laughed. "We are very hungry, Mr. Van Landing. Would you mind sitting down so we can have lunch?" An hour later Carmencita leaned back in her chair, hands in her lap and eyes closed. Presently one hand went out. "Don't ask me anything for a minute, will you? I've got to think about something. When you're ready to go let me know." Through the meal Carmencita's flow of words and flow of spirits had saved the silences that fell, in spite of effort, between Van Landing and Miss Barbour, and under the quiet poise so characteristic of her he had seen her breath come unsteadily. Could he make her care for him again? With eyes no longer guarded he looked at her, leaned forward. "From here," he said, "where are you going?" "Home. I mean to Mother McNeil's. Carmencita says you and she have done my shopping." She smiled slightly and lifted a glass of water to her lips. "The tree is to be dressed this afternoon, and to-night the children come." "And I--when can I come?" "You?" She glanced at Carmencita, who was now sitting with her chin on the back of her chair, arms clasping the latter, watching the strange and fascinating scene of people ordering what they wanted to eat and eating as much of it as they wanted. "I don't know. I am very busy. After Christmas, perhaps." "You mean for me there is to be no Christmas? Am I to be for ever kept outside, Frances?" "Outside?" She looked up and away. "I have no home. We are both--outside. To have no home at Christmas is--" Quickly she got up. "We must go. It is getting late, and there is much to do."