"Is there anything you're needing, my son--anything I can do for you?"

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the ticking of a tiny clock on the mantel, then Van Landing spoke.

"Yes." His voice was boyishly low. "Will you ask Miss Barbour if I may see her to-morrow before she goes out? I _must_ see her."

"Of course I will. And you can tell her how it happened that you were right near our door when you fell, and you didn't even know she was in town. Very few of her up-town friends know. There wasn't time for both up-town and down-town, and there were things she wanted to find out.

She tells me you are an old friend, and I'm glad you've come across each other again. It pleases some folks to believe in chance, but I get more comfort thinking G.o.d has His own way. Good night, Mr. Van Landing. Good dreams--good dreams!"

The door was closed softly, and under the bedclothes Van Landing again buried his face in the pillows, and his lips twitched. Chance--was it chance or was it G.o.d? If only G.o.d would give him a chance!

CHAPTER XII

He was too tired, too utterly relaxed by warmth and medicine, to think clearly. To-morrow he would find Carmencita, and she should get the things the children wanted. They were very strange, the places and people he had seen to-day. Of course he had known about such places and people, read about them, heard about them, but seeing for one's self was different. There were a lot of b.u.mmers among these people he had pa.s.sed; much of their misery was of their own making (he had made much of his), but the wonder was they were no worse.

Bold, bad faces, cold, pinched, hungry ones, eager, earnest, pathetic and joyous, worn and weary, burdened and care-free, they again pa.s.sed before him, misty and ill-defined, as though the snow still veiled and made them hazy, and none of them he knew. He wished they would stop pa.s.sing. He was very tired. They, too, were tired. Would they for ever be pa.s.sing before him, these people, these little children, he had seen to-day? If they would go away he could think more clearly, could think of Frances. She was here, in the house with him. At first it had seemed strange, but it wasn't strange. It would be strange if she were not here when he needed her, wanted her so. To-morrow would not be too late. One could do a good deal on Christmas eve. Everybody had been busy except himself. He would telephone to-morrow and tell Herrick to close the office and give Miss Davis holiday until after New-Year.

But she had nowhere to go. He had heard her tell Herrick so, and Herrick had nowhere to go, either. Both lived in boarding-houses, he supposed. He had never thought to ask. Herrick was a faithful old plodder--never would be anything else--but he couldn't get on without him. He ought to raise his salary. Why didn't Herrick ask for more money if he wanted it? And then he could get married. Why didn't he get married, anyhow? Once or twice he had seen him talking to Miss Davis about something that evidently wasn't business. She was a pretty little thing and quick as lightning--just the opposite of old Herrick. Wouldn't it be funny if they were in love; not, of course, like--

They had nowhere to go Christmas. If Frances would let them they might come here--no, not here, but at his home, their home. His home was Frances's. It wouldn't be home for him if it weren't for her also. He would ask her. And Carmencita and her blind father, they could come, too. It would 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, embarra.s.sing, 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 collar, relief that he was up again, and grat.i.tude that made a certain cynicism, of late becoming too well defined, fade into quiet purpose.

Unlocking the door, he went back to the window and looked across at the long row of houses, as alike as shriveled peas in a dry pod, and down on the snow-covered streets. Brilliantly the sun touched here and there a bit of cornice below a dazzling gleaming roof, and threw rays of rainbow light on window-pane and iron rail, outlined or hidden under frozen foam; and the dirt and ugliness of the usual day were lost in the white hush of mystery.

Not for long would there be transforming effect of the storm, however. Already the snow was being shoveled from door-steps and sidewalks, and the laughter of the boys as they worked, the sc.r.a.ping of their shovels, the rumble of wagon-wheels, which were making deep brown ruts in the middle of the street, reached him with the m.u.f.fled sound of something far away, and, watching, he missed no detail of what was going on below.

"Goodness gracious! I've almost cried myself to death! And she found you--found you!"

Van Landing turned sharply. The door was open, though he had not heard the knock, and with a spring Carmencita was beside him, holding his hands and dancing as if demented with a joy no longer to be held in restraint.

"Oh, Mr. Van, I've almost died for fear I wouldn't find you in time!

And you're here at Mother McNeil's, and all yesterday I looked and looked, and I couldn't remember your last name, and neither could Father. And Miss Frances was away until night, and I never prayed so hard and looked so hard in my life! Oh, Mr. Van, if you are a stranger, I love you, and I'm so glad you're found!"

She stopped for breath, and Van Landing, stooping, lifted Carmencita's face and kissed it.

"You are my dear friend, Carmencita." His voice, as his hands, was a bit shaky. "I, too, am very glad--and grateful. Will you ask her to come, ask her to let me see her? I cannot wait any longer."

"You'll have to." Carmencita's eyes were big and blue in sudden seriousness. "The Little Big Sisters have their tree to-night, and she's got a million trillion things to do to-day, and she's gone out.

She's awful glad you're better, though. I asked her, and she said she was. And I asked her why she didn't marry you right straight away, or to-morrow if she didn't have time to-day, and--"

"You did what, Carmencita?"

"That. I asked her that. What's the use of wasting time? I told her you'd like a wife for a Christmas gift very much, if she was the wife.

Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you really and truly rather have her than anything else?"

Van Landing turned and looked out of the window. The child's eyes and earnest, eager face could not be met in the surge of hot blood which swept over him, and his throat grew tight. All his theories and ideas were becoming but confused upheaval in the manipulations of fate, or what you will, that were bringing strange things to pa.s.s, and he no longer could think clearly or feel calmly. He must get away before he saw Frances.

"Wouldn't you, Mr. Van?"

In the voice beside him was shy entreaty and appeal, and, hands clasped behind her, Carmencita waited.

"I would." Van Landing made effort to smile, but in his eyes was no smiling. Into them had come sudden purpose. "I shall ask her to marry me to-morrow."

Arms extended to the limit of their length, Carmencita whirled round and round the room, then, breathless, stopped and, taking Van Landing's hand, lifted it to her lips.

"I kiss your hand, my lord, and bring you greetings from your faithful subjects! I read that in a book. I'll be the subject. Isn't it grand and magnificent and glorious?" She stopped. "She hasn't any new clothes. A lady can't get married without new clothes, can she? And she won't have time to get any on Christmas eve. Whether she'll do it or not, you'll have to make her, Mr. Van, or you'll lose her again.

You've--got--to--just--make--her!"

Carmencita's long slender forefinger made a jab in Van Landing's direction, and her head nodded with each word uttered. But before he could answer, Mother McNeil, with breakfast on a tray, was in the room and Carmencita was out.

Sitting down beside him, as he asked her to do, Van Landing told her how it happened he was there, told her who he was. Miss Barbour was under her care. She had once been his promised wife. He was trying to find her when he fell, or fainted, or whatever it was, that he might ask her again to marry him. Would she help him?

In puzzled uncertainty Mother McNeil had listened, fine little folds wrinkling her usually smooth forehead, and her keen eyes searching the face before her; then she got up.

"I might have known it would end like this. Well, why not?" Hands on her hips, she smiled in the flushed face looking into hers. Van Landing had risen, and his hands, holding the back of his chair, twitched badly. "The way of love is the way of life. If she will marry you--G.o.d bless you, I will say. It's women like Frances the work we're in is needing. But it's women like her that men need, too. She's out, but she asked me to wish you a very happy Christmas."

CHAPTER XIII

"A very happy Christmas!" Van Landing smiled. "How can I have it without--When can I see her, Mother McNeil?"

At the open door Mother McNeil turned. "She has some shopping to do.

Yesterday two more families were turned over to us. Sometimes she gets lunch at the Green Tea-pot on Samoset Street. She will be home at four. The children come at eight, and the tree is to be dressed before they get here." A noise made her look around. "Carmencita,--you are out of breath, child! It's never you will learn to walk, I'm fearing!"

Carmencita, who had run down the hall as one pursued, stopped, pulled up her stocking, and made effort to fasten it to its supporter.

"Christmas in my legs," she said. "Can't expect feet to walk on Christmas eve. I've got to tell him something, Mother McNeil. Will you excuse me, please, if I tell him by himself?"

Coming inside the room, Carmencita pulled Van Landing close to her and closed the door, and for half a minute paused for breath.

"It was Her. It was Miss Barbour at the telephone, and she says I must meet her at the Green Tea-pot at two o'clock and have lunch with her and tell her about the Barlow babies and old Miss Parker and some others who don't go to Charities for their Christmas--and she says I can help buy the things. Glory! I'm glad I'm living!" She stopped. "I didn't tell her a word about you, but--Have you got a watch?"

Van Landing looked at his watch, then put it back. "I have a watch, but no hat. I lost my hat last night chasing Noodles. It's nine o'clock. I'm going to the Green Tea-pot at two to take lunch also.