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.
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