“I promise.”

Van Landing nodded at the eager little face upraised to his.  It was singularly attractive and appealing, and the varying emotions that swept over it indicated a temperament that took little in life calmly, or as a commonplace happening, and a surge of protest at her surroundings swept over him.

“I promise,” he repeated.  “I won’t tell.”

“Cross your heart and shut your eyes and I will tell you.”

Hands on his knees, Carmencita watched the awkward movements of Van Landing’s fingers, then she laughed joyously, but when she spoke her voice was in a whisper.

“I’m writing a book.”

“You are doing what?”

“Writing a book!  It’s perfectly grand.  That is, some days it is, but most days it is a mess.  It was a mess yesterday, and I burned up every single word I wrote last week.  I’ll show it to you if you want to see it.”

Without waiting for an answer Carmencita sprang to her feet, and with noiseless movement skipped across the room, and from the middle drawer of the chest between the windows took out a large flat box.

“This is it.”  Again taking her seat on the stool at Van Landing’s feet, she opened the box carefully.  One by one she lifted out of it pieces of paper of varying size and color and held them toward her visitor, who, hands clasped between knees, was bending forward and watching with amazed interest the seemingly exhaustless contents of the box beside him.

“I use pad-paper when I have it.”  Several white sheets were laid in a pile by themselves.  “But most of the chapters are on wrapping-paper.  Mrs. Beckwith gives me all of hers, and so does Mrs. Rheinhimer when her children don’t chew it up before she can save it.  That’s chapter fourteen.  I don’t like it much, it’s so squshy, but I wrote it that way because I read in a newspaper once that slops sold better than anything else, and I’m writing this to sell, if I can.”

“Have you named it?” Van Landing’s voice was as serious as Carmencita’s.  “I’ve been told that a good title is a great help to a book.  I hope yours will bring you a good deal of money, but—­”

“So do I.”  Carmencita’s hands came together fervently.  “I’m bound to make some money, and this is the only way I can think of until I’m fourteen and can go to work.  I’m just thirteen and two months, and I can’t go yet.  The law won’t let me.  I used to think it took a lot of sense to write a book, but the Damanarkist says it don’t, and that anybody who is fool enough to waste time could write the truck people read nowadays.  He don’t read it, but I do, all I can get—­I like it.”

“I’ve never tried to write.”  Van Landing again glanced at the clock.  Noodles was staying an interminably long time.  “Like you, I imagined it took some measure of ability—­”

“Oh, but it don’t.  I mean it doesn’t take any to write things like that.”  Carmencita’s finger pointed to several backless magazines and a couple of paper-bound books on the table behind her.  “I read once that people like to read things that make them laugh and cry and—­and forget about the rent money, and tell all about love-dovies and villains and beautiful maidens, and my book’s got some of all those kinds of things in it.  It hasn’t got any—­What did you say you thought it took to write a book?”