Aloft the tambourine was shaken, and its few remaining bells broke gaily on the air as with abandon that was bewildering in grace and suppleness the child leaped into movement swift and light and amazing in beauty.  Around the room, one arm akimbo, one hand now in the air, now touching with the tambourine the hard, bare floor, now tossing back the loose curls, now waving gaily overhead, faster and faster she danced, her feet in perfect rhythm to the bells; then presently the tambourine was thrown upon the table, and she stopped beside it, face flushed, eyes shining, and breath that came in quick, short gasps.

“That 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