“She might not like your asking, Carmencita.  You must be careful, child.  Miss Barbour is not a lady one can—­”

“Not a lady one can what?” Carmencita stopped her nervous swaying, and the big blue eyes looked questioningly at her father.  “Was there ever a lady who didn’t want to find her lost lover if he was looking for her?  That’s what he is.  And she wants to find him, if she don’t know it exactly.  She’s working it off down here with us children, but she’s got something on her mind.  He’s it.  We’ve got to find him, Father—­got to!”

With a dexterous movement of her fingers Carmencita fastened the buttons of her coat and pulled her hat down on her head.  “I’m going back to Mother McNeil’s,” she said, presently, and the large and half-worn rubbers which she had tied on over her shoes were looked at speculatively.  “The Damanarkist is going to take me.  As soon as Miss Frances tells me Mr. Van’s name I’ll telephone him to come quick, but I won’t tell her that.  She might go away again.  In that slushy book I read the girl ought to have been shook.  She was dying dead in love with her sweetheart and treated him like he was a poodle-dog.  Miss Frances wouldn’t do that, but I don’t know what she might do, and I’m not going to tell her any more than I can help.  I want her to think it just happened.  Good-by, and go to sleep if you want to, but don’t smoke, please.  You might drop the sparks on your coat.  Good-by.”

With a swift kiss she was gone and, meeting the Damanarkist, who was waiting outside the door, they went down the three flights of steps and out into the street.  The wind was biting, and, turning up the collar of her coat, Carmencita put her hands in her pockets and made effort to walk rapidly through the thick snow into which her feet sank with each step.  For some minutes conversation was impossible.  Heads ducked to keep out of their faces the fast-falling flakes, they trudged along in silence until within a few doors of Mother McNeil’s house, and then Carmencita looked up.

“Do—­do you ever pray, Mr. Leimberg—­pray hard, I mean?”

“Pray!” The Damanarkist drew in his breath and laughed with smothered scorn.  “Pray!  Why should I pray?  I cut out prayer when I was a kid.  No, I don’t pray.”

“It’s a great comfort, praying is.”  Carmencita’s hand was taken out of her pocket and slipped through the arm of her disillusioned friend.  “Sometimes you’re just bound to pray.  It’s like breathing—­you can’t help it.  It—­it just rises up.  I prayed yesterday for—­for something, and it pretty near happened, but—­”

“And you think your praying helped to make it happen!” Mr. Leimberg drew Carmencita’s hand farther through his arm, and his lips twisted in contemptuous pity.  “You think there is a magician up—­oh, somewhere, who makes things happen, do you?  Think—­”