“Yes.”  Carmencita’s feet skipped in spite of the clogging snow.  “I think that somewhere there is Somebody who knows about everything, but I don’t think He means us to ask for anything we want just because we want it and don’t do a lick to get it.  I’ve been praying for months and months about my temper and stamping my foot when I get mad, and if I remember in time and hold down the up-comings my prayers are always answered; but when I let go and forget—­” Carmencita whistled a long, low, significant note.  “I guess then I don’t want to be answered.  I want to smash something.  But I didn’t pray yesterday about tempers and stamping.  It was pretty near a miracle that I asked for, though I said I wasn’t asking for miracles or—­”

“All people who pray ask for miracles.  Since the days when men feared floods and famines and pestilence and evil spirits they have cried out for protection and propitiated what to them were gods.”  The Damanarkist spit upon the ground as if to spew contempt of pretense and cupidity.  “I’ve no patience with it.  If there is a God, He knows the cursed struggle life is with most of us; and if there isn’t, prayer is but a waste of time.”

Carmencita lifted her eyes and for a moment looked in the dark, thin face, embittered by the losing battle of life, as if she had not heard aright, then she laughed softly.

“If I didn’t know you, dear Mr. Damanarkist, I’d think you really meant it—­what you said.  And you don’t.  I don’t guess there’s anybody in all the world who doesn’t pray sometimes.  Something in you does it by itself, and you can’t keep it back.  You just wait until you feel all lost and lonely and afraid, or so glad you are ready to sing out loud, then you’ll do it—­inside, if you don’t speak out.  If I prayed harder to have more sense and not talk so much, and not say what I think about people, and not hate my ugly clothes so, and despise the smell of onions and cabbage and soap-suds, I might get more answers, but you can’t get answers just by praying.  You’ve got to work like the mischief, and be a regular policeman over yourself and nab the bad things the minute they poke their heads out.  If I’d prayed differently yesterday I wouldn’t have been looking for—­for somebody all to-day, and be a jumping-jack to-night for fear I won’t find him.  Did—­did you ever have a sweetheart, Mr. Damanarkist?” Before answer could be made Mother McNeil’s house was reached, and with steps that were leaps Carmencita was at the door, and a moment later inside.  Finding that Miss Frances had returned, she called to Mr. Leimberg to come for her on his way back from the station library where he was to get his book, and breathlessly she ran to Miss Barbour’s door and knocked violently upon it.

To the “come in” she entered, eyes big and shining, and cheeks stung into color by the bitter wind; and with a rush forward the hands of her adored friend were caught and held with a tight and nervous grip.