Out of what seemed hopeless confusion and chaotic jumbling, out of excited coming and going, and unanswered questions, and slamming of doors, and hurried searchings, order at last evolved, and, feeling very much as if he’d been in a football match, Van Landing surveyed the rooms with a sense of personal pride in their completeness.  Around the tree, placed between the two front windows, were piled countless packages, each marked, and from the mantelpiece hung a row of bulging stockings, reinforced by huge mounds of the same on the floor, guarded already by old Fetch-It.  Holly and cedar gave color and fragrance, and at the uncurtained windows wreaths, hung by crimson ribbons, sent a welcome to the waiting crowd outside.

If he were not here he would be alone, with nothing to do.  And Christmas eve alone!  He drew in his breath and looked at Frances.  In her face was warm, rich color, and her eyes were gay and bright, but she was tired.  She would deny it if asked.  He did not have to ask.  If only he could take her away and let her rest!

She was going up-stairs to change her dress.  Half-way up the steps he called her, and, leaning against the rail of the banisters, he looked up at her.

“When you come down I must see you, Frances—­and alone.  I shall wait here for you.”

“I cannot see you alone.  There will be no time.”

“Then we must make time.  I tell you I must see you.”  Something in her eyes made him hesitate.  He must try another way.  “Listen, Frances.  I want you to do me a favor.  There’s a young girl in my office, my stenographer, who is to be married to-morrow to my head clerk.  She is from a little town very far from here and has no relatives, no intimate friends near enough to go to.  She lives in a boarding-house, and she can’t afford to go home to be married.  I have asked Herrick to bring her to my apartment to-morrow and marry her there.  I would like her to have—­Carmencita and her father are coming, and I want you to come, too.  It would make things nicer for her.  Will you come—­you and Mother McNeil?”

Over the banisters the beautiful eyes looked down into Van Landing’s.  Out of them had gone guarding.  In them was that which sent the blood in hot surge through his heart.  “I would love to come, but I am going out of town to-morrow—­going—­”

“Home?” In Van Landing’s voice was unconcealed dismay.  The glow of Christmas, new and warm and sweet, died sharply, leaving him cold and full of fear.  “Are you going home?”

She shook her head.  “I have no home.  That is why I am going away to-morrow.  Mother McNeil will have her family here, and I’d be—­I’d be an outsider.  It’s everybody’s home day—­and when you haven’t a home—­”

She turned and went a few steps farther on to where the stairs curved, then suddenly she sat down and crumpled up and turned her face to the wall.  With leaps that took the steps two at a time Van Landing was beside her.