Carmencita’s arms opened to their full length, then circled slowly, and her hands crossed around her neck.  “It’s the time to wipe out and forget things, Father says.  It’s the home-time and the heart-time and—­” In her voice was sudden anxiety.  “You are not going away for Christmas are you, Miss Frances?”

“Not for Christmas eve.”  She hesitated.  “I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do on Christmas day.  My people live in different places and far apart.  It is all very different from what it used to be.  When one is alone—­”

She stopped abruptly and, going over to the window, looked down on the street below; and Carmencita, watching, saw the face turned from hers twist in sudden pain.  For a moment she stood puzzled and helpless.  Something she did not understand was troubling, something in which she could not help.  What was it?

“You couldn’t be alone at Christmas, Miss Frances.”  Slowly she came toward the window, and shyly her hand slipped into that of her friend.  “There are too many wanting you.  Father and I can’t give fine presents or have a fine dinner, but there wouldn’t be words in which to tell you how thankful we’d be if you’d spend it with us.  Would you—­would you come to us, Miss Frances?”

Into the eager blue eyes looking up the dark eyes looked down, and, looking, grew misty.  “Dear child, I’d come to you if I were here, but I do not think I’ll be here.”  Her head went up as if impatient with herself.  “I’m going away on Christmas day—­going—­” She took out her watch hurriedly and looked at it.  “It’s after half past five, Carmencita.  You will have to hurry or you won’t see the wedding guests go in.  Good-by, dear.  Have a good time and tuck away all you see to tell me later.  I will be so busy between now and Christmas, there will be no time for talking, but after Christmas—­Why, you’ve got on your straw hat, Carmencita!  Where is the winter one Miss Cattie gave you?  She told me she had given you a perfectly good hat that would last a long time.”

“She did.”  Carmencita’s hands were stuck in the deep pockets of her long coat, and again her big blue eyes were raised to her friend’s.  “It would have lasted for ever if it hadn’t got burned up.  It fell in the fire and got burned up.”  Out in the hall she hesitated, then came back, opened the door, and put her head in.  “It did get burned up, Miss Frances.  I burned it.  Good-by.”

Late into the night Frances Barbour sat at her desk in the bare and poorly furnished room which she now called hers, and wrote letters, settled accounts, wrapped bundles, assorted packages, and made lists of matters to be attended to on the next day.  When at last through, with the reaction that comes from overtired body and nerves she leaned back in her chair and let her hands fall idly in her lap, and with eyes that saw not looked across at the windows, on whose panes bits of hail were tapping weirdly.  For some minutes thought was held in abeyance; then suddenly she crossed her arms on the table, and her face was hidden in them.