"I hope you won't mind Carmencita knowing." Van Landing drew the child to him. "She is an admirable arranger and will like to help, I'm sure. Miss Davis and Mr. Herrick are going to be married to-morrow, Carmencita, and spend their holiday—wherever they choose. Why, Miss Davis—why, you've never done like this before!"
Miss Davis was again in her chair, and, with arms on her desk and face buried in them, her shoulders were making little twitchy movements. She was trying desperately hard to keep back something that mustn't be heard, and in a flash Carmencita was on her knees beside her.
"Oh, Miss Davis, I don't know you much, but I'm so glad, and of course it's awful exciting to get married without knowing you're going to do it; but you mustn't cry, Miss Davis—you mustn't, really!"
"I'm not crying." Head up, the pretty brown eyes, wet and shining, looked first at Herrick and then at Van Landing, and a handkerchief wiped two quivering lips. "I'm not crying, only—only it's so sudden, and to-morrow is Christmas, and a boarding-house Christmas—" Again the flushed face was buried in her arms and tears came hot and fast—happy, blinding tears.
Moving chairs around that were not in the way, going to the window and back again, locking up what did not require locking, putting on his hat and taking it off without knowing what he was doing, Van Landing, nevertheless, managed in an incredibly short time to accomplish a good many things and to make practical arrangements. Herrick and Miss Davis were to come to his apartment at one o'clock to-morrow and bring the minister. They would be married at once and have dinner immediately after with him—and with a friend or two, perhaps. Carmencita and her father would also be there, and they could leave for a trip as soon as they wished. They must hurry; there was no time to lose—not a minute.
With a few words to the office-boy, the elevator-boy, the janitor, and additional remembrances left with the latter for the charwoman, the watchman, and several others not around, they were out in the street and Carmencita again helped in the cab.
For a moment there was dazed silence, then she turned to Van Landing. "Would you mind sticking this in me?" she asked, and handed him a bent pin. "Is—is it really sure-enough what we've been doing, or am I making up. Stick hard, please—real hard."
Van Landing laughed. "No need for the pin." He threw it away. "You're awake, all right. I've been asleep a long time, and you—have waked me, Carmencita."
For two delicious hours the child led and Van Landing followed. In and out of stores they went with quickness and decision, and soon on the seat and on the floor of the cab boxes and bundles of many shapes and sizes were piled, and then Carmencita said there should be nothing else.
"It's awful wickedness, Mr. Van, to spend so much." Her head nodded vigorously. "The children will go crazy, and so will their mothers, and they'll pop open if they eat some of all the things you've bought for them, and we mustn't get another one. It's been grand, but—You're not drunk, are you, Mr. Van, and don't know what you're doing?"