Into hers Carmencita's eyes were looking firmly, and, turning from
them, Frances made effort to laugh; then her face whitened.

"One can never be sure how much things matter to others, Carmencita.
We can only be sure of how much they matter--to us. But it was
Christmas we were to talk about. It's much nicer to talk about
Christmas. We can't talk very long, for I meet the 'Little Mothers' at
half past six, and after that I--"

"And I've got to go at half past five to meet Father when he's through
with that wedding up-town, and then we're going shopping. I've got a
lot to talk about. The Beckwith babies are awful sick. I guess it
would be a good thing if they were to die. They are always having
colic and cramps and croup, and they've got a coughing mother and a
lazy father; but they won't die. Some babies never will. Did you know
Mr. Rheinhimer had been on another spree?" Carmencita, feet fastened
in the rounds of her chair, elbows on knees, and chin in the palms of
her hand, nodded affirmatively at the face in front of her. "Worst one
yet. He smashed all the window-panes in the bedroom, and broke two
legs of their best chairs doing it, and threw the basin and pitcher
out of the window. He says he'd give any man living five hundred
dollars, if he had it, if he'd live with his wife a month and not
shake her. She is awful aggravating. She's always in curl papers, and
don't wear corsets, and nags him to death. She says she wishes you'd
send him to a cure or something. And I want to tell you about Father's
present."

For twenty minutes they talked long and earnestly. Carmencita's list
of names and number of pennies were gone over again and again, and