"O God"--the words came eagerly, fervently--"we are living in the
same place, and every day I hope we will get in a better one, but
until we do please help me to keep on making Father think I like it
better than any other in town. I thought maybe You had forgotten where
we were. I'm too little to go to work yet, and that's why we're still
here. We can't pay any more rent, or we'd move. And won't You please
let something nice happen? I don't mean miracles, or money, or things
like that, but something thrilly and exciting and romantic, if You can
manage it. Every day is just the same sort of sameness, and I get so
mad-tired of cooking and cleaning and mending, before school and after
school and nights, that if something don't happen soon I'm afraid
Father will find out what a pretending person I am, and he mustn't
find. It's been much better since I knew Miss Frances. I'm awful much
obliged to You for letting me know her, but she isn't permanent,
Mother McNeil says, and may go away soon. I'm going to try to have a
grand Christmas and be as nice as I can to Mrs. Rheinhimer, but she's
so lazy and dirty it's hard not to tell her so. And if You could let a
nice thing happen for Christmas I hope You will. If it could be a
marriage and I could be bridesmaid I'd like that best, as I've never
been to an inside wedding, just outside on the street. I don't care
for poor marriages. Amen."

On her feet, Carmencita hesitated, then, going to a closet across the
room, took from its top shelf a shabby straw hat and put it on. "This
was bought for me and fits," she said, as if to some one by her side,
"and, straw or no straw, it feels better than that Coachman Cattie,
which is gone for evermore. Some day I hope I can burn you up,
too"--she nodded to the coat into which she was struggling--"but I
can't do it yet. You're awful ugly and much too big, but you're warm
and the only one I've got. I'll have half an hour before it's time to