Carroll was engaged in a discussion with the driver. He nodded his head in a smiling aside in response to the chorus of welcome from the porch, and went on conferring with the liveryman, who was speaking in a low, inaudible voice, but gesticulating earnestly. Presently Carroll drew out his pocket-book and gave him some money.
“My!” said Eddy, in a tone of awe, “papa's paying him some money.”
Still the man, Samson Rawdy, did not seem quite satisfied. Something was quite audible here about the rest of the bill, but finally he smiled in response to Carroll's low, even reply, raised his hat, sprang into his carriage, and turned round in a neat circle while Carroll came up the steps.
“Arthur, dear, where have you been?” asked his wife, folding soft, silken arms around his neck and putting up her smiling face for his kiss. “We have not heard a word from you since you went away.”
“You got my telegram?” replied Carroll, interrogatively, kissing her, and passing on to his daughters. Eddy, meantime, was clinging to one of his father's hands and making little leaps upon him like a pet dog.
“Yes,” cried everybody together, “the telegram just came—just a minute ago.”
Anna had kissed her brother, then stepped quietly into the house. The others moved slowly after her.
“How are you, old man?” Carroll asked Major Arms.
“First rate,” replied Arms, grasping the proffered hand, yet in a somewhat constrained fashion.
“Why didn't you write, Arthur dear?” Mrs. Carroll asked, yet not in the least complainingly or reproachfully. On the contrary, she was smiling at him with the sweetest unreserve of welcome as she entered the dining-room by his side.