Charlotte stood regarding him with the sweetest expression of protection and worshipful affection, and withal the naïveté of a child pleased with herself and what she has done for the beloved one. “You did have a good supper, didn't you, papa?” she asked.
“A beautiful supper, sweetheart.”
“You never had a better?”
“Never so good, never half so good,” said Carroll, fervently, smiling down at her eager face.
“You are glad I came back, aren't you, papa?”
“Glad for my own sake, God knows, dear, but—”
“There are no buts at all,” Charlotte cried, laughing. “No buts at all. If you don't think I am happier and better off here with you than I would be rattling down to Kentucky on that old railroad, and I am always car-sick on a long journey, you know, papa.”
Charlotte lit a lamp and bade her father good-night. She kissed him and looked at him anxiously and with a little bewilderment. He had seated himself, and was smoking with an abstracted air, his eyes fixed on vacancy.
“Now, papa, you will go to bed very soon yourself, won't you?” she urged. “You look sick, and I know you are tired out.”
“Very soon, honey,” Carroll replied.