“Good-morning, Mr. Anderson,” she said.
Anderson was a man of self-control, but he gazed down at her fairly speechless. He had been telling himself that she had gone as certainly out of his life as if she were dead, and here she was again.
“I thought,” he stammered, finally.
Charlotte's face of innocent wonder and disturbance flushed. “No, I did not go, after all,” she said, like a child. “That is, I started, but I went no farther than Lancaster. They thought I was going—they all did—but I could not leave papa alone, and so I came back.” She was incoherent. Her own confusion deepened. She tried to look into the man's face, but her own eyes fell; her lips quivered. She was almost crying, but she did not know why. She turned to the counter, behind which stood the man with the package of eggs and the change.
“Send that package,” Anderson said, brusquely.
“The wagon has gone.”
“Send it as soon as it comes back. There will be time enough.”
“I can manage if I don't have the eggs until noon,” said Charlotte.
The clerk turned to put away the parcel in readiness for the delivery-wagon, and again Anderson and the girl looked at each other. Anderson had caught up his hat with his newspaper as he came out of the office, and Charlotte looked at it.
“Were you going out?” she asked, timidly, and yet the question seemed to imply a suggestion. She glanced towards the door.