“Poor little girl!”
“Not on the last train. Papa didn't come on the last train, and—there was no telegram, and I—I was all alone in the house, and—and—I came.” She sobbed convulsively.
Anderson kissed her cheek softly, he continued to smooth the little, dark, damp head. “You did quite right,” he whispered—“quite right, dear. You are safe now. Don't!”
“Papa!”
“Oh, some business detained him in the City.”
“What has happened to papa?” demanded Charlotte, in a shrill voice, and it was again as if she were unconsciously accusing Anderson. When a heart becomes confident of love, it is filled with wonder at any evil mischance permitted, and accuses love, even the love of God. “What has happened to papa? Where is he?” she demanded again. And it was then that Mrs. Anderson, unseen by either of them, stood in the doorway with an enormous purple-flowered wrapper surging over her nightgown.
“Hush, dear!” whispered Anderson. “I am sure nothing has happened.”
“Why are you sure?”
“If anything had happened I should have heard of it. I came out on the last train myself. If there had been an accident I should certainly have heard.”
“Would you?”