“Poor little girl!” Carroll said again. “Did you have to stay here alone all night?”
“No, papa. I stayed just as long as I could, and then I went out, and I ran—”
“Where, dear?”
“I ran to—”
Carroll waited. Charlotte had turned her face as far away from him as she could as she leaned against him, but one ear was burning red.
“I ran to the—Andersons'. You know Mr. Anderson, that time when I was so frightened by the tramp— You know I stayed there to tea, that— Mrs. Anderson was very kind,” said Charlotte, in a stammering and incoherent voice.
“Oh,” said Carroll.
Suddenly Charlotte raised her head, and she looked at him quite bravely, with an innocent confidence. “Papa,” said she, “you needn't think I am ever going to leave you, not until Amy and the others come back, because I never will. You never will think so?”
“No, darling,” said Carroll. His face grew paler.
“But,” continued Charlotte, “when I went to the Andersons' last night, I rang the bell, and I pounded with the knocker, too, I was so frightened, and Mr. Anderson came right away. He had been to New York himself, to the theatre, and he had not been home long, and—”