Anderson, left alone, sat down and thought disturbedly.  The utter futility of any efforts to assist such a family was undeniable.  Nothing could be done.  For a vivid instant he had an idea of rushing to the market and setting up surreptitiously a term of credit for the Carrolls, by paying their bills himself, but the absurdity of the scheme overcame him.  The ridiculousness of his actually feeding this whole family because of his weakness in giving credit when not another merchant in the town would do so struck him forcibly.  Yet what else could he do?  He had done a foolish thing in allowing his thoughts and imaginations which were not those of a youth, and were susceptible of control had he made the effort, to dwell upon this girl, who had never even thought of him in the same light.  It was romance gone mad.  He, an older man who had passed beyond the period when dreams are a part of the physical growth, and unrestrainable, had indulged himself in dreams, and now he must pay in foolish realities.  He thought uneasily what a laughing-stock he would become if by any means the fact of his continued credit to this non-paying family were to become known, and he saw no earthly reason why it should not become known.  However, no one could possibly suspect the reason for his unbusiness-like credulity.  It was simply impossible that it should enter into any one’s head to suspect him of a passion for that little Carroll girl, as they would express her.  If he had been extending sentimental credit to the Egglestons, people might have been quick to discover the reason in a lurking and extremely suitable affection for one of them, but this was out of the question.

However, Anderson had not a very long time for his reflections, for Eddy Carroll was back, beaming.  “Yes, Amy says I can come,” he announced.

“That is good,” Anderson replied, hospitably, but he eyed him sharply.  “You went very quickly,” said he.

“Got a ride on the ice wagon,” said he.  “The ice-man is a good feller.  I asked him why he had stopped bringing us ice, and he said if he was running the business, instead of jest carting for the boss, he’d give us all the ice we wanted for nothing.  He was going up past our house, and when we got there he gave me a big chunk of ice, and I went and got Marie, and we lugged it into the kitchen together.  Lucky Aunt Anna or Charlotte didn’t see me.”

“Why?” asked Anderson.

“Oh, nothing, only they wouldn’t have let me take it.  Say, Marie was crying.  Her eyes looked as red as a rabbit’s.  I asked her what the matter was, and she said she hadn’t been paid her wages.  Say, isn’t it too bad everybody makes such a fuss about being paid.  It worries Aunt Anna and Charlotte awfully.  Women are dreadful worriers, ain’t they?”

“Perhaps they are,” replied Anderson, and got out a book with colored plates of South American butterflies.  “I think you will like to look at these pictures,” said he.  “I have some letters to write.”