thought—­yet he knew reasonably that outsiders might possibly look at matters differently, that his own unshaken estimate of himself, the estimate which was the same in a grocery-store as in a lawyer’s office, might not be accepted.  He recognized the fact with amusement rather than indignation, but he recognized it.  He wondered how the girl would look at it all, whether she would ask him in to make the acquaintance of her family, and whether, if she did so he should accept.

But Charlotte came to have no doubt whatever that she should ask him.  Suddenly a great wave of loyalty towards this new friend came over her, loyalty and great courage.

“Of course I shall ask him, when he has done all he has for me, he and his mother,” she decided.  “I shall, and I don’t care what they think.  I don’t care.  He is a gentleman, as much a gentleman as papa.”  Charlotte walked more erect, the pressure of her hand on Anderson’s arm tightened a little unconsciously.  When they reached the Carroll grounds she spoke very sweetly, and not at all hesitatingly.

“You will come in and let my family thank you for your kindness to me, Mr. Anderson,” she said.

Anderson smiled down at her, and hesitated.  “I do not require any thanks.  What I have done was only a pleasure,” he said.  In his anxiety to control his voice, he overdid the matter, and made it exceedingly cool.

“He means he would have done just the same for any other girl, and it is silly for me to think he needs to be thanked so much for it,” thought Charlotte, like a flash.  She was full of the hair-splitting fancies of young girlhood in their estimate of a man.  Her heart sank, but she repeated, still sweetly, though now a little more formally:  “Then please come in and meet my father and mother and aunt.  I should like to have you know them, and I am sure it would be a great pleasure to them.”

“Thank you, Miss Carroll,” Anderson said, slowly.  Then, while he hesitated, came suddenly the sound of a shrill, vituperating voice from the house, a voice raised in a solo-like effect, the burden of which seemed both grief and rage, and contumely.

Eddy, who had given one of his dashes ahead, when they reached the grounds, came flying back.  “Say,” he said, “there’s an awful shindy in the house.  The dressmaker is pitching into papa for all she is worth, and there are some other folks, but she’s goin’ it loudest; but they are all going it!  Cracky!  Hear ’em!”

Indeed, at that second the solo became a chorus.  The house seemed all clamorous with scolding voices.  The door stood open, and the hall-light streamed out in the hall.

“Marie, she’s in there, too,” said Eddy, in an odd sort of glee, “and Martin.  They are all pitching into papa for their money, but he’s enough for them.”  It became evident why the boy’s voice was gleeful.  He was pitting his father, with the most filial pride and confidence, against his creditors.