I was afraid I was mean, but I could not tell her I had the money, because I wanted to carry out this plan, and I did not see how I could get back or do anything unless I kept it, for I had no money at all before.  I have written a letter to Aunt Catherine, and she will get it as soon as they get there.  I don’t think she will be angry; and if she is, I don’t care.”  Charlotte’s voice had a ring of charming defiance.  She looked gayly at her father.  “Come, papa,” said she, “the beefsteak is hot.  Sit right up, and I will bring in the tea and toast.  There are some cakes, too, and a salad.  I have got a beautiful supper, papa.  I never cooked any beefsteak before, but just look how nice that is.  Come, papa.”

Carroll obediently drew his chair up to the table.  It was daintily set; there was even a little vase of flowers, rusty red chrysanthemums, in the centre on the embroidered centrepiece.  Charlotte spoke of them when she brought in the tea and toast.  “I suppose I was extravagant, papa,” she said, “but I stopped at a florist’s in New Sanderson and bought these.  They did not cost much—­only ten cents for all these.”  She took her seat opposite her father, and poured the tea.  She put in the lumps of sugar daintily with the silver tongs.  Her face was beaming; she was lovely; she was a darling.  She looked over at her father as she extended his cup of tea, and there was not a trace of self-love in the little face; it was all love for and tender care of him.  “Oh, I am so glad to be home!” she said, with a deep sigh.

Carroll looked across at her with a sort of adoration and dependence which were painful, coming from a father towards a child.  His face had lightened, but he still looked worn and pale and old.  He was become more and more conscious of the chloroform in his pocket, and the shame and guilt of it.

“Why did you come back, honey?” he asked.

“I didn’t want to go,” Charlotte said, simply.  “I wasn’t happy going away and leaving you alone, papa.  I want to stay here with you, and if you have to leave Banbridge I will go with you.  I don’t mind at all not having much to get along with.  I can get along with very little.”

“You would have been more comfortable with the others, dear,” said Carroll.  He did not begin to eat his supper, but looked over it at the girl’s face.

“You are not eating anything, papa,” said Charlotte.  “Isn’t the beefsteak cooked right?”

“It is cooked beautifully, honey; just right.  All is.  I am glad to see you come back.  You don’t just know what it means to me, dear, but I am afraid—­”

Charlotte laughed gayly.  “I am not,” said she.  “Talk about comfort—­isn’t this comfort?  Please do eat the beefsteak, papa.”

Carroll began obediently to eat his supper.  When he had fairly begun he realized that he was nearly famished.  In spite of his stress of mind, the needs of the flesh reasserted themselves.  He could not remember anything tasting so good since his boyhood.  He ate his beefsteak and potatoes and toast; then Charlotte brought forward with triumph a little dish of salad, and finally a charlotte-russe.