Then, all unconsciously, Charlotte herself, seemingly actuated by a species of mental telegraphy, spurred him on.  “Papa,” said she, viewing him with approbation as he ate his second chop, “is that man in Acton who treated you so dreadfully still living there?”

Carroll’s face contracted.  “Yes, dear,” he said.

“If I had gone down there, and had seen that man, I should have been afraid of the way I would have felt when I saw him,” said Charlotte.  Her innocent girl’s face took on an expression which was the echo of her father’s.  “I suppose he is prosperous,” she said.

“I think so, honey.”

“I feel wicked when I think of him,” said Charlotte, still with the look which echoed her father’s, “when I think of all he has made you suffer, papa.”

Carroll made no reply; the two looked at each other for a second.  The girl’s soft face became almost terrible.

“I think if I were a man, and met him, and—­had a pistol, I should kill him,” she said, slowly.

Carroll made an effort which fairly convulsed him.  His face changed.  He sprang up, went over to Charlotte, took hold of her head, bent it back, and kissed her.  “For God’s sake, honey, don’t talk in that way!” he said.  “All this is not for you to meddle with nor trouble your little head with.”

“Yes it is, if it troubles you, Papa.”

“I can manage my own troubles, and I don’t want any little girl like you trying to take hold of the heavy end,” Carroll said, and laughed quite naturally.

“Then you must not look so ill, papa.”

“I am going to have another cup of coffee,” Carroll said, and showed diplomacy.

Charlotte delightedly poured out the coffee.  “Isn’t it very good coffee?” she said.

“Delicious coffee.”

“I am going to get a beautiful dinner for you,” Charlotte said.  The second cup of coffee had reassured her.  She began to think her father did not look so ill, after all.  She was herself in a state of perfect content and happiness.  She felt a sense of triumph, of daring, which exhilarated her.  She adored her father, and how cleverly she had managed this coming back.  How impossible she had made it for any one to gainsay her!  After breakfast her father went out, telling her he should be home by noon, and she busied herself about the house.  She was an absolute novice about such work, but she found in it a charm of novelty, and she developed a handiness which filled her with renewed triumph.  She kept considering what would her father have done if she had not returned.

“He would have had no supper when he came home last night,” Charlotte said—­“no supper, for he evidently was not going to the inn, and the fire was out.  How dreadful it would have been for him!” She imagined perfectly her father’s sensations of delighted surprise and relief when he espied her, to welcome him, when he felt the warmth of the fire, when he smelled the supper.  The