As he was not undressed, he lost no time in opening his door and entering with his lamp the front hall.  As he did so his mother’s door opened, and her delicate, alarmed old face, frilled with white cambric, appeared.

“Oh, who is it at this time of night, do you suppose, Randolph?” she whispered.

“I don’t know, mother dear; don’t be frightened.”

But she came quite out in her white night draperies, which made her appear singularly massive.  “Oh, do you suppose there are burglars in the store?” she said.

“No.  Don’t worry, mother.”

“Do you suppose it is fire?”

“No; there is no alarm.”

“Randolph, you won’t open the door until you have asked who it is.  Promise me.”

“It is nobody to be afraid of, mother.”

“Promise me.”

“It is probably Henry come back for something.  Harriet may have locked him out, and he forgotten his night-key.”  That was actually what had flashed through Randolph’s mind when he heard the knock and ring.

“Well, I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” said Mrs. Anderson, in a relieved tone.

“Go back to bed, mother, or you will catch your death of cold.”

“But you will ask?”

“Yes, yes.”

Anderson hurried down-stairs, and in consideration of his mother’s listening ears of alarm, he did call out, “Who is there?” at the same time unlocking the door.  It was manifest to his masculine intelligence, unhampered by nerves, that no one with evil intent would thus strive to enter a house with a clang of knocker and peal of bell.  He, therefore, having set the lamp on the hall-table, at once unlocked the door, and Charlotte pulled herself to her feet and her little, pretty, woe-begone face, in which was a new look for him and herself, confronted him.  Anderson did not say a word.  He somehow—­he never remembered how—­laid hold of the little thing, and she was in the house, in the sitting-room, and in his arms, clinging to him.

“Papa didn’t come.  Papa didn’t come home,” she sobbed, but so softly that Mrs. Anderson, who was listening, did not hear.

Anderson laid his cheek down against the girl’s soft, wet one, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if he had been used to so doing ever since he could remember anything.  There was no strangeness for either of them in it.  He patted her poor little head, which felt cold from the frosty night air.

“There, there, dear,” he said.

“He didn’t come home,” she repeated, piteously, against his breast, and it was almost as if she were accusing him because of it.

“Poor little girl!”

“Not on the last train.  Papa didn’t come on the last train, and—­there was no telegram, and I—­I was all alone in the house, and—­and—­I came.”  She sobbed convulsively.

Anderson kissed her cheek softly, he continued to smooth the little, dark, damp head.  “You did quite right,” he whispered—­“quite right, dear.  You are safe now.  Don’t!”