She could hardly imagine a pleasant surprise unconnected with money.  She hurried about her household tasks, and at exactly half-past nine, for she was obedient as a child, she went into the den and got from the case the third volume of the Dutch Republic.  In it she found an envelope.  She thought that it contained money, but when she opened it and found a letter, suddenly her heart failed her.  She sat down dizzily on the divan and read the letter.  It was very short.  It only told her that her father loved her and loved them all; that he was writing the others just what he was writing her; that he loved her, but he was forced to go away and leave her, and not even let her know where he was nor what he was doing—­not for a long time, at least; but that she was not to worry, and she was to go at once to Mrs. Anderson, who would take care of her until she was married.  Then he bade God bless her, and said he was her loving father.  Charlotte sat with the letter in her lap, and the room looked dim to her.  She heard the door-bell ring, but she did not seem to realize what it was, not even when it rang the second and the third time.  But the front door had been left unlocked when Carroll went, and Anderson came in presently, and his mother was with him.  Mrs. Anderson knew nothing except that Carroll had gone, and nobody was to know where, or why, but that there was nothing dishonorable about it, and Charlotte was to come to them.  She was quite pale herself when she saw Charlotte sitting on the divan with the letter in her lap.

“I have a letter from papa,” Charlotte said, piteously, in a trembling voice.  Then Anderson had her in his arms and was soothing and comforting her, and telling her he knew all about it.  It was all right, and she was not to worry.

Mrs. Anderson stood watching them.  “Where are your coat and hat, child?” said she, presently.  She, in reality, felt that she was the proper person to have comforted the girl, under such circumstances, and not a man who knew nothing about girls, nor how they would feel when deserted, in a measure, by a father.  When they were in the carriage, she sat on the seat with Charlotte and kept her arm around her, and looked across almost defiantly at her son.

“It is a terrible strain on the poor little thing, and if we are not careful she will be down with a fever,” she told Randolph, privately, when they were home.

He laughed.  “Take care of her all you want to, mother,” he said.

After dinner he went up to the Carroll place.  He had his instructions from Carroll what to do.  Some of the creditors were partly satisfied with the things belonging to the Carrolls; some were taken to the Anderson house for Charlotte.  As for Charlotte herself, she was, in reality, not so far from the fever which Mrs. Anderson had predicted.  She adored her father.  Every day she watched for a letter.  At last Anderson told her as much as he could and not break his word to her father.