“Do you know who’s carriage that is?” asked Mrs. Anderson.  “It is something new in Banbridge, isn’t it?”

“It belongs to those new people who have moved into the Ranger place,” replied Randolph.  He wore a light business-suit which suited him, and he looked like a gentleman, as much so as when he had come from a law-office instead of a grocery-store.  Indeed, he had been much shabbier in the law-office and had not held his head so high.  In the law-office he had constantly been confronted with the possibility of debt.  Here he was free from it.  He had been smoking, as usual, and there was about his garments an odor of mingled coffee and tobacco.  He had been selling coffee, and grinding some.  One of his two salesmen was ill, and that was why he was so late.  The new carriage rolled silently on its rubber tires along the macadamized road; the high black polish and plate-glass flashed in the sunlight, the coachman in livery sat proudly erect and held his whip stylishly, the sleek horses pranced, seeming scarcely to touch the road with their dainty hoofs.

“Those are fine horses,” said Randolph.

“Yes,” assented his mother.  “They must be very wealthy people, I suppose.”

“It looks so,” replied Randolph.

His mother, still staring out of the window, started.  “Why,” she said, “the coachman is turning around!”

“Perhaps he has forgotten something at the station,” said Randolph.

“Why, it is stopping here!” cried Mrs. Anderson, wonderingly.  The carriage indeed stopped just before the Anderson gate, and remained there perfectly still.  The coachman gazed intently at the house, but made no motion to get down.  At a window was seen a gentleman’s face; past him the fresh face of a girl, also gazing.  Randolph looked out, and the gentleman in the carriage made an imperious beckoning motion.

“Why, he is beckoning you!” said Mrs. Anderson, amazedly and indignantly.

Anderson moved towards the door.

“You are not going out when you are beckoned to in that way?” cried his mother.

Anderson laughed.  “You forget, mother,” he said, “that a grocer is at the beck and call of his patrons.”

“I am ashamed of you!” she said, hotly, her fair old face flushing, “to have no more pride—­”

Anderson laughed again.  “I am too proud to have pride,” he said, and went out of the room.  He went leisurely down the steps, and crossed the little brick walk to the gate, and then approached the carriage.  The gentleman inside, with what seemed an unpremeditated movement, raised his hat.  Randolph bowed.  Carroll smiled in the gentle, admiring way which he had.

“Perhaps I have made a mistake,” he said, “but I was directed here.  I was told that Anderson, who keeps the grocery, lives here.”

“I am Anderson,” replied Randolph, with dignity and a certain high scorn, and purposely leaving off the Mr. from his name.