“I don’t think the puppy belonged to that boy,” Mrs. Carroll said.  “He was just a little, stray dog.”

She had seen nothing of what Anderson had done, and neither had the others.  There was manifestly nothing more to be done.  It was an absurdity for Carroll to load himself up with that squirming puppy, when the ownership seemed so problematic.  He bade them all good-bye again, and they got on the train.  The women’s pretty, wistfully smiling faces appeared at windows, also Eddy’s, and the innocently wondering visage of the puppy.  Anderson was in the smoking-car.  As the train passed, Carroll saw his face at a window, and bowed, raising his hat half-mechanically.  Anderson was conscious of a distinct sensation of pity for him, the more so that he was helpless and rebelliously depressed himself.  He meditated upon the advisability of going into the other car, the Pullman, before the arrival of the train at New Sanderson, and bidding Charlotte farewell.  He finally decided not to do so.  He had no reason to think that she would care especially to have him, and while his self-respect, in spite of his perfect cognizance of the disadvantages of his position, was sufficient not to make him hesitate on that account, he had had a feeling against intruding upon the possible sadness of the ladies when making what they must recognize as a forced exit from their home under humiliating circumstances.  It did not occur to him that they might possibly not feel so.

Carroll, left on the platform while the train steamed out of sight, in its backward trail of smoke full of rainbow lights in the frosty air, turned to go home.  He was going to walk.  Martin had driven the family to the station, and had himself gotten on the rear car of the train.  He was about seeking employment in New Sanderson.  One of the horsemen had driven off with the rig; the other was waiting for a word with Carroll.  The discussion was short, heated, and profane on one side; calm, low, and imperturbable on the other.

“You’ll have it in the end,” Carroll said, as he turned to go.

“The end has got to come pretty darned quick,” the other retorted, jumping into his little trotting-gig and spinning off.

The others of the crowd had melted away rather quickly.  Minna Eddy had clambered into the wagon and gathered up the reins, while her husband retained the wailing baby.  In truth, in spite of her bravado, she had some little doubts as to the wisdom of her confiscation of the rug.  Madame Griggs, actuated by a similar doubt, also fluttered away swiftly down the street.  The men also, upon making sure that Carroll was not intending to abscond, retreated.  Carroll was quite alone when the horseman spun away in his gig, with its swift spokes flashing in blinding rings of light as he disappeared around the curve.  It was one of those mornings in the fall when the air is so clear that the sunlight seems intensified.  There had been a hard frost the night before, and a delicate