"Who is Amy?"

"Amy? Why, Amy is my mother, of course."

"And you are sure she won't worry?"

"Oh no, sir." The boy fairly laughed at the idea. His honesty in this
at least seemed unmistakable.

"Well, then," said Anderson, "come along and have dinner with me."

The boy fairly leaped with delight as, still clinging to the man's
hand, he passed up the little walk to the Anderson house. He could
smell the roast lamb and the green pease.



Chapter VII


Arthur Carroll went on business to the City every morning. He brought
up to the station in the smart trap, the liveried coachman, with the
mute majesty of his kind, throned upon the front seat. Sometimes one
of Carroll's daughters, as delicately gay as a flower in her light
daintiness of summer attire, was with him. Often the boy, with his
outlook of innocent impudence, sat beside the coachman. Carroll
himself was always irreproachably clad in the very latest of the
prevailing style. Had he not been such a masterly figure of a man, he
would have been open to the charge of dandyism. He was always gloved;
he even wore a flower in the lapel of his gray coat. He carried