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The owner of the car glanced at the young man with the stern face, and raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

The young man had taken the revolver from the limp fingers of the burglar and was holding it in his hand. Winthrop gave what was half a laugh and half a sigh of compassion.

“So, that’s Carey?” he said.

There was a sudden silence. The young man with the stern face made no answer. His head was bent over the revolver. He broke it open, and spilled the cartridges into his palm. Still he made no answer. When he raised his head, his eyes were no longer stern, but wistful, and filled with an inexpressible loneliness.

“No, I am Carey,” he said.

The one who had blundered stood helpless, tongue-tied, with no presence of mind beyond knowing that to explain would offend further.

The other seemed to feel for him more than for himself. In a voice low and peculiarly appealing, he continued hurriedly.

“He is my doctor,” he said. “He is a young man, and he has not had many advantages–his manner is not–I find we do not get on together. I have asked them to send me some one else.” He stopped suddenly, and stood unhappily silent. The knowledge that the strangers were acquainted with his story seemed to rob him of his earlier confidence. He made an uncertain movement as though to relieve them of his presence.

Miss Forbes stepped toward him eagerly.

“You told me I might wait in the library,” she said. “Will you take me there?”

For a moment the man did not move, but stood looking at the young and beautiful girl, who, with a smile, hid the compassion in her eyes.

“Will you go?” he asked wistfully.

“Why not?” said the girl.

The young man laughed with pleasure.

“I am unpardonable,” he said. “I live so much alone–that I forget.” Like one who, issuing from a close room, encounters the morning air, he drew a deep, happy breath. “It has been three years since a woman has been in this house,” he said simply. “And I have not even thanked you,” he went on, “nor asked you if you are cold,” he cried remorsefully, “or hungry. How nice it would be if you would say you are hungry.”

The girl walked beside him, laughing lightly, and, as they disappeared into the greater hall beyond, Winthrop heard her cry: “You never robbed your own ice-chest? How have you kept from starving? Show me it, and we’ll rob it together.”

The voice of their host rang through the empty house with a laugh like that of an eager, happy child.

“Heavens!” said the owner of the car, “isn’t she wonderful!” But neither the prostrate burglars, nor the servants, intent on strapping their wrists together, gave him any answer.

As they were finishing the supper filched from the ice-chest, Fred was brought before them from the kitchen. The blow the burglar had given him was covered with a piece of cold beef-steak, and the water thrown on him to revive him was thawing from his leather breeches. Mr. Carey expressed his gratitude, and rewarded him beyond the avaricious dreams even of a chauffeur.

As the three trespassers left the house, accompanied by many pails of water, the girl turned to the lonely figure in the doorway and waved her hand.

“May we come again?” she called.

But young Mr. Carey did not trust his voice to answer. Standing erect, with folded arms, in dark silhouette in the light of the hall, he bowed his head.

Deaf to alarm bells, to pistol shots, to cries for help, they found her brother and Ernest Peabody sleeping soundly.

“Sam is a charming chaperon,” said the owner of the car.

With the girl beside him, with Fred crouched, shivering, on the step, he threw in the clutch; the servants from the house waved the emptied buckets in salute, and the great car sprang forward into the awakening day toward the golden dome over the Boston Common. In the rear seat Peabody shivered and yawned, and then sat erect.