e fireside, dry and warm in Danny's old
clothes, sniffing the steam of his coffee cup.

But this is no ordinary outcast, y' understand, submissive to charity,
but an agent of retribution, who stands with frozen folded hands, and
wind whistling in his rags, looking on with a threatening manner. And
when the moment has come for him to enter, and not until then, he stalks
stiffly past the outheld hand to the center of the room and turns slowly
in his tracks to study the features of the place, as an agent of destiny
should always do. His pinched little face is dirty, his black hair
tousled by the storm, which has blown away his cap; and now the
lamp-light touching his temple reveals the deep scar there. A wild and
awesome waif is this, and Molly studying with startled interest his
behavior feels at last that she is entertaining some veteran campaigner
of regions beyond Turntable to whom the mischances of earthly wandering
in cold and snow are nothing.

Not a word does he say but spreads his stiffened fingers before the
blaze, and Molly with the strangest of hopes dawning so soon after her
rebellion bustles briskly about the coffee making. And presently it is
brewed and Tim Cannon stands by the table drinking and munching toast
and cold meat.

"Ye must be seated in the chair," urges Molly, "and be comfortable, and
it will seem like home to you."

At this Tim Cannon rubs his scar with remembrance of his drunken
grandfather and their home in the city slums. Then he eats the faster
till he is done, studying her with peculiar interest.

"You should have seen the money before I began the eats," he says by way
of advice on the entertainment of wayfarers.

"Do you mean you can't pay?" asks Molly after a moment's reflection.
"Now what am I to do?"

"Throw me out," instructs Tim, with contempt of her ignorance.

"Into the storm? Oh, no!"

"Why not?" he asks with suspicion.

"Faith, I wouldn't treat a dog so," replied Molly.

"Sure, not a dog," agrees Tim; and waiting to be driven out stands
arrow-straight in Danny's old clothes, which are too big for him,
wondering what the dog has to do with the matter.

"But you can pay," says Molly after a moment. Faintly and eagerly she
speaks, her hand pressing her heart to steady it in against the impulse
of hope. "You can pay for that and much more--food and drink and warmth
all the days of my life--and without money." Tim shrewdly glances his
question, but Molly shakes her head