make of fire would be to burn the house over our heads. His lodgings
are certainly more comfortable than those selected by himself. There
is little danger of his finding fault with them. What manner of
looking creature is he?"

"An unkempt vagabond!" rejoined Randolph Harrison, rubbing his blue
fingers before the fire. "His clothes are ragged, and frozen stiff.
I suppose he has been out in the storm ever since it set in. There
were icicles upon his beard and hair, his hat having fallen off. It
is a miracle he did not freeze to death long ago. It is a bitter
night."

"Did you say he was an old man?" inquired the hostess languidly,
from the depths of her easy chair.

"He is not a young one, for his hair is grizzled. But we will form
ourselves into a court of inquiry in the morning, with Mr. Aylett as
presiding officer--have in the nocturnal wanderer, and hear what
account he can give of himself. Who knows what romantic history we
may hear--one that may become a Christmas legend in after years?"

"You will get nothing more sensational than the confessions of a
hen-roost robber, I suspect," said Mrs. Aylett, more wearily than
was consistent with her role of attentive hostess.

Her husband noticed the tokens of exhaustion, and interposed to
spare her further exertion.

"Our friends will excuse you if you retire without delay, Clara. You
still feel the effects of your agitation and faintness."