His visitors agreed with him and accepted his invitation. They seated themselves beside the stove which stood in the center of the room, and from which, through little plates of isinglass, shone cheerful light from a bed of fiery coals. Both leaned back in their chairs; both turned the palms of their hands toward the stove, to receive the grateful heat; and when the old pawnbroker joined them, smiling genially as he sank into his great arm-chair, which seemed to have been made expressly for his capacious form, the same thought came to both of his guests. To this thought Dixon gave expression. "Mr. Rumble," he asked, "how happened it that you became a pawnbroker?" "Well, I might say that it was by chance," replied Rumble. "I was not bred to the business." "I thought not," answered Dixon, as he and his friend exchanged knowing glances. "I was a weaver by trade," continued Rumble, "and until two years ago worked at that calling in England, where I was born. But I made little money at it, and when an aunt, at her death, left me five hundred pounds, I decided to come to this country and go into a new business." "But what put it into your head to choose that of a pawnbroker?" asked Dixon. "Because everybody told me that larger profits were made in it than in any other. You see I am getting on in years, and I have a daughter for whom I must provide. When I die I want to leave her enough to make her comfortable." The street door was opened and for a moment the room was made decidedly uncomfortable by a cold blast accompanied by driving snow. Again the windows rattled, the armor clanked, and the hanging suits swung and shook their armless sleeves in the air. A tall, slight young man, clad in well-worn black clothes, stood by the door. Although his beardless pale face was the face of youth, it was not free from the marks of care, and in his large lustrous dark eyes there was a yearning look that spoke, as plainly as words, of desires unfulfilled. Dixon and Teague exchanged glances which as much as said, "here's another customer for the pawnbroker." "Is Miss Rumble in?" said the newcomer in a hesitating manner, as he turned toward the old pawnbroker. "You wouldn't have her out on such a night, would you, Mr. Maxwell?" said Rumble, laughing. "She is in the sitting-room," he added, pointing to the rear; "go right in." But Maxwell did not go right in. He knocked lightly at the door, which in a moment was opened by a young woman, whose girlish face and willowy figure presented a vision of loveliness to those in the outer room. As Maxwell disappeared in the sitting-room, Dixon and his friend again exchanged glances which showed that they had changed their opinion in regard to the newcomer's relations with the pawnbroker. "Well," asked Teague, "have the profits in this business met your expectations?"