Meantime the object of their solicitude sat crouching over the fire of wet green wood she had succeeded in coaxing into a blaze, now looking nervously toward the half closed door of the small room her boys used to occupy, and again congratulating herself that it was Sunday, and consequently no one would be coming there to pry into the secret she was guarding as carefully as ever tigress guarded its threatened young. The half frozen, famished wretch, fleeing from the shadow of the church out into the wintry storm which had come up since nightfall, had gone next to the tumble-down shanty of a house which Mrs. Baker called her home. It was late for a light to be there, for Mrs. Baker kept early hours; but through the driving snow the wanderer, as he turned the corner, caught a friendly gleam shining out from the dingy windows, and waking in his breast one great wild throb of joy, such as some lost mariner feels when he spies in the distance the friendly bark and knows there’s help at hand. It was a desolate, dreary home, but to the wanderer hastening toward it, and glancing so timidly around as if behind each rift of snow there were bristling bayonets sent to stop his course, it seemed a splendid palace. Could he gain that shelter he was safe. His mother would shield him from the dreaded officers he fancied were on his track, and so, the sick, fainting man kept on until the old board fence was reached, where, leaning against the gate, he stood a moment, and with his feverish hand scooped up the grateful snow to cool his burning forehead. The tallow candle was burning yet within the cottage, but the fire was raked together on the hearth and the stranger could see the glow of the red embers and the broken shovel lain across the andiron. “I wonder what she’s doing up so late,” he whispered, and moving cautiously up the walk to the uncurtained window, he started suddenly at the novel sight which met his view.