The wisp of old woman in mourning dress, with blown white hair and out-stretched hand; the crackling hearth, and coziness of the room beyond--these are hostess and haven enough to any waif of winter tempest; and Molly knowing it to be so steps aside for him, laughing with eagerness to see him at the 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 for answer. "To-night I will keep secret and plan how to arrange it--and you may sleep here on the sofa before the fire and dream of good things for to-morrow; and only then"--she nods with mystery in her smile--"I will say what ye are to do."