“How did I get here?” he asked.  “The last thing I remember I was sitting down, feeling very drowsy, and someone was bothering me to get up.  Did I get up?”

“Not until I lifted you,” said Fred.

“Did you carry me?” the other man asked in surprise.

“I did until you kicked and squirmed so I couldn’t hold you.”

“What did you do then?” queried his visitor, tenderly feeling his sore cheek.

“I slapped you once, but you really deserved far more,” said Fred, gravely.

“What did I do then?”

“You got up and behaved yourself so nicely I was sorry that I hadn’t slapped you sooner!”

The old man laughed to himself without a sound.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

While this dialogue had been in progress Fred had been studying his companion closely, with a growing conviction that he knew him.  He was older, grayer, and of course the storm had reddened his face, but Fred thought he could not be mistaken.

The old man repeated the question.

“Brown!” said Fred, shortly, giving the first name he could think of.

“You’re a strapping fine young fellow, Brown, even if you did hit me with your hard mitt, and I believe I should be grateful to you.”

“Don’t bother,” said Fred shortly.

“I will bother,” the old man cried, imperiously, with a gesture of his head that Fred knew well; “I will bother, and my daughter will thank you, too.”

“Your daughter!” Fred exclaimed, turning his back to pick out another stick for the stove.

“Yes, my girl, my only girl—­it’s her I came to see.  She’s living near here.  I guess you’d know her:  she’s married to a no-good Englishman, a real lizzie-boy, that wouldn’t say boo to a goose!”

Fred continued to fix the fire, poking it unnecessarily.  He was confident that Evelyn’s father would not recognize him with his crop of whiskers and sunburnt face.  His mind was full of conflicting emotions.

“Maybe you know him,” said the old man.  “His name is Brydon.  They live somewhere near the Stopping-House.”

“I’ve not lived here long,” said Fred, evasively, “but I’ve heard of them.”

The comfort and security of the warm little shack, as well as the good meal Fred had given him, had loosened the old man’s tongue.

“I never liked this gent.  I only saw him once, but it don’t take me long to make up my mind.  He carried a cane and had his monogram on his socks—­that was enough for me—­and a red tie on him, so red you’d think his throat was cut.  I says to myself, I don’t want that shop window Judy round my house,’ but Evelyn thought he was the best going.  Funny thing that that girl was the very one to laugh at dudes before that, but she stuck it out that he was a fine chap.  She’s game, all right, my girl is.  She stays right with the job.  I wrote and told her to come on back and I’d give her every cent I have—­but she pitched right into me about not asking Fred. Here’s her letter.  Oh, she’s a spunky one!” He was fumbling in his pockets as he spoke.  Drawing out a long pocketbook, he took out a letter.  He deliberately opened the envelope and read.  Fred with difficulty held back his hand from seizing it.