The stranger found voice at length, but it was weak and timorous as that of a frightened child.

“We were on the train, my wife and I, with our three little ones,—­on the train snowed in five miles back,—­and we ask, if you will give it, a night’s lodging, it being necessary that we should reach home without paying for our keeping at the hotel.  My wife and children are outside the door, and nearly frozen, I assure you.”

Then Ruth’s warm heart showed itself.

“Come in,” she said.  “Keep you?—­of course we can.  Come in and warm yourselves.”

A sweet woman, with one child in her arms, and two shivering beside her, glided by the man into the room.  They were immediately the recipients of the good old lady’s hospitality; she dragged them at once, one and all, to the warmest spot beside the hearth.

Still the man stood, aimless and uncertain, clutching the door and swaying to and fro.

“Why do you stand there at the door?  Why not come in?” said Jacob Newell.  “You must be cold and hungry.  Ruth—­that’s my wife, Sir—­will get you and your family some supper.”

Then the man came in and walked with an unsteady step to a chair placed for him near the fire.  After he had seated himself he shook like one in an ague-fit.

“I fear you are cold,” said Ruth.

“Oh, no!” he said.

His voice struggled to his lips with difficulty and came forth painfully.

The old lady went to a corner cupboard, and, after a moment’s search, brought forth a black bottle, from which she poured something into a glass.  It smelt like Jamaica rum.  With this she advanced towards the stranger, but she was bluntly stopped by Jacob,—­

“I am afraid the gentleman has had too much of that already!”

For an instant, like a red flash of lightning, a flush of anger passed across his features before the stranger meekly made answer that he had tasted no liquor that day.  Ruth handed him the glass and he drained it at a gulp.  In a moment more he sat quietly upright and proceeded gravely to divest himself of his heavy shawl and overcoat, after which he assisted in warming and comforting the children, who were growing sleepy and cross.

Ruth bustled about with her preparations for giving the strangers a comfortable supper, and Jacob and his unexpected guest entered into conversation.

“I used to be acquainted hereabout,” the stranger began, “and I feel almost like getting among friends, whenever I visit the place.  I rode over with old Gus Parker to-day, from where the train lies bedded near the five-mile cut, but I was too busy keeping the children warm to ask him any questions.  I came here because your son Mark Newell and I were old cronies at school together.  I—­I don’t see him here to-night,”—­the stranger’s voice trembled now,—­“where is he?”

“Where we must all follow him, sooner or later,—­in the grave!”