Tom Burton, the father, sat gazing at the stove in the center of the room.  He was propped in a heavy chair with cushions about him, and he, too, had grown thinner and rawer of joint.  He had been for some time thus silently staring ahead with a pipe long forgotten and dead of ash in his hand and an old newspaper—­so old as to be no longer a newspaper—­lying where it had dropped near his side.  A painter might have seen in the pose a picture of the felled and beaten fighter; the burden-bearer chafing under enforced idleness and the imprisonment of an irritable convalescence.

“Yes, come in, or go out, whoever you are—­and shut the door!” There was no hospitality in the irascible greeting of the manor’s lord, and the face he half-turned to inspect the stranger was devoid of welcome.  It was mirthless from its deep eyes to the lips and chin that were hidden in a patriarchal spread of beard.

Mary for some reason flushed deeply as she stood aside and timidly smiled as though in amends of courtesy.

The young man went straight to the stove and began loosening the collar of his heavy mackinaw.  For a moment, without rising or taking any notice beyond a curt nod, old Tom Burton bent upon him eyes of incurious gravity.

“I take it you are Thomas S. Burton,” began the young stranger.  “My name’s Edwardes and I have a shack back in the hills.  The snowstorm has delayed me and I must throw myself on your hospitality for the night.”

“Yes.”  Thomas Burton spoke slowly and dully, and this, too, was a result of his illness, for in past days his voice had rung stentorian above the blows of axes in the timber.  “Yes, I’ve heard of you.  You’re the millionaire hobo.  When a man’s got plenty of money and chooses to live alone in a country that ‘most everybody else is leavin’, he’s tolerable apt to be heard of.”

The comment was not softened with the modification of banter, but rasped with the twang of suspicion as though the speaker expected to give offense—­and did not care.  Young Edwardes received it with a peal of laughter so infectious that the man in the chair looked up, surprised.

“So that’s how they figure me out, is it?” inquired the traveler.  “I suppose though,” he added as if in answer to his own question, “no man knows what portrait public opinion paints of him.  At all events I’m a harmless hobo and quite willing to pay when I put my fellow-man to inconvenience.  I live in the mountains by the sentence of my doctors.”

“Lunger, eh?” Burton nodded his head comprehensively, but quite without sympathy; and the guest bowed his assent.

“Some folks turns lungers away,” commented the host reflectively, “but that’s only in the summertime when the vacation boarders kicks on ’em.  As for me, I don’t take in boarders summer nor winter, but when the snow drives a man in I don’t drive him out.”

“So they accept us in the winter, do they, and cast us out in the summer when the ribbon-clerks come?” Edwardes spoke musingly, yet amusedly, and in his accustomed manner of self-communion.  “After all, men are much alike everywhere, aren’t they?  The lepers must not walk the streets of Jerusalem, but they may sit in full concourse at the Jaffa and Damascus gates where their wrappings are brushed by every caravan that goes in or out.”