It is said that drowning men will grasp at straws.  This elegant stranger, who had emerged from mystery to disturb the Christmas day of a humble organist, now leaned on the friendly arm of the little man, walking along with him, not as he once sauntered through the promenade, a butterfly disdaining all but the brightest of sunbeams, the sweetest of flowers.  Poor worm! he was half frozen in this wintry brightness, this exhilarating atmosphere, in which Summerman throve so well.

“Are all the men that are born in woods and meadows, and brought up tinkers, like you?” he asked.

“No,” answered Summerman.  “Some turn out fools, and some knaves, and some ten times better men and wiser men, than I shall ever be.”

“Like the rest of the world.  Are men, men everywhere?”

“Pretty much.  You talk about your wits.  You were made to do a bigger business than I shall ever do.  Go home and begin it.  I’ve a mind to go with you, so you shan’t lose your way.”

“You know the way so well,” said Rush.  He had not before spoken as he now spoke, almost cheerfully, almost hopefully.  Here was this fellow that told fortunes, daring to prophesy good days for him!  But then, was he not a bankrupt?  And if he lived—­a beggar still?

* * * * *

The sun had set, and the faces of the two men were again turned to the village.  They had walked quite round the lake, and Summerman had concluded that he would invite the gentleman to dine with him when they came back to the inn; would he accept the courtesy?  Summerman looked at Mr. Rush, that he might ascertain the probabilities, and thought that he could see a breaking of the black clouds which held this man a prisoner.  He wanted to preach to him.  He wanted exceedingly to launch out again on the Good Will doctrine; and at length he did, but not exactly in the manner he would have chosen, had he been left to himself.

As they walked along in silence, suddenly came and met them the sound of a quick clanging church bell; then rose a mighty cry, and a still more potent flame ascending heavenward.

“It’s a fire!” cried Summerman.  And, true to his living impulse and instinct, which was forever—­first and last, and ever—­the good of the public, the little man set off on a run.  His companion, the gentleman who had never, in his thirty years, run to a fire, with generous intent, followed on as fleetly.  So they came together to the village street, when, lo! the shop of Daniel Summerman, was making all this stir! drawing such crowds about it as never before the artist’s varied powers had done.

There was neither door nor roof, wall or window, visible, but a pit of flame, and within, as everybody knew, the entire stock, sum total of the organist’s worldly goods.

“Well! well!” said he, as, panting, he came to a stand-still in the middle of the street, his companion close beside him.