Whether to enjoy a dramatic suspense, or that we were selfishly contrasting our own comfort with the chill and dreary situation of the unknown person at the threshold, or that some of us city folk felt a little startled at the knock which came so unseasonably, through night and storm, to the door of the lonely farmhouse,—­so it happened that nobody, for an instant or two, arose to answer the summons.  Pretty soon there came another knock.  The first had been moderately loud; the second was smitten so forcibly that the knuckles of the applicant must have left their mark in the door panel.

“He knocks as if he had a right to come in,” said Zenobia, laughing.  “And what are we thinking of?—­It must be Mr. Hollingsworth!”

Hereupon I went to the door, unbolted, and flung it wide open.  There, sure enough, stood Hollingsworth, his shaggy greatcoat all covered with snow, so that he looked quite as much like a polar bear as a modern philanthropist.

“Sluggish hospitality this!” said he, in those deep tones of his, which seemed to come out of a chest as capacious as a barrel.  “It would have served you right if I had lain down and spent the night on the doorstep, just for the sake of putting you to shame.  But here is a guest who will need a warmer and softer bed.”

And, stepping back to the wagon in which he had journeyed hither, Hollingsworth received into his arms and deposited on the doorstep a figure enveloped in a cloak.  It was evidently a woman; or, rather,—­ judging from the ease with which he lifted her, and the little space which she seemed to fill in his arms, a slim and unsubstantial girl.  As she showed some hesitation about entering the door, Hollingsworth, with his usual directness and lack of ceremony, urged her forward not merely within the entry, but into the warm and strongly lighted kitchen.

“Who is this?” whispered I, remaining behind with him, while he was taking off his greatcoat.

“Who?  Really, I don’t know,” answered Hollingsworth, looking at me with some surprise.  “It is a young person who belongs here, however; and no doubt she had been expected.  Zenobia, or some of the women folks, can tell you all about it.”

“I think not,” said I, glancing towards the new-comer and the other occupants of the kitchen.  “Nobody seems to welcome her.  I should hardly judge that she was an expected guest.”

“Well, well,” said Hollingsworth quietly, “We’ll make it right.”

The stranger, or whatever she were, remained standing precisely on that spot of the kitchen floor to which Hollingsworth’s kindly hand had impelled her.  The cloak falling partly off, she was seen to be a very young woman dressed in a poor but decent gown, made high in the neck, and without any regard to fashion or smartness.  Her brown hair fell down from beneath a hood, not in curls but with only a slight wave; her face was of a wan, almost sickly hue, betokening