“I imagine he has no need of additional stimulants,” said Mrs. Aylett, dryly, again resorting to her smelling-bottle.  “From what the gentlemen say, I judge that he had laid in a supply of caloric sufficient to last through the night.  And the first use he would make of fire would be to burn the house over our heads.  His lodgings are certainly more comfortable than those selected by himself.  There is little danger of his finding fault with them.  What manner of looking creature is he?”

“An unkempt vagabond!” rejoined Randolph Harrison, rubbing his blue fingers before the fire.  “His clothes are ragged, and frozen stiff.  I suppose he has been out in the storm ever since it set in.  There were icicles upon his beard and hair, his hat having fallen off.  It is a miracle he did not freeze to death long ago.  It is a bitter night.”

“Did you say he was an old man?” inquired the hostess languidly, from the depths of her easy chair.

“He is not a young one, for his hair is grizzled.  But we will form ourselves into a court of inquiry in the morning, with Mr. Aylett as presiding officer—­have in the nocturnal wanderer, and hear what account he can give of himself.  Who knows what romantic history we may hear—­one that may become a Christmas legend in after years?”

“You will get nothing more sensational than the confessions of a hen-roost robber, I suspect,” said Mrs. Aylett, more wearily than was consistent with her role of attentive hostess.

Her husband noticed the tokens of exhaustion, and interposed to spare her further exertion.

“Our friends will excuse you if you retire without delay, Clara.  You still feel the effects of your agitation and faintness.”

This was the signal for a general dispersion of the ladies—­the gentlemen, or most of them, adjourning to the smoking-room.

Since the late extraordinary influx of visitors, Mabel had shared her aunt’s chamber, but, instead of seeking this now, she went straight from the parlor to the supper-room, where she found, as she had expected, Mrs. Sutton in the height of business, directing the setting of the breakfast-table, clearing away the debris of the evening feast, and counting the silver with unusual care, lest a stray fork or spoon had, by some hocus-pocus known to the class, been slipped into the pocket of the supposititious burglar.

“Aunt,” began Mabel, drawing her aside, “that poor wretch up-stairs must be cared for.  It is the height of cruelty to lock him up in a fireless room, without provisions or dry clothing.  If he should die, would we be guiltless?”

Mrs. Sutton’s benevolent physiognomy was perplexed.

“Didn’t I say as much in the other room, before everybody, my dear?  And didn’t she put me down with one of her magisterial sentences?  She is mistress here—­not you or I. Besides, Winston has the key of that east garret in his pocket, and I would not be the one to ask him for it, since he has had his wife’s opinion upon the subject of humanity to prisoners.”