“Who can say?  Not he, assuredly.  He has not spoken a coherent word.  Dr. Ritchie thinks he will never be conscious again.”

“I am afraid the event will mar our holiday gayeties to some extent, stranger though he is!” deplored the hostess.  “Some people are superstitious about such things.  His must have been the spectral visage I saw at the window.  I was sure it was that of a white man although Winston tried, to persuade me to the contrary.”

“It is dreadful!” ejaculated Mabel energetically.  “He, poor homeless wayfarer, perishing with cold and want in the very light of our summer-like rooms; getting his only glimpse of the fires that would have brought back vitality to his freezing body through closed windows!  Then to be hunted down by dogs, and locked up by more unfeeling men, as if he were a ravenous beast, instead of a suffering fellow-mortal!  I shall always feel as if I were, in some measure, chargeable with his death—­should he die.  Heaven forgive us our selfish thoughtlessness, our criminal disregard of our brother’s life!”

“I understood you to say there was no hope!” interrupted Mrs. Aylett.

“So Dr. Ritchie declares.  But I cannot bear to believe it!”

She pressed her fingers upon her eyeballs as if she would exclude some horrid vision.

“My dear sister! your nerves have been cruelly tried.  To-morrow, you will see this matter—­and everything else—­through a different medium.  As for the object of your amiable pity, he is, without doubt, some low, dissipated creature, of whom the world will be well rid.”

“I am not certain of that.  There are traces of something like refinement and gentle breeding about him in all his squalor and unconsciousness.  I noticed his hands particularly.  They are slender and long, and his features in youth and health must have been handsome.  Dr. Ritchie thought the same.  Who can tell that his wife is not mourning his absence to-night, as the fondest woman under this roof would regret her husband’s disappearance?  And she may never learn when and how he died—­never visit his grave!”

“I have lived in this wicked world longer than you have, my sweet Mabel; so you must not quarrel with me if these fancy pictures do not move me as they do your guileless heart,” said Mrs. Aylett, the sinister shadow of a mocking smile playing about her mouth.  “Nor must you be offended with me for suggesting as a pendant to your crayon sketch of widowhood and desolation the probability that the decease of a drunken thief or beggar cannot be a serious bereavement, even to his nearest of kin.  Women who are beaten and trampled under foot by those who should be their comfort and protection are generally relieved when they take to vagrancy as a profession.  It may be that this man’s wife, if she were cognizant of his condition, would not lift a finger, or take a step to prolong his life for one hour.  Such things have been.”

“More shame to human nature that they have!” was the impetuous rejoinder.  “In every true woman’s heart there must be tender memories of buried loves, let their death have been natural or violent.”