henceforth that was his life. He became a part
of the town, and everybody, from the oldest to the youngest, knew him
and his story. He injured no one, he offended no one, and he never
failed, somehow or somewhere, to find food to eat, lodging for his
head, and clothing to cover his nakedness. He had been among the very
first to enter the Refuge, and now, in November, he was the last one
left within its walls. He was the only one of the guests who returned,
and perhaps he would not have done so had not his aching restlessness
driven him back to suffer an echo of agony in the place where his
damnation had been inflicted upon him.

Between Colonel Singelsby upon the one side, the wise, the pure, the
honored servant of God, and Sandy Graff upon the other side, the vile,
the filthy, the ugly, the debased, there yawned a gulf as immeasurably
wide and deep as that which gaps between heaven and hell.

IV.

The winter of the year that saw the opening of the East Haven Refuge was
one of the most severe that New England had known for generations. It
was early in January that there came the great snowstorm that spread its
two or three feet of white covering all the way from Maine to Virginia,
and East Haven, looking directly in the teeth of the blast that came
swirling and raging across the open harbor, felt the full force of the
icy tempest. The streets of the town lay a silent desert of drifting
whiteness, for no one who could help it was abroad from home that bitter
morning.

The hail and snow spat venomously against the windows of Dr. Hunt's
office in one of those fine old houses on Bay Street overlooking the
harbor. The wind roared sonorously through the naked, tortured branches
of the great elm-trees, and the snow piled sharp and smooth in fence
corners and around north gables of the house.

Dr. Hunt shuddered as he looked out of the window, for while all his
neighbors sat snug and warm around their hearths, he had to face the
raging of the icy blast upon the dull routine of his business of
mercy--the dull routine of bread-getting by comforting the afflictions
of others. Then the sleigh drew up to the gate, the driver already
powdered with the gathering whiteness, and Dr. Hunt struggled into his
overcoat, tied the ribbons of his fur cap under his chin, and drew on
his beaver gloves. Then, with one final shudder, he opened his office
door, and stepped out into the drift upon the step.

Instantly he started back with