. How do you like tramping, now?"

"Pretty well," said the man. He spoke over his shoulder, and kept his
face toward the fire; it was a chilly evening. "It's all right in
summer, or when a man has his health."

"See things, hey?" said the old lady. "New folks, new faces? Get ideas;
is that it?"

The man nodded gloomily.

"That begins it. After awhile--I really think I must go!" he said,
breaking off short. "You are very kind, madam, but I prefer to go. I am
not fit--"

"Cat's foot!" said Mrs. Tree, and watched him like a cat.

He fell into a fit of helpless laughter, and laughed till the tears ran
down his cheeks. He felt for a pocket-handkerchief.

"Here's one!" said Mrs. Tree, and handed him a gossamer square. He took
it mechanically. His hand was long and slim--and clean.

"Supper's ready!" snapped Direxia, glowering in at the door.

"I will take your arm, if you please!" said Mrs. Tree to the tramp, and
they went in to supper together.

Mrs. Tree's dining-room, like her parlor, was a treasury of rare woods.
The old mahogany, rich with curious brass-work, shone darkly brilliant
against the panels of satin-wood; the floor was a mosaic of bits from
Captain Tree's woodpile, as he had been used to call the tumbled heap of
precious fragments which grew after every voyage to southern or eastern
islands. The room was lighted by candles; Mrs. Tree would have no other
light. Kerosene she called nasty, smelly stuff, and gas a stinking
smother. She liked strong words, especially when they shocked Miss
Phoebe's sense of delicacy. As for electricity, Elmerton knew it not
in her day.

The shabby man seemed in a kind of dream. Half unconsciously he put the
old lady into her seat and pushed her chair up to the table; then at a
sign from her he took the seat opposite. He laid the damask napkin
across his knees, and winced at the touch of it, as at the caress of a
long-forgotten hand. Mrs. Tree talked on easily, asking questions about
the roads he travelled and the people he met. He answered as briefly as
might be, and ate sparingly. Still in a dream, he took the cup of tea
she handed him, and setting it down, passed his finger over the handle.
It was a tiny gold Mandarin, clinging with hands and feet to the side of
the cup. The man gave another helpless laugh, and looked about him as if
for a door of escape.

Suddenly, close at his elbow, a voice spoke; a harsh, rasping voice,
with nothing human in it.

"Old friends!