Human beings have been variously compared by imaginative persons to pawns on a chessboard; storm-tossed boats on the sea of life; pilgrims on a weary way, and other things of no resemblance whatever to the foregoing.

Molly, marching stoically along the lonely road under the impression that she was on her way to Wellington when she was really turned toward Exmoor, might have fitted into any of those comparisons rather more literally than was intended.

She was certainly a storm-tossed pilgrim if not a boat; the way was decidedly weary and as pawn, pilgrim or ship, whichever you will, she was about to come in contact with another of life’s pawns, pilgrims or ships, to the decided advantage of the one and amazement of the other.

This new pawn, pilgrim or ship was now advancing down the road, and Molly, mindful of the fact that she was not getting anywhere when she felt sure that by this time she should at least have reached the lake, was not sorry to see a human being.

The stranger looked decidedly like the pilgrim of romance. He wore an old black felt hat with a broad slouching brim and a long Spanish cape reaching below his knees; his staff was a rosewood cane with a silver knob.

He was about to pass Molly without even glancing in her direction when she stopped him.

“Would you mind telling me if it’s very far from Wellington?” she asked. “I’m afraid I’m lost.”

“Do you imagine you are going to Wellington?” he demanded, looking up.

Instantly Molly recognized him. He was the man she had seen the night before in Professor Green’s study.

“I did think so,” she answered meekly.

“I would advise you to go in the opposite direction, then,” he said. “Exmoor lies that way.” He pointed down the road with his stick.

“How stupid of me!” exclaimed Molly. “I was coasting and tumbled off the sled. I was completely dazed, I suppose, when I crawled out of the drift.”

The two walked along in silence. Molly gave the man a covert glance. He was very distinguished looking and vaguely reminded her of someone.

“You are one of the students of Wellington?” he asked presently.

“Yes, sir,” answered Molly respectfully.

The stranger smiled.

“You are from the south. I never heard a girl across the boundary line use ‘sir.’”

“I am,” she answered briefly.

“And from what part, may I ask?”

“From Carmichael Station, Kentucky.”

The man stopped as if he had been struck a blow in the face.

“Carmichael Station, Kentucky,” he repeated in a half whisper. Drawing a leather wallet from his inside pocket, he took out a folded legal cap document and opened it. “Ahem. Not far to go,” he said in a low voice, running down a list with one finger. “Your name——”

“Brown.”

“Mildred Carmichael Brown, I presume.”

“No, Mary. My sister’s named Mildred.”

The old man refolded the document, put it carefully back in the wallet, which he returned to his pocket. Then he resumed his walk, muttering to himself.

“Strange! Strange!” Molly heard him say. “Here in a snowstorm, in the wilderness, on Christmas day, too, I should happen to meet—I can’t get away from them,” he cried angrily, waving his cane. “Victims, victims! Everywhere. They rise up and confront me when I’m sleeping or waking—like ghosts of the past——”

His mutterings gradually became inarticulate as he wrapped his cape around him and stalked through the snow.

“Hunted—hunted—hounded about——” he began again. Suddenly he stopped, took off his hat and held his face up to heaven as if he were about to address some unseen power.

“I’m tired,” he cried. “I’ve had enough of these wanderings; these eternal haunting visions. Let me have peace!” He shook his cane impotently at the overcast skies.

It was then that Molly recognized him. On that very day but one, a year ago, had she not seen Judith Blount stand under a wintry sky and defy heaven in the same rebellious way?

Judith’s father had come back from South America and was hiding in the Professor’s room at Wellington! And how like they were, the father and daughter; the same black eyes, too close together; the same handsome aquiline noses, and the same self-pitying, brooding natures.

Evidently, Mr. Blount had suffered deeply. Molly thought he must be very poor. Looking at him closely, she noticed the shabby gentility of his appearance; the shiny seams of his Spanish cape which had been torn and patched in many places; his old thin shoes, split across the toes, and his worn, travel-stained hat.

She wondered if he had any money. She suspected that he was very hungry and her soul was moved with pity for the poor, broken old man who had once been worth millions.

“Mr. Blount,” she began.

“How did you know my name?” he cried, shivering all over like a whipped dog. “I didn’t mention it, did I? I haven’t told any one, have I? I came down here in disguise.” He laughed feebly. “Disguised as a broken old man. I went to Edwin’s rooms,” he wandered on, forgetting that he had asked Molly a question. “You know where they are?”

Molly nodded her head. She knew quite well that the Professor lodged in one of the former college houses built on the old campus, used long ago before the Quadrangle had been built flanking the new campus.

“The housekeeper recognized me as a relation and I waited in his room some hours,” went on the old man in a trembling voice.

“And where did you spend the night?”

“In the cloister study. I found the key on his desk. It was marked ‘cloister study.’”

“But where did you eat?” asked Molly gently.

The melting sympathy in her eyes and voice encouraged the old man to pour out his woes. Evidently it was a great relief to him to talk after his miseries and hardships.

“I’ve been living off apples,” he said. “Very fine apples. There was a big basket of them on Edwin’s study table.”

“But there’s an inn in the village,” she exclaimed.

He smiled grimly.

“I have come all the way from Caracas to Wellington,” he said. “I was poor when I started; yes, miserably, wretchedly poor. I am an old man, old and broken. I want peace, do you understand? Peace.”

They had reached the lake and in fifteen minutes would arrive at the Quadrangle. Mr. Blount was leading the way, occasionally hitting the ground savagely with his cane.

Molly thrust her hand into her blouse and drew out a chamois skin bag which hung by a silk tape around her neck. Since the pilfering had been going on at Wellington she carried what little money she had with her during the day and hid it under her pillow at night.

Extracting ten dollars from the bag, she hurried to the old man’s side and touched him on the shoulder.

“Mr. Blount, I’m under great obligations to your cousin. He has been very kind to me—always—and I’d like you to—I’d——”

It was difficult to know what to say. Was it not strange for her, a poor little school girl, to be offering money to a man who had so recently been a millionaire?

“Won’t you take this money?” she began again, resolutely. “I don’t think anyone will recognize you at the inn. It’s just a little country place and you will be quite comfortable there until I find Professor Green. I may get word to him to-night, or to-morrow at any rate.”

Mr. Blount eyed the money as a hungry dog eyes a bone. Evidently hunger and fatigue had got the better of his pride. He took the bill and touched it lovingly. Then he put it in his pocket.

“You’re a nice girl,” he said. “I thank you.”

“Would you like to see George Green?” asked Molly timidly.

“No, no, no!” he answered fiercely. “Not that young fool. I don’t suppose Judith is here?” he added presently in a tremulous voice.

“No, sir. She’s in New York for the holidays.”

They shook hands and separated. Mr. Blount took the path down the other side of the lake across the links to the village and Molly followed the path on the college side. As she cut through the pine woods she heard a shout.

“Molly Brown, where have you been? We have had a search for you!” cried Judy, rushing up, followed by the three boys.

“I reckon I’ve been a good deal like the pig who thought he was going to Cork when he was really going to Dublin,” laughed Molly. “If I hadn’t asked the way, I suppose I’d have been almost to Exmoor by this time. I am a poor person to find my way about. My brother used to tell me to take the direction opposite to the one my instincts told me to take and then I’d be going right.”

“In other words, first make sure you’re right and then take the other way,” said Lawrence Upton, laughing.

“You’d make a good explorer, Miss Molly,” remarked Andy McLean. “You might discover the South Pole and think all the time it was the North Pole.”

“That would be of great benefit to humanity,” answered Molly, “but you may be sure I’d stop and ask a policeman before I reached the equator.”

“It’s your proper punishment for cutting church this morning,” here put in George Green. “I don’t know whether it was because it was a good excuse to go sleighing, but a lot of people were at the ten service. Even old Edwin came in the trail of Alice Fern.”

“What a pretty name!” said Molly. “It sounds so woodsy.”

“She’s a cousin,” George went on, “and a winner, too. They’ve got a jim-dandy place ten miles the other side of Wellington, Fern Grove. We spent last New Year’s with them and had a cracker-jack time.”

“George Theodore Green!” ejaculated Judy, “I never heard so much slang. I wonder you are allowed inside Exmoor.”

“Oh, I cut it out there. I only use it when it’s safe.”

“I regard that as a slight on present company,” broke in Andy. “I think you’ll just have to take a little dose of punishment for that, Dodo. Get busy, Larrie.”

There was a wild scramble in the snow, and finally Dodo, who had developed into a big, strapping fellow, stronger than either of his friends, intrenched himself behind a tree and began throwing snowballs with the unerring aim of the best pitcher on the Exmoor team. Molly hastened on to the Quadrangle, while Judy with true sportsman taste waited to see the fun.

Molly went straight to the telephone booths in the basement corridor. By good fortune, the haughty being who presided at the switchboard was hovering about waiting for a long distance call from a “certain party” in New York.

That she alone in all the world was concerned in this call and that she wished to have this corner of the globe entirely to herself for the full enjoyment of it were very evident facts when Molly asked for “Fern-16-Wellington.”

“I’m not working to-day,” announced the operator shortly, arranging her huge Psyche knot at the mirror beside her desk.

Molly looked into the girl’s implacable face. No feminine appeal would melt that heart of stone, but perhaps the magic name of man might fix her.

“Would you do it to oblige Professor Green? I have an important message for him.”

“I guess that’s different,” announced the owner of the Psyche knot, with a high nasal accent. “Why didn’t you say so at first? I guess Professor Green is about the nicest gent’man around here.”

Sitting down at the switchboard, she slipped on the headpiece with a professional flourish. Then, with a hand-quicker-than-the-eye movement, she pushed several organ stops up and down, stuck the end of a green tube into a hole and remarked in a high pitched voice that had great projective powers:

“Wellington Exchange? Hello! Yes, I know it’s Christmas. On hand for a long distance, are you? Oh, you-u-u. Well, say, listen. To oblige a certain party—a very attractive gent’man—call up ‘Fern-16-Wellington.’”

Then there was a detached monologue about a certain party in you know where—same gent’man that was down Thanksgiving time. Suddenly, with professional alertness, the telephone girl stopped short.

“Fern-16-Wellington? Here’s your party. Booth 3,” she added to Molly, in a voice so radically different that Molly had a confused feeling that the young person who operated the Wellington switchboard might be a creature of two personalities. She retired timidly to the booth.

“Is this the residence of Miss Alice Fern?” she asked.

“It is,” came the voice of a woman from the other end.

“I would like to speak to Professor Edwin Green.”

“He’s very much engaged just now. Is it important?”

“I think it is,” hesitated Molly.

“What name?”

“Now what earthly difference does it make to her what my name is?” Molly reflected with some irritation. “Would you please tell him it’s a message from the University?”

“I’ll tell him nothing until you tell me your name.”

Could this be Miss Alice Fern? Molly was fairly certain it was. Perhaps she also had two personalities.

“It doesn’t do any good to tell my name. I have nothing to do with the message. I’m only delivering it for someone else. But if you want to know, it’s ‘Brown.’”

“Mrs. or Miss Brown?”

Suddenly Molly heard the Professor’s voice quite close to the telephone saying:

“Alice, is that someone for me?”

“Yes, an individual of the illuminating name of Brown wishes to speak to you. I don’t see why they can’t leave you alone for one day in the year.”

Molly smiled. Why was it that down deep in the unexplored caverns of her soul there lurked an infinitesimally tiny feeling of relief that Miss Alice Fern was plainly a vixen?

“How do you do, Professor Green? This is Molly Brown.”

“How do you do? Is anything the matter?” answered the Professor in rather an anxious tone.

“I wanted to tell you that Mr. Blount is here. Old Mr. Blount.”

The Professor seemed too surprised to answer for a moment. Or it might have been that Miss Alice Fern was lingering at his elbow and embarrassed him.

“Where?” he asked.

“He spent last night in the cloister study. Now, he’s at the inn. He asked me to let you know. I met him on the road. He’s very unhappy.”

“How did he happen to be in the study?”

“He—he had no money.”

“And now he’s at the inn? Has he seen anyone but you?”

“No.” Molly blushed hotly.

“I’ll come right over. Thank you very much.”

“Now, Edwin, what a nuisance!” broke in the voice of Miss Fern.

“Good-bye. Thank you again. I really must, Alice. Very impor——”

The receiver had been hung up and the connection lost.

“Oh, these cousins!” Molly reflected with a laugh as she hurried up to her room.

**********

There was a gay party at the McLeans’ that night and one unexpected guest arrived just before dinner. It was Professor Green. They squeezed him in somehow at the end of the table with the doctor, and the two made merry together like school boys. Molly had never seen the Professor of English Literature in such joyous spirits. After dinner, when the dancing commenced, he sought her out and led her to a secluded sofa in the back hall. She began at once by asking about Mr. Blount, but the Professor was not listening.

“That’s one of the prettiest dresses I’ve seen you wear,” he interrupted. “Yellow is not becoming to most people, but it is to you. Probably because it has the same golden quality that’s in your hair.”

“I’m glad you like it,” said Molly, turning red under his steady gaze.

“I found your note on my study floor,” he went on.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t remember what I was talking about, after all,” she exclaimed. “But I had to write it. I have never really been happy since I said that cruel thing to you. I was so wretched the day afterward, and when I rushed to find you in your study, you were gone!” she broke off with a tearful glance into his eyes.

The Professor beamed upon her.

“So you were unhappy,” he said, as if the statement was not entirely unpleasing.

“Oh, yes. I know now that you were quite right to tell Miss Walker about that silly episode of the burying of the slipper.”

“But I never told her. I know the story, of course, and the explanation. The President told me herself.”

“But who did tell, then?”

“That I can’t say.”

It was now Molly’s turn to beam on the Professor.

“I am glad you didn’t tell her,” she exclaimed in tones of great relief. “You see, you didn’t inform on Judith Blount that time, and I was hurt. I couldn’t help from being. I was really awfully sore.”

“My dear child,” said the Professor hurriedly, “promise hereafter to regard me as a faithful friend. Never doubt my sincerity again.”

“I promise,” answered Molly, feeling intensely proud without knowing why.

Then the talk drifted to Mr. Blount.

“And you haven’t mentioned meeting him?” he asked. “Not even to Miss Kean?”

Molly shook her head.

“You are a very unusual young woman, Miss Brown. It’s important to keep Mr. Blount’s presence here a secret. If word got out that he had come back, there would be a great hue and cry in the papers. I have him with me now at my rooms until Richard gets here. The family will be very grateful to you for your kindness to him.”

Lawrence Upton was coming down the hall to claim Molly for a dance.

“Are you going back to the Ferns’ to-morrow?” she asked hurriedly.

“I think not,” answered the Professor with the ghost of a smile. “I am detained here on business.”

The next morning Molly received a short note from Professor Green, inclosing a ten dollar bill.

There was a postscript which said:

“I’ve opened a barrel of greenings. Better come around and get some.”