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

This new p.a.w.n, 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 k.n.o.b.

He was about to pa.s.s 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 doc.u.ment 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 doc.u.ment, 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----"