“We have much for which to be thankful,” began Barnabas piously, “a blazing fire, a roof——”
His further reflections were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“See who it is, will you?” said Miss Mason. “Sally is busy. If it is a beggar send him or her away. I don’t encourage them.”
Barnabas grinned broadly, knowing the untruth of the statement. He heaved himself off the chair and went towards the door.
There was a moment’s parley. Then he returned, followed by a small and weird figure. Its sex was indistinguishable. A man’s coat frayed and torn reached to the top of a pair of patched boots many sizes too large for the feet they covered, a man’s slouched hat hid nearly the whole of the face.
“It says it is a model,” announced Barnabas. “Its language is a mixture of French and broken English.”
Miss Mason let her knitting fall.
“A model!” she exclaimed, looking at the odd creature.
The figure in the old coat saw the fire. It made an instant dart towards it.
“Ah!” The sigh was one of intense satisfaction. The hands, hidden by the frayed coat-sleeves, were held out towards the leaping flames.