Not a word does he say but spreads his stiffened fingers before the blaze, and Molly with the strangest of hopes dawning so soon after her rebellion bustles briskly about the coffee making. And presently it is brewed and Tim Cannon stands by the table drinking and munching toast and cold meat.
"Ye must be seated in the chair," urges Molly, "and be comfortable, and it will seem like home to you."
At this Tim Cannon rubs his scar with remembrance of his drunken grandfather and their home in the city slums. Then he eats the faster till he is done, studying her with peculiar interest.
"You should have seen the money before I began the eats," he says by way of advice on the entertainment of wayfarers.
"Do you mean you can't pay?" asks Molly after a moment's reflection. "Now what am I to do?"
"Throw me out," instructs Tim, with contempt of her ignorance.
"Into the storm? Oh, no!"
"Why not?" he asks with suspicion.
"Faith, I wouldn't treat a dog so," replied Molly.
"Sure, not a dog," agrees Tim; and waiting to be driven out stands arrow-straight in Danny's old clothes, which are too big for him, wondering what the dog has to do with the matter.