CüljrtßtmaB
(CfpmrH
By O. F. PFEIFFER
(Copyright.)
The village chimes rang out a mellow strain clear and vibrant as golden beads dropped into a crystal dish, but Adam Marsh drew his worn fur cap down closer about his ears and scowlingly took short cut towards his desolate home, to which he had neither money, his soul against yule-tide suggestions and tried to glory in scouting the humanizing influence of home, social friendship and "the folly called love!" Then he came to a sudden halt and sprang behind a tree. There was a light to the room where he slept. Against the lamp light there was outlined the figure of a roughly dressed man standing at an open bureau. Marsh stole to the kitchen, took down an ancient horse pistol, and, gliding to the door of the lighted room, burst it in. "What are you doing here?" he shouted out. "Hands up!" was rather a weak than an evil face that confronted him. Its owner looked crestfallen, rather than sullen. "I—I was looking for something to eat," he stammered out. "That's likely outside of the kitchen, isn't it, now!" snarled Marsh derisively. 