With green bag drooping wearily over one shoulder, the Vagabond picked his way along that slushy stretch of sidewalk which borders the Fogg Museum. It was five o'clock, foggy, and the end of a hard and bitter day. The bells in Memorial Hall had just ceased tolling, and those of St. Paul's had brazenly clattered their answer. A short distance ahead the Vagabond caught sight of an old woman. She was dressed in rags, she tottered onwards unmindful through the myriad puddles, and now and then she addressed a plaintive supplication to passers by. For this the Vagabond was in no mood; he hastily crossed to the other side of the street with an air of studied nonchalance.

But Crazy Mary could not thus be circumvented. With remarkable agility she too paddled across the concrete, catching the Vagabond neatly beside the iron gate. She mumbled rather than spoke in a high cracked treble, and the Vagabond gazed fascinated at the cold and miserable witch who stood before him.

"Lor' help me, sor"--she began, fidgeting the while, but the Vagabond had already melted with compassion. He dug deep into his pocket, found the coin, gave it to the old woman, and passed on. Her thanks were a mumbled blessing, and she hurried to recross the street, for there was another pedestrian approaching--A pedestrian whose saddle shoes were new, whose bow tie was immaculate, and whose pockets were, no doubt, deeper.

The Vagabond shifted his green bag to a more secure position and splashed forward through the gloom. There are, be thought, far too many Crazy Mary's in this world. There is also too much snow.