The Wanderer stood still before the door.

In the freezing air, his quick-drawn breath made fantastic wreaths of mist, white and full of odd shapes as he watched the tiny clouds curling quickly into each other before the blackened oak.

Then he laid his hand boldly upon the chain of the bell.

He expected to hear the harsh jingling of cracked metal, but he was surprised by the silvery clearness and musical quality of the ringing tones which reached his ear.

He was pleased, and unconsciously took the pleasant infusion for a favourable omen.