"Yet I never told him," the voice went on, "I never told Robin that I knew him—I never spoke his mother's name. For I had a fear that it might sadden him—that the story might send him away from me. And I could have told nothing unless I told it all, and there was no need. So I spoke to him no word of her, and I pledged him to speak to no one of me. For if men knew, the curious would come and I would never have my life the same again. So I made him promise, and after that first time he came as he chose. And when he is here she who was a part of my happy dream lives again in him. And to you I may speak of her, for to you it does not matter, and it is in my heart now, when my days are not many, to recall old dreams."
CHAPTER X
THE HERMIT'S STORY
The hermit paused and gazed into the bed of coals on the hearth. His listeners waited without speaking. Constance did not move—scarcely did she breathe.
"As I said, it may have been thirty years ago," the gentle voice continued. "It may have been more than that—I do not know. It was on the Sound shore, in one of the pretty villages there—it does not matter which.
"I lived with my uncle in the adjoining village. Both my parents were dead—he was my guardian. In the winter, when the snow fell, there was merry-making between these villages. We drove back and forth in sleighs, and there were nights along the Sound when the moon path followed on the water and the snow, and all the hills were white, and the bells jingled, and hearts were gay and young.
"It was on such a night that I met her who was to become Robin's mother. The gathering was in our village that night, and, being very young, she had come as one of a merry sleighful. Half way to our village their sleigh had broken down, and the merry makers had gayly walked the remainder, trusting to our hospitality to return them to their homes. I was one of those to welcome them and to promise conveyance, and so it was that I met her, and from that moment there was nothing in all the world for me but her."
The hermit lifted his eyes from the fire and looked at Constance.
"My girl," he said, "there are turns of your face and tones of your voice that carry me back to that night. But Robin, when he first came here to my door, a stripling, he was her very self.