Frank directed his steps toward the little garden and let his eyes wander up and down among the beds which the hermit had planted. It was late summer now, and many of the things were already ripening. In a little more the blackening frost would come and the heavy snow drift in. What a strange life it had been there, winter and summer, with only nature and a pageantry of dreams for companionship. There must have been days when, like the Lady of Shalott, he had cried out, "I am sick of shadows!" and it may have been on such days that he had watched by the trail to hear and perhaps to see real men and women. And when the helplessness of very old age should come—what then? Within his mind Frank had a half-formed plan to persuade the hermit to return to the companionship of men. There were many retreats now in these hills—places where every comfort and the highest medical skill could be obtained for patients such as he. Frank had conceived the idea of providing for the hermit's final days in some such home, and he had partly confided his plan to Robin as they had followed the trail together. Robin, if anybody, could win the old fellow to the idea.
There came the sound of a step on the path behind. The young man, turning, faced Robin. There was something in the latter's countenance that caused Frank to regard him searchingly.
"He is not there, then?"
"No, he is not there."
"He will be back soon, of course."
But Robin shook his head, and said with gentle gravity:
"No, he will not be back. He has journeyed to a far country."
Together they passed under the low eaves and entered the curious dwelling. Light came through the open door and the parchment-covered window. In the high-backed chair before the hearth the hermit sat, his chin dropped forward on his breast. His years of exile were ended. All the heart-yearning and loneliness had slipped away. He had become one with the shadows among which he had dwelt so long.
Nor was there any other life in the room. As the birds outside had vanished, so the flitting squirrels had departed—who shall say whither? Yet the change had come but recently—perhaps on that very morning—for though the fire had dropped to ashes on the hearth, a tiny wraith of smoke still lingered and drifted waveringly up the chimney.
The intruders moved softly about the room without speaking. Presently Frank beckoned to Robin, and pointed to something lying on the table. It was a birch-bark envelope, and in a dark ink, doubtless made from some root or berry, was addressed to Robin. The guide opened it and, taking it to the door, read: