“I feel awful bad. The—the billows go over my head, Selah!” Then she wished that she had let “Selah” quite alone.
The Hermit lifted his face. It was very white; his eyes were fixed and dead-looking, and he got his feet under him, as if he intended to creep forward. Cissy backed against a tree, swallowed lumps very fast, and decided to kick if he came near. But he only looked at her steadily.
“What is your name?” he said in a slow, plaintive tone, as a man speaks who cannot hear his own voice. Cissy thought it silly that he should not know her name, having seen her often enough,—and this gave her courage. “Cecilia Armitage. I want to go home.”
“No!” shouted the Hermit. He sat up suddenly and glared at her, so that the lumps began climbing her throat again faster than ever. “That isn't the name.” Then he dropped his head between his knees and began sobbing. Cissy did not know that men ever cried. It seemed to tear him up, and was much worse than “The billows go over me, Selah.” On the whole there seemed to be no point in staying longer. She walked to the bank and there hesitated diffidently.
“I want to go home. I—I want you to row me.”
There was a long silence; the Hermit's head was still hidden between his knees. Then he came over and got into the boat, not walking upright, but almost creeping, making no noise, nor lifting his head. He took the oars and rowed, still keeping his head down, until the boat came under the old willow, where the bank runs low on the edge of Bazilloa Armitage's ten-acre lot. It struck the bank, but he sat still, with his head down. Cissy Armitage scrambled up the roots of the willow, looked back, and saw him sitting with his head down.
Cissy Armitage was the last to see the Leather Hermit alive, for Hants Corby found him Monday afternoon in shallow water, about a rod from shore. The anchor stone was clasped in his arms, and the anchor rope wound around his waist, which would seem to imply that he was there with a purpose. If that purpose was to discover which of two things were true—judgment to come, or the child that rolled its doll down the steps—every one is surely entitled to an opinion on its success or failure. There was a copy-book, such as children use, found in his hut. On the cover was written, “The Book of Judgment.” It contained the record of his denunciations, with other odd things. The people of Wyantenaug Valley still differ, according to humor; but any one of them will give his or her opinion, if you ask it.