"O, yes, sir!" answered Willie, "the large bundle of sticks you left at her door yesterday evening will keep her warm for several days."
"I hope they may," returned the hermit; "'tis a sad thing to be poor, Willie, but 'tis a sadder thing to be wicked."
"You do not think my mother is wicked, do you?" asked the boy, turning his blue eyes quickly on the hermit's countenance.
"Why do you ask?" said he, returning Willie's startled glance with a grave smile.
"Because I knew Mr. Pimble's folks said harsh things of her, and I didn't know but you believed them, as you never chose to enter our humble abode."
"My gloomy disposition is averse to intercourse with the generality of my species," returned the hermit, in a solemn tone; "nor do I ever heed or hear the tales and gossipings of idle lips. In the last ten years I have held no converse with any human beings, save you and your —— and my nephew, Edgar Lindenwood."
Willie gazed on the strange man before him in silent awe. "Has your mother ever expressed a wish to see me?" inquired the hermit, after a pause.
"Often," said Willie.
"For what purpose?" demanded the recluse, in a quick, sudden tone, looking eagerly on the boy's face.
"To thank you for all your kindness to her," replied the lad, ingenuously.