"O, yes!" returned the solitary man, his features relapsing into their usual placid serenity. "I wish not, nor deserve, her thanks for the humble charities given. Let us seek our couch, my boy."
"Have you another name than William?" he asked, as they were lying down.
"Yes," answered the youth; "William Ralph is my name,—the first for my father, the second for an uncle who went to distant countries, ere I can remember, and has never been heard of since."
"Was the uncle your father's or mother's brother?" inquired the hermit, in a careless tone.
"My mother's. Ralph Greyson was his name."
"And does your mother appear to mourn his loss, or wish for his return?" said the hermit, still in the same careless, half-absorbed tone of voice.
"She speaks pityingly of him sometimes, for he was a bright, promising youth, she says, when one distressful circumstance crushed his hopes and ruined his usefulness; but I do not think she desires his return, for he left his native shores cursing her as the cause of his misfortunes."
"Ah! how had she caused his misfortunes?" asked the hermit, drowsily.
"By marrying below her sphere," said Willie, in a trembling, embarrassed tone; "a man who proved a vulgar sot, and thus disgracing him in the eyes of a proud family, with whom he sought an alliance."
As Willie ceased speaking, the hermit breathed heavily, as if in deep sleep; so, turning his face to the cedar-plaited wall, the lad was soon wrapped in his own sweet, youthful slumbers.