"To the old forest home
I hie me again;
But I bring not the gladness
My spirit knew when
I roamed in my childhood
Its wide-spreading bounds;
For sorrows have pierced me,
My soul wears the wounds."
The Hermit of the Cedars sat in his antique room alone, by a peat-wood fire. He appeared wrapt in moody thought and contemplation, though ever and anon, as the wintry blast gave a wilder sweep over the swaying roof above him, he turned and glanced uneasily toward the door, as though he wished and waited the appearance of some form over its threshold. But the hours passed on, and no one came to cheer his loneliness. So, heaping the ashes over the glowing embers, he betook himself to his lowly couch, but his head had hardly touched the pillow when a quick step crackling along the icy path struck his ear. Ere he could reach the door it was pushed open, and a voice called out hastily, "Uncle Ralph!"
"Edgar, my boy!" exclaimed the hermit, groping in the darkness to clasp him in his arms. "Are you returned at last?"