"Ay," said he; "you have served me a dish more grateful to my palate than the most delicately-prepared dainties would prove. This rich, sweet milk is delicious, and who boils your hominy so nicely, uncle?" he continued, conveying several slices of the substance in the wooden bowl to his basin.
"Dilly Danforth, the poor village washerwoman, cooks it, and her boy, Willie, brings it to me," answered the hermit.
"Ay, the lad you mentioned in one of your letters," said Edgar. "Why does he not remain with you altogether? You seemed happy in his companionship, and I hoped he might become to you a second Edgar."
A strange expression passed over the face of the recluse as his nephew, with much earnest truthfulness of manner, gave utterance to these words.
"I did like to have the boy with me," he remarked; "but his mother was lonely without him."
Edgar rose from his simple repast.
"Now you had better retire," said his uncle, tenderly; "though I fear you will rest but ill on my hard couch."
"My slumbers will be sweet as though I reposed on eider down," returned he, "if you will but assure me that my coming or words have not marred your quiet and composure."
"My boy," said the hermit, gazing on him anxiously, "what do you mean? How should the arrival of one I have so longed to behold give aught but joy to my lonely soul?"
"I may have spoken words that grieved you," said the young man, sorrowfully; "but I could not bear to conceal the truth from you, dear uncle;" and his voice trembled as he spoke.