Jack joined his brother at the window, and gazed upon the beautiful scene that stretched before his eyes—the little village near by, with its old grey church, and beyond, the wide ranges of the hills, with their Tors composed of granite on the crests of the broad moorland. The veil of soft blue mist was rising slowly, and leaving the overlooking hills bathed in dazzling sunshine.
"Oh, Theo!" cried Jack softly, "isn't it lovely? What does it remind you of?"
"It doesn't remind me of anything," said Theodore, in matter-of-fact tones; "but it is fine, isn't it? How sweet and fresh the air is," he added, leaning out of the window which he had opened wide, and sniffing appreciatively.
"But doesn't the sight of the hills remind you of a verse in the Psalms?"
"No. What verse do you mean?"
"This one: I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."
"Oh, yes! of course."
Theodore looked at his stepbrother in an absentminded manner, as though his thoughts were far away, which they actually were.
"What are you thinking about?" Jack enquired, noting the other's abstraction.
"About the Hermit's Cave. It looks a good distance away to-day, but it's only about four miles. I asked Seth Stanley how far it was, and he told me. He said he had often walked there, and it never took him more than an hour and a half, although it's a rough journey. You keep on the main road for a bit, and then turn off to the right. There's no real road leading up the hill, only a little path, and it's very rugged on account of the granite; but Seth says, if you fix your eyes on the Tor and make for it as straight as a crow flies, you can't go far wrong. If the weather is really settled, we ought to go some day soon."