She crept nearer, a tall, slender shape, with mouse-colored hair waving down her back, and a scarlet cap pulled jauntily over her brow—the delightful feeling of adventure tingling in her veins. Yes, the gap was there, it had not been mended yet—she would penetrate and see for herself who this intruder could be.
She climbed through and stole along the orchard and up to the house. Signs of mending were around the windows, in the shape of a new board here and there in the shutters; but nothing further. She peeped over the low sill, and there her eyes met those of an old man seated in a shabby armchair, amid piles and piles of books. He had evidently been reading while he smoked a long, clay pipe.
He was a fine old man with a splendid presence, his gray hair was longer than is usual and a silvery beard flowed over his chest.
Halcyone at once likened him to Cheiron in the picture of him in her volume of Kingsley's "Heroes."
They stared at one another and the old man rose and came to the window.
Halcyone did not move.
"Who are you, little girl?" he said. "And what do you want?"
"I want to know who you are, and why you have come here?" she answered fearlessly. "I am Halcyone, you know."
The old man smiled.
"That ought to tell me everything," he said, gravely, "but unfortunately it does not! Who is Halcyone?"