“It will be better.”
For a brief time the hermit gazed at Robert in thoughtful silence and then said:
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen, sir.”
“Have you ever thought of life and its uses—I mean of the uses of your own life? Have you ever formed plans for the future?”
“No, sir. It did not seem of much use. I have had to consider how to get enough for my aunt and myself to live upon.”
“So your uncle’s burdens have been laid on your young shoulders? Have you no aspirations? Are you willing to follow in his steps and grow up a fisherman, like your neighbors?”
“No, sir. I should be very sorry if I thought I must always live here at Cook’s Harbor and go out fishing. I should like to see something of the world, as I suppose you have.”
“Yes, I have seen much of the world—too much for my happiness—or I would not have come to this quiet spot to end my days. But for a young and guileless boy, whose life is but beginning, the world has its charms. Do you care for books?”
“I have never looked into many, sir, but that is not my fault. I have half a dozen tattered books at home and I study in some of them every day. I have been nearly through the arithmetic and I know something of geography. Sometimes I get hold of a paper, but not often, for my uncle takes none and does not care for reading.”