“It won’t be a pleasant one. He was very rude and impolite and said he hoped to see us in the poorhouse.”
“I don’t believe you will ever go there, Robert,” said the hermit, looking earnestly at the strong, energetic face of the boy before him.
“No, sir, I don’t believe we will. But you are doing a great deal for us, sir. How can I ever repay you? If there was anything I could do for you I should be glad.”
“Perhaps you can,” said the hermit in a musing tone.
“Let me know what it is, sir, and I’ll be glad to do it.”
“Have you ever wondered,” asked the hermit abruptly, “why I have left the haunts of men and retired to this out-of-the-way spot?”
“Yes, sir. I have thought of that often.”
“Your curiosity is natural. I am not a poor man—in fact I should be called rich. Poverty and pecuniary troubles, therefore, have nothing to do with my strange act—as the world considers it. In my life there have been two tragedies. I was married, at the age of thirty, to a very beautiful young lady, whom I tenderly loved. I made my home in a city of considerable size and lived as my means warranted. One evening, as my wife stood before the open grate, dressed for a party, her dress caught fire, and before help could arrive she was fatally injured. Of course the blow was a terrible one. But I had a child—a boy of five—on whom my affections centered. A year later he mysteriously disappeared, and from that day I have never heard a word of him. When search proved unavailing, I became moody and a settled melancholy took possession of me. I could not endure the sight of other parents happy in the possession of children, and I doomed myself to a solitary life, wandering here and there till, two years since, I chanced to find this cave and made my home here.”
“How old would your son be now?” asked Robert with interest.
“About your own age—perhaps a little older. It was this and a fancied resemblance which attracted me toward you.”