Herbert entered the cabin. The only table was a plank supported at each end by a barrel. From a box in the corner Ralph drew out some corn-bread and some cold meat. He took a tin measure, and, going out of the cabin, filled it with water from a brook near by. This he placed on the rude table.
“All is ready,” he said. “Take and eat, if my food is not too rude.”
Herbert did eat, and with appetite. He was a growing boy, whose appetite seldom failed him, and he had been working hard since breakfast, which he had taken at six, while it was now one o'clock. No wonder he was hungry.
Ralph looked on with approval.
“You are the first that has shared my meal for many a long day,” he said. “Day after day, and year after year, I have broken my fast alone, but it seems pleasant, after all,” he said, musingly. “Men are treacherous and deceitful, but you,” he said, resting his glance on the frank, ingenuous face of his youthful guest, “you must be honest and true, or I am greatly deceived.”
“I hope you will find me so,” said Herbert, interested more and more in the rough-looking recluse, about whose life he suspected there must be some sad secret, of which the world knew nothing.
After dispatching the meal provided by his hospitable entertainer, Herbert sat down on the grass just outside the cabin, and watched lazily the smoke which issued from Ralph's pipe, as it rose in many a fantastic curl.
“How long have you lived here, Ralph?” asked our hero at length.
“Ten years,” said the recluse, removing his pipe from his lips.
“It is a long time.”