“No, no; it’s a box, I think.”
“Let’s leave it,” said Elinor. “It’s none of our concern. Probably love letters of the hermit.”
But, strange to say, as if a will stronger than his own impelled him, Edward shifted his end of the board to one of the others and walked back to the house.
“It is a box,” he called, moving the object with his foot. “Shall I bring it along?”
The girls laid the boards on the ground to consider. Elinor had worked up a romantic tale in her head about the box which she now imparted to her friends.
“The hermit who lived here,” she said, “was probably disappointed in love. He built a house in the woods and put his love letters in the corner stone——”
“Which was a cedar post—” interrupted Nancy.
“And when he died,” went on Elinor.
“But how do you know he is dead?” they demanded.
“If he were not dead, he’d be living there still, like the old woman who lived on the hill,” broke in Nancy.