The moon shone brightly, and the little maid, her shadow always going before her, stepped along bravely.
Now and then that same shadow seemed to assume gigantic and unearthly proportions, but at other times it wore a friendly aspect, and somewhat comforted the young traveler.
“It’s more or less part of me,” quoth Maggie, “and I must say as I’m glad I have it, it’s better nor nought; but oh ain’t the moon fearsome, and don’t my heart a-flutter, and a pit-a-pat! I’m quite sure now, yes, I’m quite gospel sure that ef I was to meet the wife of Micah Jones, I’d fall flat down dead at her feet. Oh, how fearsome is this moor! Well, ef I gets hold of Miss Pearl I’ll never set foot an it again. No, not even for a picnic, and the grandest seat at the feast, and the best of the victuals.”
The moon shone on, and presently the interminable walk came to a conclusion. Maggie reached the hermit’s hut, listened with painful intentness for the baying of some angry dogs, pressed her nose against the one pane of glass in the one tiny window, saw nothing, heard nothing, finally lifted the latch, and went in.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HERMIT’S HUT.
It was perfectly dark inside the hut, for the little window, through which the moon might have shone, was well shrouded with a piece of old rug. It was perfectly dark, and Maggie, although she had stumbled a good deal in lifting the latch, and having to descend a step without knowing it, had all but tumbled headlong into the tiny abode, had evoked no answering sound or stir of any sort.
She stood still for a moment in the complete darkness to recover breath, and to consider what she was to do. Strange to say, she did not feel at all frightened now; the shelter of the four walls gave her confidence. There were no dogs about, and Maggie felt pretty sure that the wife of Micah Jones was also absent, for if she were in the hut, and awake, she would be sure to say, “Who’s there?” quoth Maggie, to her own heart; “and ef she’s in the hut, and asleep, why it wouldn’t be like her not to snore.”