Stephen followed their host into the house while, through the open door, the others caught a glimpse of an enormous open fireplace and walls lined with books. The girls took the proffered chairs and sat down rather stiffly, while the old man reappeared, carrying a bucket and a gourd.
“Perhaps you are thirsty. Will you draw some water from the well?” he asked, turning to Stephen. He stopped abruptly and looked closely at the boy. “Why, it’s little Stephen,” he exclaimed, and with an expression half of pain, half pleasure, he added, “grown to be a man and how like”——But he paused and turned hastily away.
“I am glad to see you, sir,” replied Stephen, politely. He never knew exactly how to address the hermit, and he found not knowing his name somewhat awkward. “May I introduce my friends? Miss Ruth Stuart, Miss Barbara Thurston, Alfred Marsdale and Jimmie Butler.”
The old man bowed to the company as gracefully as if he had been receiving guests in a fine mansion.
“The names are,” he repeated gently, “Miss Ruth Stuart and—did I hear you aright—Miss——?”
“Barbara Thurston,” finished Stephen.
“Barbara Thurston?” repeated the old man under his breath. “Barbara Thurston! Come here, my child, and let me look at you,” he added, in an agitated voice.
Barbara obediently came forward and stood before the hermit, who had covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, as if he were afraid to see her face.
“Barbara Thurston!” he exclaimed again. “Little Barbara!” And drawing from his pocket a pair of horn spectacles, he put them on and examined her features. He seemed to have forgotten the others. Suddenly he removed the spectacles and looked up in a dazed way.
“On the very day! The very day!” he cried, and waving his arms over his head in a wild appeal to heaven, he turned and rushed down the hillside. In another moment the forest had swallowed him up, while the five young people stood staring after him in amazement.