He followed Laurel into the hut. The old man had gotten up and was as nicely washed and fixed as a sick person is usually when loving hands hover around.
"Good morning, sir," Jack said pleasantly, taking the seat beneath the opening in the boughs that served as a window.
"Good morning, good morning, and a really good morning it is," said the older man. "I wanted to speak with you. Laurel dear, is there not water to fetch?"
Laurel took the cue and hurried out, leaving Jack alone with the hermit.
"Young man," he began, "something has happened to clear my brain. A shock some fifteen years ago, if I have not lost all track of time, almost, if not altogether, deprived me of my reason." He paused and put his hand to his brown forehead, in a motion that seemed more a matter of habit than of necessity. "Then I came here, or he brought me here. I was all alone. Little Laurel must have been a baby, when one morning I found her at my side. Dear, sweet little cherub. He told me since that her mother had died!"
Jack did not venture an interruption. It all seemed too sacred for the lips of strangers to break in upon.
"Then we lived here. That man—!" He clenched his fist and Jack feared the excitement might be bad for his weakened head.
"Don't let us talk of him," Jack advised. "Let us consider what is best to do now."
"My brave boy!" and the hermit put his arm on Jack's shoulder. "That is always the mighty question for right; what is best to do now?"
A flush had stolen into his sunken cheeks, but Jack could see that it was not years, but trouble, that had marred his handsome face.