The Hermit laughed.
“I like Mrs. Brown’s simile,” he said. “If that was her pastry in those turnovers at lunch, Miss Norah, I certainly agree that she has ‘the light hand.’”
“Mrs. Brown’s like the cook in The Ingoldsby Legends, Dad says,” Norah remarked.
“What,” said the Hermit—
“For soups and stews, and French ragouts,
Nell Cook is famous still—?”
“She’d make them even of old shoes
She had such wondrous skill!”
finished Norah delightedly. “However did you know, Mr. Hermit?”
The Hermit laughed, but a shade crossed his brow. “I used to read the Legends with a dear old friend many years before you were born, Miss Norah,” he said gravely. “I often wonder whether he still reads them.”
“Ready?” Jim interrupted, springing up the bank. “Billy understands about feeding the ponies. Don’t forget, mind, Billy.”
“Plenty!” quoth Billy, and the party went on its way. The Hermit led them rapidly over logs and fallen trees, up and down gullies, and through tangles of thickly growing scrub. Once or twice it occurred to Jim that they were trusting very confidingly to this man, of whom they knew absolutely nothing; and a faint shade of uneasiness crossed his mind. He felt responsible, as the eldest of the youngsters, knowing that his father had placed him in charge, and that he was expected to exercise a certain amount of caution. Still it was hard to fancy anything wrong, looking at the Hermit’s serene face, and the trusting way in which Norah’s brown little hand was placed in his strong grasp. The other boys were quite unconscious of any uncomfortable ideas, and Jim finally dismissed his fears as uncalled for.
“I thought,” said the Hermit, suddenly turning, “of taking you to see my camp as we went, but on second thoughts I decided that it would be better to get straight to work, as you young people want some fish, I suppose, to take home. Perhaps we can look in at my camp as we come back. It’s not far from here.”