The poor girl did not quite fathom all the depths of his speech, but said she would be guided by his wisdom.
"Very well," said the anchorite, "I shall soon find you a husband worthy of you."
"But," said the girl, ingenuously, "why do you not marry me yourself?"
"I marry you? First, my dear, I am a hermit, and hermits never marry, for if they did, they might have a family, then—you understand—they wouldn't be hermits any more, would they?"
"But they needn't have a family, need they?"
"Well, perhaps not; besides, I can't marry you, because——"
"Because?"
"I," stammered the anchorite, blushing, "I'm too old."
"Ah, yes!" echoed the maid, sighing; "it's a fact, you are very old."
That night, after the hermit and his adopted daughter had said their prayers, she, who was very sleepy, went off to bed, whilst he, who was as perplexed as any father having a dowerless daughter, went out of his cavern to meditate.