Came a terrific thumping at the foot of her tree, followed by a sound of crashing of bushes that rapidly diminished in the distance.
“He’s gone,” the voice said. “Come down!”
A brief scramble, then she found herself looking into a smiling face. The face was framed by a tangled mass of gray hair; yet the face was young. It was the face of the picture in that little blank book Florence had found in the mine.
“Per—Percy O’Hara!” Her lips could scarcely frame the words.
“You—” the man stepped back. “How did you know me?”
“I’ve always known you, at—at least for a very long time. But why are you here?”
“That,” he smiled, a strange smile, “that, dear child, is a long story.”
“A child,” said Greta, “likes to hear stories.”
“Is it not enough,” he laughed a low laugh, “that I have saved you from a wild and ferocious beast who, joking aside, would have slept right there all night? And must I tell you a story besides?”
“Perhaps,” said the girl soberly, “you have more to gain by telling the story than I have by listening.”