“Well,” said the little man, “have you not in four-and-twenty years grown used to seeing the husband upon whom you must gaze through all eternity?”
“Through all eternity!” she repeated in a terrified whisper.
“Hark ye, Lucy Pelryhn, I bring you news of your son.”
“My son! Where is he? Why does he not come?”
“He cannot.”
“But you have news of him. I thank you. Alas! and can you bring me pleasure?”
“They are pleasant tidings indeed that I bring you,” said the man in hollow tones; “for you are a weak woman, and I wonder that you could bring forth such a son. Rejoice and be glad. You feared that your son would follow in my footsteps; fear no longer.”
“What!” cried the enraptured mother, “has my son, my beloved Gill, changed?”
The hermit watched her raptures with an ominous sneer.
“Oh, greatly changed!” said he.