remembered--the climb with the dazed Quimby up the
snowy road, the plaint of the lovelorn haberdasher, the vagaries of the
professor with a penchant for blondes, the mysterious click of the
door-latch on the floor above. And last of all--strange that it should
have been last--a girl in blue corduroy somewhat darker than her eyes,
who wept amid the station's gloom.

"I wonder," reflected Mr. Magee, staring at the very brassy bars at the
foot of his bed, "what new variations on seclusion the day will bring
forth?"

Again came the rattling noise that had awakened him. He looked toward
the nearest window, and through an unfrosted corner of the pane he saw
the eyes of the newest variation staring at him in wonder. They were
dark eyes, and kindly; they spoke a desire to enter.

Rising from his warm retreat, Mr. Magee took his shivering way across
the uncarpeted floor and unfastened the window's catch. From the
blustering balcony a plump little man stepped inside. He had a market
basket on his arm. His face was a stranger to razors; his hair to
shears. He reminded Mr. Magee of the celebrated doctor who came every
year to the small town of his boyhood, there to sell a wonderful healing
herb to the crowds on the street corner.

Magee dived hastily back under the covers. "Well?" he questioned.

"So you're the fellow," remarked the little man in awe. He placed the
basket on the floor; it appeared to be filled with bromidic groceries,
such as the most subdued householder carries home.

"Which fellow?" asked Mr. Magee.

"The fellow Elijah Quimby told me about," explained he of the long brown
locks. "The fellow that's come up to Baldpate Inn to be alone with his
thoughts."

"You're one of the villagers, I take it," guessed Mr. Magee.

"You're dead wrong. I'm no villager. My instincts are all in the other
direction--away from the crowd. I live up near the top of Baldpate, in a
little shack I built myself. My name's Peters--Jake Peters--in the
winter. But in the summer, when the inn's open, and the red and white
awnings are out, and the band plays in the casino every night--then I'm
the Hermit of Baldpate Mountain. I come down here and sell picture
post-cards of myself to the ladies."

Mr. Magee appeared overcome with mirth.

"A professional hermit, by the gods!" he cried. "Say, I didn't know
Baldpate Mountain was fitted up with all the modern improvements. This
is great luck. I'm an amateur at the hermit business, you'll