owed his gray head on his thin
hands, as was his wont when engaged in deep thought, and remained
silent.

At length a tremendous blast swept through the forest, blew open the
door, and scattered the coals from the deep fire-place over the floor of
the apartment. The moody man started from his reverie. Edgar secured the
door, and, taking a broom composed of small sprigs of hemlock and cedar,
brushed the scattered embers into a pile.

"Do you not wish to retire?" asked the hermit, as the young man resumed
his seat in the corner.

"As you wish, uncle," returned he; "I do not feel much fatigued."

"Ay, but I think you are so," said the kind-hearted man, regarding
attentively his nephew's features. "My joy at beholding you has rendered
me forgetful of your physical comforts. Let me get you some refreshment,
and then you shall lie down and rest your weary limbs."

The hermit took a small brown earthen jug from a rude shelf over the
fire-place, and, pouring a portion of its contents into a bright-faced
pewter basin, placed it on a heap of glowing coals. Then going to a
cupboard he brought forth a large wooden bowl, filled with a coarse,
white substance. When the contents of the basin were warm he placed it
on the table, and setting a chair, said, "Come, my boy, and partake of
this simple food. 'Tis all I have to offer you; not like the dainty
repasts at which you are accustomed to sit in the abodes of wealth and
fashion."

Edgar approached and took the proffered seat.

"Ay," said he; "you have served me a dish more grateful to my palate
than the most delicately-prepared dainties would prove. This rich, sweet
milk is delicious, and who boils your hominy so nicely, uncle?" he
continued, conveying several slices of the substance in the wooden bowl
to his basin.

"Dilly Danforth, the poor village washerwoman, cooks it, and her boy,
Willie, brings it to me," answered the hermit.

"Ay, the lad you mentioned in one of your letters," said Edgar. "Why
does he not remain with you altogether? You seemed happy in his
companionship, and I hoped he might become to you a second Edgar."

A strange expression passed over the face of the recluse as his nephew,
with much earnest truthfulness of manner, gave utterance to these words.

"I did like to have the boy with me," he remarked; "but his mother was
lonely without him."

Edgar rose from his simple repast.

"Now you had better retire," said his uncle, tenderly; "though I fear