ght; but oh ain't the moon fearsome,
and don't my heart a-flutter, and a pit-a-pat! I'm quite sure now, yes,
I'm quite gospel sure that ef I was to meet the wife of Micah Jones, I'd
fall flat down dead at her feet. Oh, how fearsome is this moor! Well, ef
I gets hold of Miss Pearl I'll never set foot an it again. No, not even
for a picnic, and the grandest seat at the feast, and the best of the
victuals."

The moon shone on, and presently the interminable walk came to a
conclusion. Maggie reached the hermit's hut, listened with painful
intentness for the baying of some angry dogs, pressed her nose against
the one pane of glass in the one tiny window, saw nothing, heard
nothing, finally lifted the latch, and went in.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE HERMIT'S HUT.

It was perfectly dark inside the hut, for the little window, through
which the moon might have shone, was well shrouded with a piece of old
rug. It was perfectly dark, and Maggie, although she had stumbled a good
deal in lifting the latch, and having to descend a step without knowing
it, had all but tumbled headlong into the tiny abode, had evoked no
answering sound or stir of any sort.

She stood still for a moment in the complete darkness to recover breath,
and to consider what she was to do. Strange to say, she did not feel at
all frightened now; the shelter of the four walls gave her confidence.
There were no dogs about, and Maggie felt pretty sure that the wife of
Micah Jones was also absent, for if she were in the hut, and awake, she
would be sure to say, "Who's there?" quoth Maggie, to her own heart;
"and ef she's in the hut, and asleep, why it wouldn't be like her not to
snore."

The little girl stood still for a full minute; during this time she was
collecting her faculties, and that brain, which Polly was pleased to
call so small, was revolving some practical schemes.

"Ef I could only lay my hand on a match, now," she thought.

She suddenly remembered that in her mother's cottage the match-box was
generally placed behind a certain brick near the fireplace; it was a
handy spot, both safe and dry, and Maggie, since her earliest days, had
known that if there was such a luxury as a box of matches in the house,
it would be found in this corner. She wondered if the wife of Micah
Jones could also have adopted so excellent a practice. She stepped
across the little hut, felt with her hands right and left, poked about
all round the open fireplace, and at l