call upon him the next day.

"I feel anxious," answered the boy.

"But why need you? You told me your uncle did very little for the
family. I think you will be able to take care of your aunt. If not, I
will help you more."

"Thank you, sir; you are very kind. But we thought when you called the
other day that we owned the house and would have no rent to pay."

"Were you mistaken about this?" asked the hermit quickly.

"It seems so. Mr. Jones, the tavern keeper, has a mortgage on the
property and threatens to foreclose in four weeks unless the money is
paid. Of course, we can't pay him, and I suppose we shall be turned
out."

"How large is this mortgage?"

"Two hundred dollars."

"That is not a very great sum."

"It is very large to us. You know how poor we are."

"But have you no friend who will lend you the money?"

"No, sir."

"Are you sure of that?" asked the hermit with a peculiar smile, which
inspired new hope in Robert. Then, without waiting for a reply, the man
continued:

"If you are willing, I will pay this mortgage when the time comes, and I
will be your creditor instead of Mr. Jones."

"How can I thank you?" exclaimed Robert joyfully. "My aunt will be
delighted."

"Tell her then, but no one else. It will give Mr. Jones a surprise."

"It won't be a pleasant one. He was very rude and impolite and said he
hoped to see us in the poorhouse."

"I don't believe you will ever go there, Robert," said the hermit,
looking earnestly at the strong, energetic face of the boy before him.

"No, sir, I don't believe we will. But you are doing a great deal for
us, sir. How can I ever repay you? If there was anything I could do for
you I should be glad."

"Perhaps you can," said the hermit in a musing tone.

"Let me know what it is, sir, and I'll be glad to do it."

"Have you ever wondered," asked the hermit abruptly, "why I have left
the haunts of men and retired to this out-of-the-way spot?"

"Yes, sir. I have thought of that often."

"Your curiosity is natural. I am not a poor man--in fact I should be
called rich. Poverty and pecuniary troubles, therefore, have nothing to
do with my strange act--as the world considers it. In my life there have
been two tragedies. I was married, at the age of thirty, to a very
beautiful young lady, whom I tenderly loved. I made my home in a city of
considerable size and lived as my means warranted. One evening, as my
wife stood before the open grate, dressed for