reached his breast. He seemed to have very good eyes indeed, for he immediately muttered:
"Ha! Sim's mules—been running like the very kildee! All of a sweat, I vow. Two young folks—ha! Scared. Runaway—ah! What's that?"
The dogs began to bay again. Far behind the boy and girl—down the hill road—rose the eyrie scream of the disappointed panther.
"That cat-o'-mountain chase ye, boy?" the hermit asked, sharply.
But Fred had no answer. He stood, in Ruth's sharp clutch, and hung his head without a word. The girl had to reply:
"I never was so scared. The beast jumped right on the cart and we just shook him off down the hill yonder."
"A girl," said the hermit, talking to himself, but talking aloud, in the same fashion as before. Without doubt, being so much alone in these wilds he had contracted the habit of talking to himself—or to his dogs—or to whatever creature chanced to be his company.
"*A girl. Not Sim's gal. Sim ain't got nothing but louts of boys. Let me see. What boy is this?"
"He is Fred Hatfield," said Ruth, simply. Fred jumped and tried to pull away from her; but Ruth's hold was not to be so easily broken.
