"If I am not mistaken," replied Stephen, "that is old Adam, the woodcutter. He has been living in these woods all his life, seventy years or more. He looks almost like a tree himself, he is so gnarled and weather-beaten and bent."

In a few moments the woodman's cart hove into sight, drawn by a bony old horse from whose collar jangled the little bell. The cart was loaded with bundles of wood, and Adam walked at the side holding the rope lines in one hand and flourishing a whip in the other, the lash of which he carefully kept away from his horse, which was ambling along at its pleasure.

"Good day, Adam," said Stephen. "How are you, and how is the wood business?"

"Why, it's Mr. Stephen!" cried the old man, touching his cap with one of his knotted hands. "The wood business is good, sir. We manage to live, my wife and I. Although I'm wishin' t'was something else kept us going.

I never fell a tree, sir, I don't feel I'm killin' something alive. They are fine old trees," he went on, patting the bark of a silver birch affectionately. "I would not kill one of these white ladies, sir, if you was to pay me a hundred dollars!"

"It's a shame, Adam," replied Stephen. "It must be like cutting down your own family, you have lived among them for so many years. How is the hermit? Do you give him enough wood to keep him alive in the winter?"

"He's not been himself of late," answered Adam, lowering his voice.

"He's always strange at this time of the year."

"Do you think he'll see us if we go over?" asked Stephen.

"I think so, sir," replied Adam. "No matter how bad off he is, he's always kind. I never see him angry."

"Well, good-bye, Adam, and good luck to you," said Stephen, dropping a piece of money into the wrinkled palm, and they continued their journey through the wood.

The little bell resumed its tinkle, and the cart was soon out of sight.

CHAPTER XV-THE HERMIT

"Do you know," exclaimed Ruth, "I feel as if I were in an enchanted forest, and these strange people were witches and wizards! The robber might have been a wood-elf, and now here comes the old witch. Perhaps she will turn us into trees and animals."

"Oh, that is old Jennie, who gathers herbs and sells them at all the drugstores in the towns around here," replied Stephen, as a strange figure came into view.

The gatherer of herbs and roots was not, however, very witchlike in appearance. She was tall and erect, and walked with long strides like a grenadier. What was most remarkable about her were her wide, staring blue eyes, like patches of sky, that looked far beyond the young people who had grouped themselves at the side of the path almost timidly, waiting for her to come up. She carried with her a staff, and as she walked she poked the bushes and gra.s.ses with it as if it had been a long finger feeling for trophies. The other hand grasped the end of an ap.r.o.n made of an old sack, stuffed full of herbs still green, and fragrant from having been bruised as she crushed them into the bag.

"She is blind," whispered Stephen, "but in a minute she will perceive that some one is near. She has a scent as keen as a hunting dog's."

A few yards away from them old Jennie paused and sniffed the air like an animal. Reaching out with her stick she felt around her. Presently the staff pointed in the direction of the boys and girls, and she came toward them as straight as a hunter after his quarry. The girls, a little frightened, started to draw back.

"She won't hurt you," whispered Stephen. "Why, Jennie," he said in a louder voice, "don't you know your old friend and playmate?"

A smile broke out on Jennie's handsome face, which, in spite of her age, was as smooth and placid as a child's.

"It's Master Stephen!" she cried, in a strange voice that sounded rusty from lack of use. "I be glad to hear you, sir. It's a long time since we've had a frolic in the woods. You don't hunt birds' nests in the summer now, or go wading in the streams. I found a wasps' nest for you, perhaps it was a month, perhaps a year ago, I cannot remember. But I saved it for you. And how is young Master Martin? He was a little fellow to climb so high for the nests."

"We are both well, Jennie, and you must come over to the hall and see us. We may have something nice for you, there, that will keep you warm when the snow comes."

"Ah, you're a good boy, Master Stephen, and I'll bid ye good day now, and good day to your friends. There be four with you I think," she added in a lower voice, sniffing the air again. "I'll be over on my next trip to the village." Old Jennie moved off as swiftly as she had come, tapping the path with her long stick, her head thrown back as if to see with her nostrils, since her eyes were without sight.

"What a strange old woman!" cried Stephen's companions in one voice.

"And the strangest thing about her," replied Stephen, "is that she has no sense of time. She can't remember whether a thing happened a year ago or month ago, and she thinks Martin and I are still little boys. We haven't hunted birds' nests with her for six years. I have not even seen her for two or three years, but she sniffed me out as quickly as if I always used triple extract of tuberose."

"Where does she live?" asked Bab.

"She lives in a little cabin off in the forest somewhere. Her father and mother were woodcutters. She was born and brought up right here. She doesn't know anything but herbs and roots, and night and day are the same to her. She knows every square foot of this country, and never gets lost. Martin and I used to go about with her when we were little boys, and she was as faithful a nurse as you could possibly find."

"No wonder you love these woods, Stephen," said Bab. "There is so much to do and see in them. I wish we had something better than scrub oak around Kingsbridge."

"Wait until you see the chief treasure of the woods, Barbara, and you'll have even more respect for them."

"Meaning the hermit?" asked Jimmie.

"But he won't tell anything, will he?" demanded Ruth. "Didn't you say he was a mystery?"

"The greatest mystery of the countryside," replied Stephen. "n.o.body knows where he came from, nor why he has been living here all these years-it's about fifty, they say. You see, he is not ignorant, like the other wood people. He is a gentleman. His manners are as fine as uncle's, and the people who live in the woods all love him. They come to him when they are sick or in trouble."

"How does he live?" asked Alfred.

"He must have some money hidden away somewhere, for he always has enough to eat, and even to give when others need help. But n.o.body knows where he keeps it. In a hole in the ground somewhere, I suppose."

While they were talking they had approached a clearing on the side of a hill. Most of the big trees had been cut away, and only the silver birch, "the white ladies," as old Adam had christened them, and the dogwood, mingled their shade over the smooth turf. The gra.s.s was as thick and well kept as on the major's lawn, only somewhat browned now for lack of water. All the bushes and undergrowth had been cleared away years before, and the place had a lived-in, homelike look in contrast to the great black forest that seemed to be crouching at its feet like a monster guarding it from the enemy. And indeed, that must have been what the mysterious man had intended when he built his little house at the top of the hill, for five miles of woods intervened between him and the outer world on one side, while on the other, was a high precipice that marked the end of the forest.

The house, a log cabin with a big stone chimney at one end, commanded a view, from the back, of a long stretch of valley. The portico in front was shaded by honeysuckle vines. Here, in an old-fashioned armchair, sat the master smoking a meerschaum pipe.

Stephen approached somewhat diffidently, taking off his cap.

"May we rest here a little, sir?" he asked. "We have walked a long way this morning."

"You are most welcome," said the old man in a deep, musical voice that gave the young people a thrill of pleasure. They looked at him curiously. He was tall and erect, with a beak-nose and black eyes that still had some of their youthful fire in them, despite the man's great age and his snow white hair.

"Come in, and we will bring some chairs out for the young ladies."

Stephen followed their host into the house while, through the open door, the others caught a glimpse of an enormous open fireplace and walls lined with books. The girls took the proffered chairs and sat down rather stiffly, while the old man reappeared, carrying a bucket and a gourd.

"Perhaps you are thirsty. Will you draw some water from the well?" he asked, turning to Stephen. He stopped abruptly and looked closely at the boy. "Why, it's little Stephen," he exclaimed, and with an expression half of pain, half pleasure, he added, "grown to be a man and how like"--But he paused and turned hastily away.

"I am glad to see you, sir," replied Stephen, politely. He never knew exactly how to address the hermit, and he found not knowing his name somewhat awkward. "May I introduce my friends? Miss Ruth Stuart, Miss Barbara Thurston, Alfred Marsdale and Jimmie Butler."

The old man bowed to the company as gracefully as if he had been receiving guests in a fine mansion.

"The names are," he repeated gently, "Miss Ruth Stuart and-did I hear you aright-Miss--?"

"Barbara Thurston," finished Stephen.

"Barbara Thurston?" repeated the old man under his breath. "Barbara Thurston! Come here, my child, and let me look at you," he added, in an agitated voice.

Barbara obediently came forward and stood before the hermit, who had covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, as if he were afraid to see her face.

"Barbara Thurston!" he exclaimed again. "Little Barbara!" And drawing from his pocket a pair of horn spectacles, he put them on and examined her features. He seemed to have forgotten the others. Suddenly he removed the spectacles and looked up in a dazed way.