His wife was mending stockings by the light of a candle which burned on the table at her side and Robert was absorbed by the fascinating pages of Scott’s “Rob Roy.” A side glance showed the fisherman how his nephew was employed, and, rightly judging where the book came from, he seized upon it as likely to lead to the questions he wanted to ask. “What book have you got there, Bob?” he inquired. “It Is a story by Sir Walter Scott, uncle.” “Never heard of him. Does he live in Boston?” asked Trafton. “No, he was a Scotchman.” “Some Scotchmen are pretty smart, I’ve heard tell.” “Scott was a wonderful genius,” said Robert, glowing with enthusiasm. “I dare say he was,” said the fisherman placidly. “Where did you get the book?” “I borrowed it of the hermit.” This was the name which Robert used, for even now he had no knowledge of his mysterious friend’s name. “Has he got many books?” “A whole bookcase full.” “He must be a rich man,” suggested John Trafton with apparent carelessness. “I think he is,” said Robert, wondering a little at his uncle’s newborn interest in his new acquaintance, but suspecting nothing of his design in asking the question. “It stands to reason he must be,” continued the fisherman. “He doesn’t do anything for a living.” “No.” “Then, of course, he’s got enough to live on.” “Besides, all his furniture is very nice,” cried Robert, falling into the trap. “He seems not to mind money and talks as if he was always used to it.” “I s’pose he pays you for running of errands for him,” said Trafton. “Yes,” answered Robert reluctantly, for he feared that his uncle would ask to have the money transferred to him. But the next words of Trafton reassured him. “That’s all right,” he said. “You can spend the money as you please. I don’t ask you for any of it.” “Thank you, uncle,” said Robert warmly. Mrs. Trafton regarded her husband in surprise. He was appearing in a character new to her. What could his sudden unselfishness mean? “I only asked because I didn’t want you to work for nothing, Bob,” said his uncle, not wishing it to appear that he had any other motive, as his plan must, of course, be kept secret from all. “I wouldn’t mind working for nothing, uncle. It would be small pay for his saving my life,” Robert said with perfect sincerity. “He wouldn’t want you to do it--a rich man like him,” returned the fisherman complacently. “It’s the only money he has to spend, except what he pays for victuals. I’m glad you’ve fallen in with him. You might as well get the benefit of his money as anybody.” “Uncle seems to think I only think of money,” Robert said to himself with some annoyance. “I begin to like the hermit. He is very kind to me.” He did not give utterance to this thought, rightly deeming that it would not be expedient, but suffered his uncle to think as he might. “Does the hermit always stay at home in the evening?” asked the fisherman after a pause.