Gladly enough Frank unloosed his burden, and surrendered the big trout and the basket to his host. As the latter turned away from the fire a dozen little forms frisked out of the shadows behind and ran over him lightly, climbing to his shoulders, into his pockets, clinging on to his curious dress wherever possible--chattering, and still regarding the strange intruders with bright, inquisitive eyes. They were tiny red squirrels, it seemed, and their home was here in this nondescript dwelling with this eccentric man. Suddenly the hermit spoke to them--an unknown word with queer intonation. In an instant the little bevy of chatterers leaped away from him, scampering back to their retreats. Frank, who stood watching, saw a number of them go racing to a tree of goodly size and disappear into a hole near the floor. The hermit turned, smiling a little, and the firelight fell on his face. For the first time Frank noticed the refinement and delicacy of the meager features. The hermit said: "That is their outlet. The tree is hollow, and there is another opening above the roof. In winter the birds use it, too." He disappeared now into what seemed to be another apartment, shutting a door behind. Frank dropped down on the settle by Constance, thoroughly tired, stretched out his legs, and gave himself up to the comfort of the warm glow. "Isn't it all wonderful?" murmured Constance. "It is just a dream, of course. We are not really here, and I shall wake up presently. I had just such fancies when I was a child. Perhaps I am still wandering in that awful mist, and this is the delirium. Oh, are you sure we are really here?" "Quite sure," said Frank. "And it seems just a matter of course to me. I have known all along that this wood was full of mysteries--enchantments, and hermits, and the like. Probably there are many such things if we knew where to look for them." The girl's voice dropped still lower. "How quaintly he talks. It is as if he had stepped out of some old book." Frank nodded toward the stone shelf by the fire. "He lives chiefly in books, I fancy, having had but one other visitor." The young man lifted one of the worn volumes and held it to the light. It was a copy of Shakespeare's works--a thick book, being a complete edition of the plays. He laid it back tenderly. "He dwells with the men and women of the master," he said, softly. There followed a little period of silence, during which they drank in the cheer and comfort of the blazing hearth. Outside, the thunder rolled heavily now and then, and the rain beat against the door. What did it matter? They were safe and sheltered, and together. Constance asked presently: "What time is it?" And, looking at his watch, Frank replied: "A little after three. An hour ago we were wandering up there in the mist. It seems a year since then, and a lifetime since I took that big trout."