"He lives here alone on the hill. He's a hermit. They say he's
crazy. And I guess he is," added Fred, with a shudder.

"Why do you think he's crazy?"

But before Fred could reply--if he intended to--the hermit reached
the road. He was an old but very vigorous-looking man, burly and
stout, with a great mat of riotous gray hair under his fur cap, and a
beard of the same color that 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.