in the grave; and I had more than once struggled against a dark but
passing suspicion that that person was in some measure--mediately,
though not directly--connected with the mysteries of my former life. If
both these conjectures were true, I thought it possible that the
communication the Hermit wished to make might be made yet more willingly
to me as a stranger than if he knew who was in reality his confidant.
And, at all events, if I could curb the impetuous gushings of my own
heart, which yearned for immediate disclosure, I might by hint and
prelude ascertain the advantages and disadvantages of revealing myself.

I arrived at the well: the Hermit was already at the place of
rendezvous, seated in the same posture in which I had before seen him.
I made my reverence and accosted him.

"I have not failed you, Father."

"That is rarely a true boast with men," said the Hermit, smiling
mournfully, but without sarcasm; "and were the promise of greater avail,
it might not have been so rigidly kept."

"The promise, Father, seemed to me of greater weight than you would
intimate," answered I.

"How mean you?" said the Hermit, hastily.

"Why, that we may perhaps serve each other by our meeting: you, Father,
may comfort me by your counsels; I you by my readiness to obey your
request."

The Hermit looked at me for some moments, and, as well as I could, I