having resigned everything pilferable, could no
longer dread his brother-man.

"Behold my simple apparel," said Bob,
twitching aside a curtain that hung against the
wall. "Winter gown, summer gown."

Both were comfortable-looking robes enough
—with ample folds, reaching nearly to the feet,
hoods, and girdles.

"I think, sir, this is about the article," said
Bob, with some complacency, as he threw the
wide skirts across his arm. "One sole departure
I have permitted myself from the accredited
costume. Not to be confounded with the
new order of B. F. B.s—barefooted boobies—
I shall retain my socks and Balmorals."

"Whatever morals you leave behind, I should
certainly keep the bals," I observed, lightly.
"But now—how about eating?" I hastened
to add.

"Behold my kitchen!" replied Bob, patting
his stewpan encouragingly.

"Ha! you do mean to cook, it seems?"

"Why—slightly," said Bob. "There are
herbs, and roots also (I may, I think, include
the potato), which are improvable, for table
purposes, by the agency of fire. By-the-by,
look at this."

He unfolded a sort of scroll, something
resembling that which records the names of the
"thousand-and-three" victims to Giovanni's
fatal love.

"Here are one hundred-and-thirty-seven
distinct methods of dressing the potato."

"It is not the fact, then, that hermits confine
their eating to the natural products of the
soil?"

"In a crude state, no. The coats of a hermit's
stomach are not expressly lined for the
purpose," said Mr. Lynn, with some impatience.
"I stick to my text. Roots. Well, potatoes
are roots. On the other hand, peas, beans—
broad and French—asparagus—and a lot
besides—are excluded from my larder, simply
because they are not 'roots.'"

"A radical defect indeed!" said I.

"I shall get on very tidily," said the intending
hermit. "There are fruits, you know.
'My scrip, with herbs and fruits' (you perceive)
'supplied.' Ah—my friend!"

"I would not rely upon the 'mountain's
grassy side' for much in that line," said I. "By
the way, how about the Beaujolais?" I added,
sipping the fragrant fluid.

"'And water from the spring,'" quoted
Bob; for the present, however, following my
example.

"There could at least be no objection to
Hermitage!"

"'And water from the spring,'" repeated
Bob, firmly, ignoring my little jest. "The
water in the neighbourhood of my retreat is
exceedingly fine—a light, dry, pleasant,
stomachic water, sir. That was one of my reasons
for selecting the spot I have chosen."

"You have not told me where it is."

"Let me explain at once, my dear boy," said
Bob, "and be you one of the earliest to lift the
ever-ready latch of the recluse's cell. There
will always be a ham, or a tongue, a grouse-pie,
or something of that sort, in cut."

"Hallo, anchorite!"

"For my guests—my guests," said Bob,
hastily. "Never shall the famished and belated
traveller be chidden from my door!"

"Is the place so wild and isolated?"

"It is in one of the loveliest and most populous
of our western counties."

"Indeed! And yet secluded? You are
lucky, in these days, to have hit on such a
spot."

"Well, it was no easy matter," replied Bob.
"Listen, Harry. You consult your Bradshaw.
You find that a branch of the Great Southland
Railway conveys you to Tibbley Junction, from
whence you take the eastern portion of the loop-
line as far (remember this) as Burngallows.
Hence, a short branch conducts you to Bishops-
Pyewall-road; after which you have it all plain
sailing to Hawbridge. Here, by order, two
days before, you can, provided it be not market-
day in any of the neighbouring towns, obtain
some species of trap to take you on to
Chandler's Ford, ten miles and a half. You may
then consider yourself at home, since there
remains but a six-mile ferry to Sea Palling, where
you first enter upon the outlying portion of my
friend Sir Quigley Quantock's property, in some
eligible nook of whose very extensive woods I
propose to take up my permanent abode. You
understand?"

"Perfectly. Stay—let me see. I take my
Bradshaw—and I—humph—my Brads——"

"There's a shorter way by sea," interrupted
Bob, "discovered by some Columbus, on his
way to Babley-Patterton regatta."

"I think I should prefer the sea way," said
I. "Shall you be there in August?"

"Only for the remnant of my pilgrimage,"
replied Bob, relapsing into sentiment.

"What if you live to a hundred? Hermits
generally do. My dear old boy, what upon
earth will you do with yourself?"

"My existence," answered Bob, "will be
one of child-like innocence. I shall smoke and
meditate."

"Without disparagement to those truly
infantine pursuits, one must at least be thankful,
for the sake of progress, that the general body
of mankind are not seized with a similar fancy.
But, you yourself—without companions—without——"

"Companions!" exclaimed Bob. "What
better companions can thoughtful man desire
than the ever-changing, soul-entrancing aspects
of nature? The babbling brooklet—the fleecy
cloudlet——"

"Portending the stormlet," I put in.

"The—the whole lot of meteorological
phenomena," said Bob, frowning, "and that sort
of thing; such will be my associates. They
cannot betray."

"I beg your pardon. For treachery and
mendacity I'll back your barometer——"

"Psha!" said Bob. "These exhausted, I