," answered the hermit; "and did he call you by these names?"

"Yes," returned Edgar.

"_He_ talk of foundlings!" said the hermit. "Why did you not slap him in
the face, Edgar?"

"The words did not come directly from him to me," said the youth,
wondering at his uncle's anger, which far exceeded his own.

"Ay, through a third person you obtained them? and that was"----

"His daughter, Florence Howard."

"Florence Howard!" repeated his uncle, "and what do you know of her?"

"I have been to school with her four or five months, and have assisted
her in her Latin studies this summer," returned Edgar.

"And shall never behold her face again!" said the hermit, in a tone of
angry vehemence, bringing his heavy sandalled foot down upon the wooden
sill with a violence that made Edgar start from his lounging posture on
the turf, and gaze with amazement upon the fierce workings of a face he
had never seen flushed by an angry emotion before. He feared his uncle
had suddenly gone mad, and stood indeterminate what course to pursue,
when the countenance before him changed, the eyes closed, and the hermit
fell heavily on the green sward in front of his door. Edgar, in his
alarm, lifted the prostrate form in his strong, young arms, and bore him
to the low, rough couch, which was their nightly resting-place. Then,
taking a bottle from a [illegible] shelf above the huge, black
fire-place, he poured its contents in a cup, and bathed the temples of
the deathly-looking face till the eyes opened with recognition, and the
lips moved, though inaudibly.

He watched by the bed-side several hours, and at length the hermit rose
suddenly to his feet, and bade Edgar retire. He obeyed, and closed his
eyes, but not to sleep. Opening them after a while, he beheld his uncle
sitting before the table engaged in writing. Again the lids closed, and
he fell into a light drowse, during which Florence Howard flitted before
him in countless variety of forms. When again he looked around he was
alone. The long summer twilight had deepened into evening, and Edgar
rose and lighted a lamp. On the table he discovered a small, folded
billet, addressed to him. He sank on his knees, opened it, and read.
Various were the expressions that flitted over his features as he did
so. When he had finished he refolded it carefully, and, drawing a bunch
of keys from his pocket, unlocked a small box which sat on the table,
placed the letter within, then relocked it and return