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 know. There were four of us. I’m the only surviving one. The others have been married off. All to money. Mamma is so proud of my sisters. They send her the loveliest pen-wipers and art calendars every Christmas. I’m the only one on the market now. I’m forbidden to look at any one who hasn’t money.”

“But—” began the hermit.

“But, oh,” said the beautifulest, “of course hermits have great pots of gold and doubloons buried somewhere near three great oak-trees. They all have.”

“I have not,” said the hermit, regretfully.

“I’m so sorry,” said Miss Trenholme. “I always thought they had. I think I must go now.”

Oh, beyond question, she was the beautifulest.

“Fair lady” began the hermit.

“I am Beatrix Trenholme—some call me Trix,” she said. “You must come to the inn to see me.”

“I haven’t been a stone’s-throw from my cave in ten years,” said the hermit.

“You must come to see me there,” she repeated. “Any evening except Thursday.”

The hermit smiled weakly.

“Good-bye,” she said, gathering the folds of Rh