soundly;" and the frown vanished away and gave place to an expression of

evil satisfaction. A smile flitted across the dreaming boy's features.

The hermit muttered, "So--his heart is happy;" and he turned away. He

went stealthily about the place, seeking here and there for something;

now and then halting to listen, now and then jerking his head around and

casting a quick glance toward the bed; and always muttering, always

mumbling to himself. At last he found what he seemed to want--a rusty

old butcher knife and a whetstone. Then he crept to his place by the

fire, sat himself down, and began to whet the knife softly on the stone,

still muttering, mumbling, ejaculating. The winds sighed around the

lonely place, the mysterious voices of the night floated by out of the

distances. The shining eyes of venturesome mice and rats peered out at

the old man from cracks and coverts, but he went on with his work, rapt,

absorbed, and noted none of these things.

At long intervals he drew his thumb along the edge of his knife, and

nodded his head with satisfaction. "It grows sharper," he said; "yes, it

grows sharper."

He took no note of the flight of time, but worked tranquilly on,

entertaining himself with his thoughts, which broke out occasionally in

articulate speech--

"His father wrought us evil, he destroyed us--and is gone down into the

205

The Prince and The Pauper