Squire B., whose companion was killed by lightning when he was standing close to him.  You know the look he had whenever anything like a thundercloud came up in the sky.  Well, I should say there was a look like that came over this Maurice Kirkwood’s face every now and then.  I noticed that he looked round once or twice as if to see whether some object or other was in sight.  There was a little rustling in the grass as if of footsteps, and this look came over his features.  A rabbit ran by us, and I watched to see if he showed any sign of that antipathy we have heard so much of, but he seemed to be pleased watching the creature.

“If you ask me what my opinion is about this Maurice Kirkwood, I think he is eccentric in his habit of life, but not what they call a ‘crank’ exactly.  He talked well enough about such matters as we spoke of,—­the lake, the scenery in general, the climate.  I asked him to come over and take a look at the college.  He did n’t promise, but I should not be surprised if I should get him over there some day.  I asked him why he did n’t go to the Pansophian meetings.  He did n’t give any reason, but he shook his head in a very peculiar way, as much as to say that it was impossible.

“On the whole, I think it is nothing more than the same feeling of dread of human society, or dislike for it, which under the name of religion used to drive men into caves and deserts.  What a pity that Protestantism does not make special provision for all the freaks of individual character!  If we had a little more faith and a few more caverns, or convenient places for making them, we should have hermits in these holes as thick as woodchucks or prairie dogs.  I should like to know if you never had the feeling,

   “‘Oh, that the desert were my dwelling-place!’

“I know what your answer will be, of course.  You will say, ’Certainly,

   “‘With one fair spirit for my minister;’”

“but I mean alone,—­all alone.  Don’t you ever feel as if you should like to have been a pillar-saint in the days when faith was as strong as lye (spelt with a y), instead of being as weak as dish-water? (Jerry is looking over my shoulder, and says this pun is too bad to send, and a disgrace to the University—­but never mind.) I often feel as if I should like to roost on a pillar a hundred feet high,—­yes, and have it soaped from top to bottom.  Wouldn’t it be fun to look down at the bores and the duns?  Let us get up a pillar-roosters’ association. (Jerry—­still looking over says there is an absurd contradiction in the idea.)

“What a matter-of-fact idiot Jerry is!

“How do you like looking over, Mr. Inspector general?”

The reader will not get much information out of this lively young fellow’s letter, but he may get a little.  It is something to know that the mysterious resident of Arrowhead Village did not look nor talk like a crazy person; that he was of agreeable aspect and address, helpful when occasion offered, and had nothing about him, so far as yet appeared, to prevent his being an acceptable member of society.