"Maybe," replied Mr. Peters. "Very likely, if she s feeling that way. I hope so, I ain't giving up the hermit job altogether—I'll come back in the summers, to my post-card business. There's money in it, if it s handled right. But I've spent my last winter on that lonesome hill."
"As author to author," asked Magee, "how about your book?"
"There won't be any mention of that," the hermit predicted, "in Brooklyn. I've packed it away. Maybe I can work on it summers, if she doesn't come up here with me and insist on running my hermit business for me. I hope she won't, it would sort of put a crimp in it—but if she wants to I won't refuse. And maybe that book'll never get done. Sometimes as I've sat in my shack at night and read, it's come to me that all the greatest works since the world began have been those that never got finished."
The Reuton train roared up to them through the gray morning, and paused impatiently at Upper Asquewan Falls. Aboard it clambered the hermits, amateur and professional. Mr. Magee,
