sunk in the floor. A bench ran round the walls, and a small hand-pump brought up the evil-smelling water, at such a temperature one had to wait for it to cool before bathing. If the extreme potency of the smell were any gauge for the potency of the water-cure, there ought to be a hydro here—never have I smelt anything so horrid. Transome preferred to bathe in the hot pool outside, taking a cold douche in the torrent after, and certainly all traces of fatigue vanished like magic, and we agreed it was a wonderful spring. There was a rugged path climbing up the steep hill behind, and here we came on the Eremite, who dwelt like the dryad of this strange place.
When we saw him first he was advancing to meet us—bare-headed, in a tattered old brown jersey, and much-worn pants held together by a strap, but greeting us right cheerily, and bidding us welcome to his house. The house itself stood in the heart of the forest tangle. The sort of place one only finds on the borders of civilization—there was more chimney than house: a veritable stack of planks and logs, and why it did not burn down I can’t imagine. Inside was a huge hearth, and the one room was but the annexe to the chimney. Outside the house, a little plateau had been built up with infinite pains, and here was an attempt at a garden. Just a few potatoes and straggling strawberry plants. The hillside below this fell away steeply to a ravine, and, standing there one gazed out over a glorious vista of rolling
