Mark Manning's Mission

"She's—ah—very poor, I hear."

Mark began to find his patronage on the whole rather oppressive. He had a sturdy independence of feeling that grew restive under the young patrician's condescension.

"We are poor," he answered, "but we have enough to eat, and to wear, and a roof to cover us—"

"Exactly. You are indebted to my father for that."

"I don't see how."

"Doesn't he employ you and pay you wages?"

"Yes, but don't I earn my wages by good work?"

"Really, my good fellow, I can't say. I presume you do passably well, or he wouldn't keep you in his employ."

"Then it seems to me we are even on that score. However, I didn't come here to talk about myself."

Here there was a sudden diversion.

"Look, James! See that bird!" exclaimed Tom, in excitement.

The other two boys looked in the direction indicated, and saw a hawk flying swiftly, perhaps two hundred feet above them. The three simultaneously raised their guns, and Tom and James fired. But Mark, upon second thought reserved his fire, in order to give his two companions a chance.

Their guns were discharged, but in vain. The bird flew on, apparently unconcerned, considerably to their disappointment.

"Now it is my turn!" reflected Mark.

He raised his gun, and quickly pulled the trigger; the effect was soon seen. The bird fluttered its wings, then dropped quickly through the air.

"By Jove, Mark's hit him!" exclaimed Tom in excitement.

James frowned in evident displeasure.

"Yes, he was lucky!" he said significantly.

Mark had run forward to pick up the bird.

"I told you Mark was a good shot!" said Tom, who had not so much vanity to wound as James.

"I suppose you think him a better shot than I, because he hit the bird and I didn't?" said James, reddening.

"No, I don't say that!"

"I tell you it was pure luck. I've heard of a man who shut his eyes when he fired, but he succeeded when all his companions failed. You can't judge of one by a single shot."

Here Mark came up with his trophy.

"I congratulate you on your success," said James, unpleasantly. "I suppose this is the first bird you ever shot?"

"Oh, no!" answered Mark smilingly. "I have shot a few before now."

"A fly lit on my nose just when I was pulling the trigger, or I should have brought him down."

"That was lucky for me," said Mark.

"Come, Tom," said James, drawing his companion away to the left. "We'd better separate, or we shall all be shooting at the same object."

"Good luck to you then!" said Mark, as the two left him.

"Thanks!" said Tom, but James deigned no notice of Mark's civility.

CHAPTER II.

THE HERMIT'S CABIN

Mark smiled to himself as the boys left him.

"James doesn't care to associate with us working boys," he thought. "Well, I fancy he cares as much for my company as I do for his."

Mark was thoroughly independent and self-reliant, and had no disposition to trouble himself because a particular boy didn't care to associate with him.

He was not self-conceited, but he respected himself, and never would have been willing, like Tom Wyman, to play the part of an humble satellite to the son of a wealthy shoe manufacturer.

He reached the edge of the woods, and plunged into their shaded recesses. Here and there were paths more or less worn. One of these he took. It was a considerable time before he found anything to shoot at. Finally he fired at a squirrel, but the active little animal eluded him, and made his way to some covert, whence possibly he peeped out with twinkling eyes at his enemy.

Farther on he reached a small clearing, in the center of which rose an humble log dwelling, of the most primitive description.

Mark regarded it with curiosity, for, though it was no new object to him, he knew that it was occupied by a man who for five years had baffled the curiosity of the neighborhood.

Now and then he was seen in the village, whither he went to procure supplies of food and other necessaries. A striking figure he was, with his long flowing sandy beard, thickly flecked with gray hairs, high forehead, and long, circular cloak wrapped around his tall, spare form.

On his head he wore a Spanish sombrero, and his appearance in the streets never failed to attract the curious eyes of the children.

Once some rude boys followed him with jeers, but were never tempted to repeat the rudeness. With his long staff upraised, he gave chase to them, looking so terrible that they were panic-stricken, and with pale faces, scattered in all directions.

While Mark was standing near the hermit's cabin, he thought he heard a smothered groan proceeding from within.

"What can be the matter," he thought, "can old Anthony be sick?"

This was the name, correct or not, by which the hermit was known in the village.

He paused a moment in indecision, but on hearing the groan repeated, he overcame his scruples, and pushing open the door, which stood ajar, he entered.

On a pallet, at one corner of the main room, lay the old man, with his limbs drawn up, as if in pain. His back was towards the door.

"Who is there?" he asked, as he heard the door open.

"A friend," answered Mark. "Are you sick?"