As the season advanced, the weather became more genial, and the Recluse was more frequently found occupying the broad flat stone in the front of his mansion.  As he sate there one day, about the hour of noon, a party of gentlemen and ladies, well mounted, and numerously attended, swept across the heath at some distance from his dwelling.  Dogs, hawks, and led-horses swelled the retinue, and the air resounded at intervals with the cheer of the hunters, and the sound of horns blown by the attendants.  The Recluse was about to retire into his mansion at the sight of a train so joyous, when three young ladies, with their attendants, who had made a circuit, and detached themselves from their party, in order to gratify their curiosity by a sight of the Wise Wight of Mucklestane-Moor, came suddenly up, ere he could effect his purpose.  The first shrieked, and put her hands before her eyes, at sight of an object so unusually deformed.  The second, with a hysterical giggle, which she intended should disguise her terrors, asked the Recluse, whether he could tell their fortune.  The third, who was best mounted, best dressed, and incomparably the best-looking of the three, advanced, as if to cover the incivility of her companions.

“We have lost the right path that leads through these morasses, and our party have gone forward without us,” said the young lady.  “Seeing you, father, at the door of your house, we have turned this way to—­”

“Hush!” interrupted the Dwarf; “so young, and already so artful?  You came—­you know you came, to exult in the consciousness of your own youth, wealth, and beauty, by contrasting them with age, poverty, and deformity.  It is a fit employment for the daughter of your father; but O how unlike the child of your mother!”

“Did you, then, know my parents, and do you know me?”

“Yes; this is the first time you have crossed my waking eyes, but I have seen you in my dreams.”

“Your dreams?”

“Ay, Isabel Vere.  What hast thou, or thine, to do with my waking thoughts?”

“Your waking thoughts, sir,” said the second of Miss Vere’s companions, with a sort of mock gravity, “are fixed, doubtless, upon wisdom; folly can only intrude on your sleeping moments.”

“Over thine,” retorted the Dwarf, more splenetically than became a philosopher or hermit, “folly exercises an unlimited empire, asleep or awake.”

“Lord bless us!” said the lady, “he’s a prophet, sure enough.”

“As surely,” continued the Recluse, “as thou art a woman.—­A woman!—­I should have said a lady—­a fine lady.  You asked me to tell your fortune—­it is a simple one; an endless chase through life after follies not worth catching, and, when caught, successively thrown away—­a chase, pursued from the days of tottering infancy to those of old age upon his crutches.  Toys and merry-makings in childhood—­love and its absurdities in youth—­spadille and basto in age, shall succeed each other as objects of pursuit—­flowers and butterflies in spring—­butterflies and thistle-down in summer—­withered leaves in autumn and winter—­all pursued, all caught, all flung aside.—­Stand apart; your fortune is said.”