Athwart his face when blushes pass

To be so poor and weak,

He falls into the dewy grass,

To cool his fevered cheek;

And hears a music strangely made,

That you have never heard,

A sprite in every rustling blade,

That sings like any bird!

--Monckton Milnes.

Meanwhile on that fresh, dewy, moonlight summer evening, along the

narrow path leading through the wood behind the hut, Ishmael limped--the

happiest little fellow, despite his wounds and bruises, that ever lived.

He was so happy that he half suspected his delight to be all unreal, and

feared to wake up presently and find it was but a dream, and see the

little black-eyed girl, the ride in the carriage, and, above all, the

new "Illustrated History of the United States" vanish into the land of

shades.

In this dazed frame of mind he reached the hut and opened the door.

The room was lighted only by the blazing logs of a wood fire, which the

freshness of the late August evening on the hills made not quite

unwelcome.

The room was in no respect changed in the last twelve years. The

well-cared-for though humble furniture was still in its old position.

Hannah, as of old, was seated at her loom, driving the shuttle back and

forth with a deafening clatter. Hannah's face was a little more sallow

and wrinkled, and her hair a little more freely streaked with gray than

of yore: that was all the change visible in her personal appearance. But

long continued solitude had rendered her as taciturn and unobservant as

if she had been born deaf and blind.

She had not seen Reuben Gray since that Sunday when Ishmael was

christened and Reuben insisted on bringing the child home, and when, in

the bitterness of her woe and her shame, she had slammed the door in his

face. Gray had left the neighborhood, and it was reported that he had

been promoted to the management of a rich farm in the forest of Prince

George's.

"There is your supper on the hearth, child," she said, without ceasing

her work or turning her head as Ishmael entered.

Hannah was a good aunt; but she was not his mother; if she had been, she

would at least have turned around to look at the boy, and then she would

have seen he was hurt, and would have asked an explanation. As it was

she saw nothing.

And Ishmael was very glad of it. He did not wish to be pitied or

praised; he wished to be left to himself and his own devices, for this

evening at least, when he had such a distinguished guest as his grand

new book to entertain!

Ishmael took up his bowl of mush and milk, sat down, and with a large

spoon shoveled his food down his throat with more dispatch than

delicacy--just as he would have shoveled coal into a cellar. The sharp

cries of a hungry stomach must be appeased, he knew; but with as little

loss of time as possible, particularly when there was a hungry brain

waiting to set to work upon a rich feast already prepared for it!




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