He arrived there early--almost too early, for none of the day pupils had

come, and there was no one in the schoolroom but the young Middletons

and Claudia Merlin.

She was sitting in her seat, with her desk open before her, and her

black ringletted head half buried in it. But as soon she heard the door

open she glanced up, and seeing Ishmael, shut down the desk and flew to

meet him.

"I am so glad you come to school, Ishmael! I wasn't here yesterday,

because I had a cold; but I knew you were! And oh! how nice you do look.

Indeed, if I did not know better, I should take you to be the young

gentleman, and those Burghes to be workman's sons!" she said, as she

held his hand, and looked approvingly upon his smooth, light hair, his

fair, broad forehead, clear, blue eyes, and delicate features; and upon

his erect figure and neat dress.

"Thank you, miss," answered Ishmael, with boyish embarrassment.

"Come here, Bee, and look at him," said Miss Merlin, addressing some

unknown little party, who did not at once obey the behest.

With a reddening cheek, Ishmael gently essayed to pass to his seat; but

the imperious little lady held fast his hand, as, with a more peremptory

tone, she said: "Stop! I want Bee to see you! Come here, Bee, this instant, and look at

Ishmael!"

This time a little golden-haired, fair-faced girl came from the group of

children collected at the window, and stood before Claudia.

"There, now, Bee, look at the new pupil! Does he look like a common

boy--a poor laborer's son?"

The little girl addressed as Bee was evidently afraid to disobey Claudia

and ashamed to obey her. She therefore stood in embarrassment.

"Look at him, can't you? he won't bite you!" said Miss Claudia.

Ishmael felt reassured by the very shyness of the little new

acquaintance that was being forced upon him, and he said, very gently: "I will not frighten you, little girl; I am not a rude boy."

"I know you will not; it is not that," murmured the little maiden,

encouraged by the sweet voice, and stealing a glance at the gentle,

intellectual countenance of our lad.

"There, now, does he look like a laborer's son?" inquired Claudia.

"No," murmured Bee.

"But he is, for all that! He is the son of--of--I forget; but some

relation of Hannah Worth, the weaver. Who was your father, Ishmael? I

never heard--or if I did I have forgotten. Who was he?"

Ishmael's face grew crimson. Yet he could not have told, because he did

not know, why this question caused his brow to burn as though it had

been smitten by a red-hot iron.

"Who was your father, I ask you, Ishmael?" persisted the imperious

little girl.




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