“You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no wonder that you weep,” said he.  “But dry your eyes and tell me where your mother dwells; I promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will leave you in her arms tonight.”

The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his face upward to the stranger.  It was a pale, bright-eyed countenance, certainly not more than six years old, but sorrow, fear and want had destroyed much of its infantile expression.  The Puritan, seeing the boy’s frightened gaze and feeling that he trembled under his hand, endeavored to reassure him: 

“Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the readiest way were to leave you here.  What! you do not fear to sit beneath the gallows on a new-made grave, and yet you tremble at a friend’s touch?  Take heart, child, and tell me what is your name and where is your home.”

“Friend,” replied the little boy, in a sweet though faltering voice, “they call me Ilbrahim, and my home is here.”

The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle with the moonlight, the sweet, airy voice and the outlandish name almost made the Puritan believe that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung up out of the grave on which he sat; but perceiving that the apparition stood the test of a short mental prayer, and remembering that the arm which he had touched was lifelike, he adopted a more rational supposition.  “The poor child is stricken in his intellect,” thought he, “but verily his words are fearful in a place like this.”  He then spoke soothingly, intending to humor the boy’s fantasy: 

“Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim, this cold autumn night, and I fear you are ill-provided with food.  I am hastening to a warm supper and bed; and if you will go with me, you shall share them.”

“I thank thee, friend, but, though I be hungry and shivering with cold, thou wilt not give me food nor lodging,” replied the boy, in the quiet tone which despair had taught him even so young.  “My father was of the people whom all men hate; they have laid him under this heap of earth, and here is my home.”

The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim’s hand, relinquished it as if he were touching a loathsome reptile.  But he possessed a compassionate heart which not even religious prejudice could harden into stone.  “God forbid that I should leave this child to perish, though he comes of the accursed sect,” said he to himself.  “Do we not all spring from an evil root?  Are we not all in darkness till the light doth shine upon us?  He shall not perish, neither in body nor, if prayer and instruction may avail for him, in soul.”  He then spoke aloud and kindly to Ilbrahim, who had again hid his face in the cold earth of the grave: 

“Was every door in the land shut against you, my child, that you have wandered to this unhallowed spot?”

“They drove me forth from the prison when they took my father thence,” said the boy, “and I stood afar off watching the crowd of people; and when they were gone, I came hither, and found only this grave.  I knew that my father was sleeping here, and I said, ’This shall be my home.’”