The next time the pastor in going his charitable rounds among his poor parishioners, called at the hut, the weaver mentioned the subject and begged him to baptize the boy then and there.

But the reverend gentleman, who was a high churchman, replied: 

“I will cheerfully administer the rites of baptism to the child; but you must bring him to the altar to receive them.  Nothing but imminent danger of death can justify the performance of those sacred rites at any other place.  Bring the boy to church next Sabbath afternoon.”

“What! bring this child to church!—­before all the congregation!  I should die of mortification!” said Hannah.

“Why?  Are you to blame for what has happened?  Or is he?  Even if the boy were what he is supposed to be,—­the child of sin,—­it would not be his fault.  Do you think in all the congregation there is a soul whiter than that of this child?  Has not the Saviour said, ’Suffer little children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven?’ Bring the boy to church, Hannah! bring the boy to church,” said the pastor, as he took up his hat and departed.

Accordingly the next Sabbath afternoon Hannah Worth took Ishmael to the church, which was, as usual, well filled.

Poor Hannah!  Poor, gentle-hearted, pure-spirited old maid!  She sat there in a remote corner pew, hiding her child under her shawl and hushing him with gentle caresses during the whole of the afternoon service.  And when after the last lesson had been read the minister came down to the font and said:  “Any persons present having children to offer for baptism will now bring them forward,” Hannah felt as if she would faint.  But summoning all her resolution, she arose and came out of her pew, carrying the child.  Every eye in the church turned full upon her.  There was no harm meant in this; people will gaze at every such a little spectacle; a baby going to be baptized, if nothing else is to be had.  But to Hannah’s humbled spirit and sinking heart, to carry that child up that aisle under the fire of those eyes seemed like running a blockade of righteous indignation that appeared to surround the altar.  But she did it.  With downcast looks and hesitating steps she approached and stood at the font—­alone—­the target of every pair of eyes in the congregation.  Only a moment she stood thus, when a countryman, with a start, left one of the side benches and came and stood by her side.

It was Reuben Gray, who, standing by her, whispered: 

“Hannah, woman, why didn’t you let me know?  I would have come and sat in the pew with you and carried the child.”

“Oh, Reuben, why will you mix yourself up with me and my miseries?” sighed Hannah.

“’Cause we are one, my dear woman, and so I can’t help it,” murmured the man.

There was no time for more words.  The minister began the services.  Reuben Gray offered himself as sponsor with Hannah, who had no right to refuse this sort of copartnership.