The child was christened Ishmael Worth, thus receiving both given and surname at the altar.

When the afternoon worship was concluded and they left the church, Reuben Gray walked beside Hannah, begging for the privilege of carrying the child—­a privilege Hannah grimly refused.

Reuben, undismayed, walked by her side all the way from Baymouth church to the hut on the hill, a distance of three miles.  And taking advantage of that long walk, he pleaded with Hannah to reconsider her refusal and to become his wife.

“After a bit, we can go away and take the boy with us and bring him up as our’n.  And nobody need to know any better,” he pleaded.

But this also Hannah grimly refused.

When they reached the hut she turned upon him and said: 

“Reuben Gray, I will bear my miseries and reproaches myself!  I will bear them alone!  Your duty is to your sisters.  Go to them and forget me.”  And so saying she actually shut the door in his face!

Reuben went away crestfallen.

But Hannah! poor Hannah! she never anticipated the full amount of misery and reproach she would have to bear alone!

A few weeks passed and the money she had saved was all spent.  No more work was brought to her to do.  A miserable consciousness of lost caste prevented her from going to seek it.  She did not dream of the extent of her misfortune; she did not know that even if she had sought work from her old employers, it would have been refused her.

One day when the Professor of Odd Jobs happened to be making a professional tour in her way, and called at the hut to see if his services might be required there, she gave him a commission to seek work for her among the neighboring farmers and planters—­a duty that the professor cheerfully undertook.

But when she saw him again, about ten days after, and inquired about his success in procuring employment for her, he shook his head, saying: 

“There’s a plenty of weaving waiting to be done everywhere, Miss Hannah—­which it stands to reason there would be at this season of the year.  There’s all the cotton cloth for the negroes’ summer clothes to be wove; but, Miss Hannah, to tell you the truth, the ladies as I’ve mentioned it to refuses to give the work to you.”

“But why?” inquired the poor woman, in alarm.

“Well, Miss Hannah, because of what has happened, you know.  The world is very unjust, Miss Hannah!  And women are more unjust than men.  If ’man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn,’ I’m sure women’s cruelty to women makes angels weep!” And here the professor, having lighted upon a high-toned subject and a helpless hearer, launched into a long oration I have not space to report.  He ended by saying: 

“And now, Miss Hannah, if I were you I would not expose myself to affronts by going to seek work.”

“But what can I do, Morris?  Must I starve, and let the child starve?” asked the weaver, in despair.