“My boy,” said Mr. Middleton, approaching our lad, “I have accused you wrongfully.  I am sorry for it and beg your pardon.”

Ishmael looked up in surprise and with an “Oh, sir, please don’t,” blushed and hung his head.  It seemed really dreadful to this poor boy that this grave and dignified gentleman should ask his pardon!  And yet Mr. Middleton lost no dignity in this simple act, because it was right; he had wronged the poor lad, and owed an apology just as much as if he had wronged the greatest man in the country.

“And now, my boy,” continued the gentleman, “be always as honest, as truthful, and as fearless as you have shown yourself to-day, and though your lot in life may be very humble—­aye, of the very humblest—­yet you will be respected in your lowly sphere.”  Here the speaker opened his portmonnaie and took from it a silver dollar, saying, “Take this, my boy, not as a reward for your integrity,—­that, understand, is a matter of more worth than to be rewarded with money,—­but simply as payment for your time and trouble in defending my property.”

“Oh, sir, please don’t.  I really don’t want the money,” said Ishmael, shrinking from the offered coin.

“Oh, nonsense, my boy!  You must be paid, you know,” said Mr. Middleton, urging the dollar upon him.

“But I do not want pay for a mere act of civility,” persisted Ishmael, drawing back.

“But your time and trouble, child; they are money to lads in your line of life.”

“If you please, sir, it was a holiday, and I had nothing else to do.”

“But take this to oblige me.”

“Indeed, sir, I don’t want it.  The professor is very freehearted and pays me well for my work.”

“The professor?  What professor, my boy?  I thought I had the honor to be the only professor in the neighborhood,” said the gentleman, smiling.

“I mean Professor Jim Morris, sir,” replied Ishmael, in perfect good faith.

“Oh! yes, exactly; I have heard of that ingenious and useful individual, who seems to have served his time at all trades, and taken degrees in all arts and sciences; but I did not know he was called a professor.  So you are a student in his college!” smiled Mr. Middleton.

“I help him, sir, and he pays me,” answered the boy.

“And what is your name, my good little fellow?”

“Ishmael Worth, sir.”

“Oh, yes, exactly; you are the son of the little weaver up on Hut Hill, just across the valley from Brudenell Heights?”

“I am her nephew, sir.”

“Are your parents living?”

“No, sir; I have been an orphan from my birth.”

“Poor boy!  And you are depending on your aunt for a home, and on your own labor for a support?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Ishmael, as you very rightly take pay from my brother professor, I do not know why you should refuse it from me.”

Ishmael perhaps could not answer that question to his own satisfaction.  At all events, he hesitated a moment before he replied: