No one could guess this now.  Not even the boy himself.  He did not know that he was any richer in heart or brain than other boys of his age.  No, most probably, by analogy, he thought himself in this respect as well as in all others, poorer than his neighbors.  He covered his book carefully, and studied it perseveringly; studied it not only while it was a novelty, but after he had grown familiar with its incidents.

I have dwelt so long upon this subject because the possession of this book at this time had a signal effect in forming Ishmael Worth’s character and directing the current of the boy’s whole future life.  It was one of the first media of his inspiration.  Its heroes, its warriors, and its statesmen were his idols, his models, and his exemplars.  By studying them he became himself high-toned, chivalrous, and devoted.  Through the whole autumn he worked hard all day, upheld with the prospect of returning home at night to—­his poor hut and his silent aunt?—­oh, no, but to the grand stage upon which the Revolutionary struggle was exhibited and to the company of its heroes—­Washington, Putnam, Marion, Jefferson, Hancock, and Henry!  He saw no more for some time of his friends at Brudenell Hall.  He knew that Mr. Middleton had a first-class school at his house, and he envied the privileged young gentlemen who had the happiness to attend it:  little knowing how unenviable a privilege the said young gentlemen considered that attendance and how a small portion of happiness they derived from it.

The winter set in early and severely.  Hannah took a violent cold and was confined to her bed with inflammatory rheumatism.  For many weeks she was unable to do a stroke of work.  During this time of trial Ishmael worked for both—­rising very early in the morning to get the frugal breakfast and set the house in order before going out to his daily occupation of “jobbing” with the professor—­and coming home late at night to get the supper and to split the wood and to bring the water for the next day’s supply.  Thus, as long as his work lasted, he was the provider as well as the nurse of his poor aunt.

But at last there came one of the heaviest falls of snow ever known in that region.  It lay upon the ground for many weeks, quite blocking up the roads, interrupting travel, and of course putting a stop to the professor’s jobbing and to Ishmael’s income.  Provisions were soon exhausted, and there was no way of getting more.  Hannah and Ishmael suffered hunger.  Ishmael bore this with great fortitude.  Hannah also bore it patiently as long as the tea lasted.  But when that woman’s consolation failed she broke down and complained bitterly.

The Baymouth turnpike was about the only passable road in the neighborhood.  By it Ishmael walked on to the village, one bitter cold morning, to try to get credit for a quarter of a pound of tea.

But Nutt would see him hanged first.

Disappointed and sorrowful, Ishmael turned his steps from the town.  He had come about a mile on his homeward road, when something glowing like a coal of fire on the glistening whiteness of the snow caught his eye.