“There, there, I know it all as well as if you had expressed it with the eloquence of Cicero, my boy,” said Mr. Middleton.

“Uncle, you are such a good old gander that I would hug and kiss you if I could do so without climbing over aunt,” said Claudia.

“Mr. Middleton, do let us get along a little faster! or we shall not reach home until dark,” said the lady.

“My good, little old wife, it will not be dark this night.  The moon is rising, and between the moon above and the snow beneath, we shall have it as light as day all night.  However, here goes!” And Mr. Middleton touched up his horse and they flew as before the wind.

It was a glorious ride through a glorious scene!  The setting sun was kindling all the western sky into a dazzling effulgence, and sending long golden lines of light through the interstices of the forest on one hand, and the rising moon was flooding the eastern heavens with a silvery radiance on the other.  The sleigh flew as if drawn by winged horses.

“Isn’t it grand, Ishmael?” inquired Claudia.

“Oh, yes, indeed, miss!” responded the boy, with fervor.

In twenty minutes they had reached the turnpike road from which started the little narrow foot-path leading through the forest to the hut.

“Well, my boy, here we are! jump out!  Good-night!  I shall not lose sight of you!” said Mr. Middleton, as he drew up to let Ishmael alight.

“Good-night, sir; good-night, madam; good-night, Miss Claudia.  I thank you more than I can express, sir; but, indeed, indeed, I will try to deserve your kindness,” said Ishmael, as he bowed, and took his pack once more upon his back and sped on through the narrow forest-path that led to his humble home.  His very soul within him was singing for joy.

CHAPTER XXV.

A TURNING POINT IN ISHMAEL’S LIFE.

  There is a thought, so purely blest,
    That to its use I oft repair,
  When evil breaks my spirit’s rest,
    And pleasure is but varied care;
  A thought to light the darkest skies,
    To deck with flowers the bleakest moor,
  A thought whose home is paradise,
    The charities of Poor to Poor.

  —­Richard Monckton Milnes.

Ishmael lifted the latch and entered the hut, softly lest Hannah should have fallen asleep and he should awaken her.

He was right.  The invalid had dropped into one of those soft, refreshing slumbers that often visit and relieve the bed-ridden and exhausted sufferer.

Ishmael closed the door, and moving about noiselessly, placed his treasured book on the bureau; put away his provisions in the cupboard; rekindled the smoldering fire; hung on the teakettle; set a little stand by Hannah’s bedside, covered it with a white napkin and arranged a little tea service upon it; and then drew his little three-legged stool to the fire and sat down to warm and rest his cold and tired limbs, and to watch the teakettle boil.