“My boy,” she said, in a voice shaking with emotion, “my brave, good boy!  I cannot thank you in set words; they would be too poor and weak to tell you what I feel, what we must all ever feel towards you, for what you have done to-night.  But we will find some better means to prove how much we thank, how highly we esteem you.”

Ishmael held down his head, and blushed as deeply as if he had been detected in some mean act and reproached for it.

“You should look up and reply to the madam!” whispered the professor.

Ishmael raised his head and answered: 

“My lady, I’m glad the young gentlemen are saved and you are pleased.  But I do not wish to have more credit than I have a right to; for I feel very sure George Washington wouldn’t.”

“What do you say, Ishmael?  I do not quite understand you,” said the lady.

“I mean, ma’am, as it wasn’t altogether myself as the credit is due to.”

“To whom else, then, I should like to know?” inquired the lady in perplexity.

“Why, ma’am, it was all along of Israel Putnam.  I knew he would have done it, and so I felt as if I was obliged to!”

“What a very strange lad!  I really do not quite know what to make of him!” exclaimed the lady, appealing to the professor for want of a better oracle.

“Why, you see, ma’am, Ishmael is a noble boy and a real hero; but he is a bit of a heathen for all that, with a lot of false gods, as he is everlasting a-falling down and a-worshiping of!  And the names of his gods are Washington, Jefferson, Putnam, Marion, Hancock, Henry, and the lot!  The History of the United States is his Bible, ma’am, and its warriors and statesmen are his saints and prophets.  But by-and-by, when Ishmael grows older, ma’am, he will learn, when he does any great or good action, to give the glory to God, and not to those dead and gone old heroes who were only flesh and blood like himself,” said the professor.

Mrs. Middleton looked perplexed, as if the professor’s explanation itself required to be explained.  And Ishmael, who seemed to think that a confession of faith was imperatively demanded of him, looked anxious—­as if eager, yet ashamed, to speak.  Presently he conquered his shyness, and said: 

“But you are mistaken, professor.  I am not a heathen.  I wish to be a Christian.  And I do give the glory of all that is good and great to the Lord, first of all.  I do honor the good and great men; but I do glorify and worship the Lord who made them.”  And having said this, Ishmael collapsed, hung his head, and blushed.

“And I know he is not a heathen, you horrid old humbug of a professor!  He is a brave, good boy, and I love him!” said Miss Claudia, joining the circle and caressing Ishmael.

But, ah! again it was as if she had caressed Fido, and said that he was a brave, good dog, and she loved him.

“It was glorious in you to risk your life to save those good-for-nothing boys, who were your enemies besides!  It was so!  And it makes my heart burn to think of it!  Stoop down and kiss me, Ishmael!”