“Hum, ha, well, but you see, young Ishmael, though I wouldn’t like to say one word to dampen your enthusiasm for great heroism, yet the truth is the truth; and that compels me to say that you do fall down and worship these same said heroes a little too superstitiously.  Why, law, my boy, there wasn’t one of them, at twelve years of age, had any more courage or wisdom than you have—­even if as much.”

“Oh, professor, don’t say that—­don’t! it is almost as bad as anything Aunt Hannah says of them.  Don’t go to compare their great boyhood with mine.  History tells what they were, and I know myself what I am.”

“I doubt if you do, young Ishmael.”

“Yes! for I know that I haven’t even so much as the courage that you think I have; for, do you know, professor, when I was in that burning house I was frightened when I saw the red smoke rolling into the passage and heard the fire roaring so near me?  And once—­I am ashamed to own it, but I will, because I know George Washington always owned his faults when he was a boy—­once, I say, I was tempted to run away and leave the boys to their fate.”

“But you didn’t do it, my lad.  And you were not the less courageous because you knew the danger that you freely met.  You are brave, Ishmael, and as good and wise as you are brave.”

“Oh, professor, I know you believe so, else you wouldn’t say it; but I cannot help thinking that if I really were good I shouldn’t vex Aunt Hannah as often as I do.”

“Humph!” said the professor.

“And then if I were wise, I would always know right from wrong.”

“And don’t you?”

“No, professor; because last night when I ran into the burning house to save the boys I thought I was doing right; and when the ladies so kindly thanked me, I felt sure I had done right; but this morning, when Aunt Hannah scolded me, I doubted.”

“My boy, listen to the oracles of experience.  Do what your own conscience assures you to be right, and never mind what others think or say.  I, who have been your guide up to this time, can be so no longer.  I can scarcely follow you at a distance, much less lead you.  A higher hand than Old Morris’ shall take you on.  But here we are now at the Hall,” said the professor, as he opened the gates to admit himself and his companion.

They passed up the circular drive leading to the front of the house, paused a few minutes to gaze upon the ruins of the burnt wing, of which nothing was now left but a shell of brick walls and a cellar of smoking cinders, and then they entered the house by the servant’s door.

“Mr. Middleton and the Commodore are in the library, and you are to take the boy in there,” said Grainger, who was superintending the clearing away of the ruins.

“Come along, young Ishmael!” said the professor, and as he knew the way of the house quite as well as the oldest servant in it, he passed straight on to the door of the library and knocked.