“Your everlastin’ fortin’s made, young Ishmael!  You will learn the classmatics, and all the fine arts; and it depends on yourself alone, whether you do not rise to be a sexton or a clerk!” said the professor, as they went out into the lawn.

They went around to the smoking ruins of the burnt wing, where all the field negroes were collected under the superintendence of the overseer, Grainger, and engaged in clearing away the rubbish.

“I have a hundred and fifty things to do,” said the professor; “but, still, if my assistance is required here it must be given.  Do you want my help, Mr. Grainger?”

“No, Morris, not until the rubbish is cleared away.  Then, I think, we shall want you to put down a temporary covering to keep the cellar from filling with rain until the builder comes,” was the reply.

“Come along, then, young Ishmael; I guess I will not linger here any longer; and as for going over to Mr. Martindale’s, to begin to dig his well to-day, it is too late to think of such a thing.  So I will just walk over home with you, to see how Hannah receives your good news,” said the professor, leading the way rapidly down the narrow path through the wooded valley.

When they reached the hut they found Hannah sitting in her chair before the fire, crying.

In a moment Ishmael’s thin arm was around her neck and his gentle voice in her ear, inquiring: 

“What is the matter?”

“Starvation is the matter, my child!  I cannot weave.  It hurts my arms too much.  What we are to do for bread I cannot tell! for of course the poor little dollar a week that you earn is not going to support us,” said Hannah, sobbing.

Ishmael looked distressed; the professor dismayed.  The same thought occurred to both—­Hannah unable to work, Ishmael’s “poor little dollar a week” would not support them; but yet neither could it be dispensed with, since it would be the only thing to keep them both from famine, and since this was the case, Ishmael would be obliged to continue to earn that small stipend, and to do so he must give up all hopes of going to school—­at least for the present, perhaps forever.  It was a bitter disappointment, but when was the boy ever known to hesitate between right and wrong?  He swallowed his rising tears and kissed his weeping relative saying: 

“Never mind, Aunt Hannah!  Don’t cry; maybe if I work hard I may be able to earn more.”

“Yes; times is brisk; I dare say, young Ishmael will be able to bring you as much as two dollars a week for a while,” chimed in the professor.

Hannah dropped her coarse handkerchief and lifted her weeping face to ask: 

“What did they want with you up at the Hall, my dear?”

“The commodore wanted to send me to school, Aunt Hannah; but it don’t matter,” said Ishmael firmly.

Hannah sighed.

And the professor, knowing now that he should have no pleasure in seeing Hannah’s delight in her nephew’s advancement, since the school plan was nipped in the bud, took up his hat to depart.