“No, my darling, no.  I love you dearly, my Ishmael.  Only my temper is tried when you run your precious head into the fire, as you did last night.”

“But, Aunt Hannah, Israel Putnam, or Francis—­”

“Now, now, Ishmael—­don’t, dear, don’t!  If you did but know how I hate the sound of those old dead and gone men’s names, you wouldn’t be foreverlasting dinging of them into my ears!” said Hannah nervously.

“Well, Aunt Hannah—­I’ll try to remember not to name them to you again.  But for all that I must follow where they lead me!” said this young aspirant and unconscious prophet.  For I have elsewhere said, what I now with emphasis repeat, that “aspirations are prophecies,” which it requires only faith to fulfill.

Hannah made no reply.  She was busy setting the table for the supper, which the aunt and nephew presently enjoyed with the appreciation only to be felt by those who seldom sit down to a satisfactory meal.

When it was over, and the table was cleared, Hannah, who never lost time, took the bundle of linen, unrolled it, sat down, and commenced sewing.

Ishmael with his book of heroes sat opposite to her.

The plain deal table, scrubbed white as cream, stood between them, lighted by one tallow candle.

“Aunt Hannah,” said the boy, as he watched her arranging her work, “is that easier than weaving?”

“Very much easier, Ishmael.”

“And is it as profitable to you?”

“About twice as profitable, my dear; so, if the lady really can keep me in work all the year round, there will be no need of your poor little wages, earned by your hard labor,” answered Hannah.

“Oh, I didn’t think it hard at all, you see, because Israel Put—­I beg your pardon, Aunt Hannah—­I won’t forget again,” said the boy, correcting himself in time, and returning to the silent reading of his book.

Some time after he closed his book, and looked up.

“Aunt Hannah!”

“Well, Ishmael?”

“You often talk to me of my dear mother in heaven, but never of my father.  Who was my father, Aunt Hannah?”

For all answer Hannah arose and boxed his ears.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

ISHMAEL AND CLAUDIA.

  I saw two children intertwine
    Their arms about each other,
  Like the lithe tendrils of the vine
    Around its nearest brother;
  And ever and anon,
  As gayly they ran on,
  Each looked into the other’s face,
  Anticipating an embrace.

  —­Richard Monckton Milnes.

Punctually at nine o’clock on Monday morning Ishmael Worth rendered himself at Brudenell Hall.  Mr. Middleton’s school was just such a one as can seldom, if ever, be met with out of the Southern States.  Mr. Middleton had been a professor of languages in one of the Southern universities; and by his salary had supported and educated a large family of sons and daughters until the death of a distant relative enriched him with the inheritance of a large funded property.