But Ishmael still was silent—­being bowed down with thought or grief.

Reflect a moment, reader:  At this very instant of time his enemy—­he who had plunged him in this grief—­was in the midst of all the light and music of the ball at Brudenell Hall; but could not enjoy himself, because the stings of conscience irritated him, and because the frowns of Claudia Merlin chilled and depressed him.

Ishmael was out in the comparative darkness and silence of night and nature.  Yet he, too, had his light and music—­light and music more in harmony with his mood than any artificial substitutes could be; he had the holy light of myriads of stars shining down upon him, and the music of myriads of tiny insects sounding around him.  Mark you this, dear reader—­in light and music is the Creator forever worshiped by nature.  When the sun sets, the stars shine; and when the birds sleep, the insects sing!

This subdued light and music of nature’s evening worship suited well the saddened yet exalted mood of our poor boy.  He knew not what was before him, what sort of revelation he was about to invoke, but he knew that, whatever it might be, it should not shake his resolve, “to deal justly, love mercy, and walk humbly” with his God.

Hannah, spoke again: 

“Ishmael, will you answer me—­why have you brought me here?  What have you to say to me so serious as to demand this grave for the place of its hearing?”

“Aunt Hannah,” began the boy, “what I have to say to you is even more solemn than your words import.”

“Ishmael, you frighten me.”

“No, no; there is no cause of alarm.”

“Why don’t you tell me what has brought us here, then?”

“I am about to do so,” said Ishmael solemnly.  “Aunt Hannah, you have often told me that she whose remains lie below us was a saint on earth and is an angel in heaven!”

“Yes, Ishmael.  I have told you so, and I have told you truly.”

“Aunt Hannah, three years ago I asked you who was my father.  You replied by a blow.  Well, I was but a boy then, and so of course you must have thought that that was the most judicious answer you could give.  But now, Aunt Hannah, I am a young man, and I demand of you, Who was my father?”

“Ishmael, I cannot tell you!”

With a sharp cry of anguish the youth sprang up; but governing his strong excitement he subsided to his seat, only gasping out the question: 

“In the name of Heaven, why can you not?”

Hannah’s violent sobs were the only answer.

“Aunt Hannah!  I know this much—­that your name is Hannah Worth; that my dear mother was your sister; that her name was Nora Worth; and that mine is Ishmael Worth!  Therefore I know that I bear yours and my mother’s maiden name!  I always took it for granted that my father belonged to the same family; that he was a relative, perhaps a cousin of my mother, and that he bore the same name, and therefore did not in marrying my mother give her a new one.  That was what I always thought, Aunt Hannah; was I right?”