“Poor hunted hare! she fears even in me a foe!” thought Ishmael, as he walked up to the desk.  She arose and leaned over the desk, looking at him eagerly and inquiringly with those frightened eyes.

And now for the first time Ishmael felt a sense of embarrassment.  A generous, youthful impulse to help the oppressed had hurried him to her presence; but what should he say to her? how apologize for his unsolicited visit? how venture, unauthorized, to intermeddle with her business?

He bowed and laid his card before her.

She snatched it up and read it eagerly.

         ISHMAEL WORTH,
        Attorney-at-Law.

“Ah! you—­I have been expecting this.  You come from my—­I mean Mr. Walsh?” she inquired, palpitating with panic.

“No, madam,” said Ishmael, in a sweet, reassured, and reassuring tone, for compassion for her had restored confidence to him.  “No, madam, I am not the counsel of Mr. Walsh.”

“You—­you come from court, then?  Perhaps you are going to have the writ of habeas corpus, with which I have been threatened, served upon me?  You need not!  I won’t give up my children—­they are my own!  I won’t for twenty writs of habeas corpus,” she exclaimed excitedly.

“But, madam—­” began Ishmael soothingly.

“Hush!  I know what you are going to say; you needn’t say it!  You are going to tell me that a writ of habeas corpus is the most powerful engine the law can bring to bear upon me! that to resist it would be flagrant contempt of court, subjecting me to fine and imprisonment!  I do not care!  I do not care!  I have contempt, a very profound contempt, for any court, or any law, that would try to wrest from a Christian mother the children that she has borne, fed, clothed, and educated all herself, and give them to a man who has totally neglected them all their lives.  Nature is hard enough upon woman, the Lord knows! giving her a weaker frame and a heavier burden than is allotted to man! but the law is harder still—­taking from her the sacred rights with which nature in compensation has invested her!  But I will not yield mine!  There!  Do your worst!  Serve your writ of habeas corpus!  I will resist it!  I will not give up my own children!  I will not bring them into court!  I will not tell you where they are!  They are in a place of safety, thank God! and as for me—­fine, imprison, torture me as much as you like, you will find me rock!” she exclaimed, with her eyes flashing and all her little dark figure bristling with terror and resistance, for all the world like a poor little frightened kitten spluttering defiance at a big dog!

Ishmael did not interrupt her; he let her go on with her wild talk; he had been too long used to poor Hannah’s excitable nerves not to have learned patience with women.

“Yes, you will find me rock—­rock!” she repeated; and to prove how much of a rock she was, the poor little creature dropped her head upon the desk, burst into tears, and sobbed hysterically.