le more freely streaked with gray than
of yore: that was all the change visible in her personal appearance. But
long continued solitude had rendered her as taciturn and unobservant as
if she had been born deaf and blind.

She had not seen Reuben Gray since that Sunday when Ishmael was
christened and Reuben insisted on bringing the child home, and when, in
the bitterness of her woe and her shame, she had slammed the door in his
face. Gray had left the neighborhood, and it was reported that he had
been promoted to the management of a rich farm in the forest of Prince
George's.

"There is your supper on the hearth, child," she said, without ceasing
her work or turning her head as Ishmael entered.

Hannah was a good aunt; but she was not his mother; if she had been, she
would at least have turned around to look at the boy, and then she would
have seen he was hurt, and would have asked an explanation. As it was
she saw nothing.

And Ishmael was very glad of it. He did not wish to be pitied or
praised; he wished to be left to himself and his own devices, for this
evening at least, when he had such a distinguished guest as his grand
new book to entertain!

Ishmael took up his bowl of mush and milk, sat down, and with a large
spoon shoveled his food down his throat with more dispatch than
delicacy--just as he would have shoveled coal into a cellar. The sharp
cries of a hungry stomach must be appeased, he knew; but with as little
loss of time as possible, particularly when there was a hungry brain
waiting to set to work upon a rich feast already prepared for it!

So in three minutes he put away his bowl and spoon, drew his
three-legged stool to the corner of the fireplace, where he could see to
read, seated himself, opened his packet, and displayed his treasure. It
was a large, thick, octavo volume, bound in stout leather, and filled
with portraits and pictured battle scenes. And on the fly-leaf was
written:

"Presented to Ishmael Worth, as a reward of merit, by his friend
James Middleton."

Ishmael read that with a new accession of pleasure. Then he turned the
leaves to peep at the hidden jewels in this intellectual casket. Then he
closed the book and laid it on his knees and shut his eyes and held his
breath for joy.

He had been enamored of this beauty for months and months. He had fallen
in love with it at first sight, when he had seen its pages open, with a
portrait of George Washington on the right an