. No one could have helped laughing at the solemn,
little, pale visage of Ishmael, as he gravely put this question.

"Why, assuredly, my boy. Every hero and martyr in sacred or profane
history would view the matter as the commodore and myself do."

"Oh, then, sir, I am so glad! and indeed, indeed, I will do my very best
to profit by my opportunities, and to show my thankfulness to the
commodore and you," said Ishmael fervently.

"Quite right. I am sure you will. And now, my boy, you may retire," said
Mr. Middleton, kindly giving Ishmael his hand.

Our lad bowed deeply and turned towards the professor, who, with a
sweeping obeisance to all the literary shelves, left the room.

"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