"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.