Ishmael's Progress

Athwart his face when blushes pass
To be so poor and weak,
He falls into the dewy grass,
To cool his fevered cheek;
And hears a music strangely made,
That you have never heard,
A sprite in every rustling blade,
That sings like any bird!

--Monckton Milnes.

Meanwhile on that fresh, dewy, moonlight summer evening, along the
narrow path leading through the wood behind the hut, Ishmael limped--the
happiest little fellow, despite his wounds and bruises, that ever lived.
He was so happy that he half suspected his delight to be all unreal, and
feared to wake up presently and find it was but a dream, and see the
little black-eyed girl, the ride in the carriage, and, above all, the
new "Illustrated History of the United States" vanish into the land of
shades.

In this dazed frame of mind he reached the hut and opened the door.

The room was lighted only by the blazing logs of a wood fire, which the
freshness of the late August evening on the hills made not quite
unwelcome.

The room was in no respect changed in the last twelve years. The
well-cared-for though humble furniture was still in its old position.

Hannah, as of old, was seated at her loom, driving the shuttle back and
forth with a deafening clatter. Hannah's face was a little more sallow
and wrinkled, and her hair a little 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.