A Turning Point in Ishmael's Life

There is a thought, so purely blest,
That to its use I oft repair,
When evil breaks my spirit's rest,
And pleasure is but varied care;
A thought to light the darkest skies,
To deck with flowers the bleakest moor,
A thought whose home is paradise,
The charities of Poor to Poor.

--Richard Monckton Milnes.

Ishmael lifted the latch and entered the hut, softly lest Hannah should
have fallen asleep and he should awaken her.

He was right. The invalid had dropped into one of those soft, refreshing
slumbers that often visit and relieve the bed-ridden and exhausted
sufferer.

Ishmael closed the door, and moving about noiselessly, placed his
treasured book on the bureau; put away his provisions in the cupboard;
rekindled the smoldering fire; hung on the teakettle; set a little stand
by Hannah's bedside, covered it with a white napkin and arranged a
little tea service upon it; and then drew his little three-legged stool
to the fire and sat down to warm and rest his cold and tired limbs, and
to watch the teakettle boil.

Poor child! His feeble frame had been fearfully over-tasked, and so the
heat of the fire and the stillness of the room, both acting upon his
exhausted nature, sent him also to sleep, and he was soon nodding.

He was aroused by the voice of Hannah, who had quietly awakened.

"Is that you, Ishmael?" she said.

"Yes, aunt," he exclaimed, starting up with a jerk and rubbing his eyes;
"and I have got the tea and things; and the kettle is boiling; but I
thought I wouldn't set the tea to draw until you woke up, for fear it
should be flat."