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
week" would not support them; but yet neither could it be dispensed
with, since it would be the only thing to keep them both from famine,
and since this was the case, Ishmael would be obliged to continue to
earn that small stipend, and to do so he must give up all hopes of going
to school--at least for the present, perhaps forever. It was a bitter
disappointment, but when was the boy ever known to hesitate between
right and wrong? He swallowed his rising tears and kissed his weeping
relative saying: "Never mind, Aunt Hannah! Don't cry; maybe if I work hard I may be able
to earn more."
"Yes; times is brisk; I dare say, young Ishmael will be able to bring
you as much as two dollars a week for a while," chimed in the professor.
Hannah dropped her coarse handkerchief and lifted her weeping face to
ask: "What did they want with you up at the Hall, my dear?"
"The commodore wanted to send me to school, Aunt Hannah; but it don't
matter," said Ishmael firmly.
Hannah sighed.
And the professor, knowing now that he should have no pleasure in seeing
Hannah's delight in her nephew's advancement, since the school plan was
nipped in the bud, took up his hat to depart.