Ishmael drew aside to let the sleigh pass.
But Mr. Middleton drew up to examine the boy more at his leisure.
The stooping gait, the pale, broad forehead, the hollow eyes, the wasted cheeks and haggard countenance, so sad to see in so young a lad, spoke more eloquently than words could express the famine, the cold, the weariness, and illness he suffered.
"Oh, uncle, if you haven't got a stone in your bosom instead of a heart, you will call the poor fellow here and give him a seat with us! He is hardly able to stand! And it is so bitter cold!" said Miss Claudia, drawing her own warm, sable cloak around her.
"But—he is such an object! His clothes are all over patches," said Mr. Middleton, who liked sometimes to try the spirit of his niece.
"But, uncle, he is so clean! just as clean as you are, or even as I am," said Miss Claudia.
"And he has got a great bag on his back!"
"Well, uncle, that makes it so much harder for him to walk this long, long road, and is so much the more reason for you to take him in. You can put the bag down under your feet. And now if you don't call him here in one minute, I will—so there now! Ishmael! Ishmael, I say! Here, sir! here!" cried the little lady, standing up in the sleigh.
"Ishmael! come here, my boy," called Mr. Middleton.
Our boy came as fast as his weakness and his burden would permit him,