"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."