"Look at him, can't you? he won't bite you!" said Miss Claudia.
Ishmael felt reassured by the very shyness of the little new acquaintance that was being forced upon him, and he said, very gently:
"I will not frighten you, little girl; I am not a rude boy."
"I know you will not; it is not that," murmured the little maiden, encouraged by the sweet voice, and stealing a glance at the gentle, intellectual countenance of our lad.
"There, now, does he look like a laborer's son?" inquired Claudia.
"No," murmured Bee.
"But he is, for all that! He is the son of—of—I forget; but some relation of Hannah Worth, the weaver. Who was your father, Ishmael? I never heard—or if I did I have forgotten. Who was he?"
Ishmael's face grew crimson. Yet he could not have told, because he did not know, why this question caused his brow to burn as though it had been smitten by a red-hot iron.
"Who was your father, I ask you, Ishmael?" persisted the imperious little girl.
"I do not remember my father, Miss Claudia," answered the boy, in a low, half-stifled voice.