All these questions were asked in the same breath by the various individuals of the crowd that had collected around the insensible boy; but none seemed ready with an answer.
"Is there no one here who can tell who he is?" inquired a tall, gray-haired, mild-looking man, stooping to raise the prostrate form.
"Yes; it is Ishmael Worth!" answered Hamlin, the bookseller, who was a newcomer upon the scene.
"Ishmael Worth? Hannah Worth's nephew?"
"Yes; that is who he is."
"Then stand out of the way, friends; I will take charge of the lad," said the gray-haired stranger, lifting the form of the boy in his arms, and gazing into his face.
"He is not hurt; he is only in a dead faint, and I had better take him home at once," continued the old man, as he carried his burden to a light wagon that stood in the street in charge of a negro, and laid him carefully on the cushions. Then he got in himself, and took the boy's head upon his knees, and directed the negro to drive gently along the road leading to the weaver's. And with what infinite tenderness the stranger supported the light form; with what wistful interest he contemplated the livid young face. And so at an easy pace they reached the hill hut.