Hannah Worth was sitting over her great wood fire and busily engaged in needlework when the door was gently pushed open and the gray-haired man entered, bearing the boy in his arms.
Hannah looked calmly up, then threw down her work and started from her chair, exclaiming:
"Reuben Gray! you back again! you! and—who have you got there—Ishmael? Good Heavens! what has happened to the poor boy?"
"Nothing to frighten you, Hannah, my dear; he has fainted, I think, that is all," answered Reuben gently, as he laid the boy carefully upon the bed.
"But, oh, my goodness, Reuben, how did it happen? where did you find him?" cried Hannah, frantically seizing first one hand and then the other of the fainting boy, and clapping and rubbing them vigorously.
"I picked him up on the Baymouth wharf about half an hour ago, Hannah, my dear, and—"
"The Baymouth wharf! that is out of all reason! Why it is not more than two hours since he started to go to Brudenell Hall," exclaimed Hannah, as she violently rubbed away at the boy's hands.
Reuben was standing patiently at the foot of the bed, with his hat in his hands, and he answered slowly:
"Well, Hannah, I don't know how that might be; but I know I picked him up where I said."
"But what caused all this, Reuben Gray? What caused it? that's what I want to know! can't you speak?" harshly demanded the woman, as she flew to her cupboard, seized a vinegar cruet, and began to bathe Ishmael's head and face with its stimulating contents.