Self-Raised; Or, From the Depths. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

it he had traveled, weary and footsore, through the snow, to sell his precious book to buy tea for Hannah.

      And over it he had again flashed in Mr. Middleton's sleigh, happy in the possession of his recovered treasure.

      Twilight was deepening into dark when he reached that point in the road where the little footpath diverged from it and led up to the Hill Hut.

      No! he could not pass this by. The path was wide enough to admit the passage of a horse. He turned up it, and rode on until he came in sight of the hut.

      It was but little changed. It is astonishing how long these little lonely dilapidated houses hold on if let alone.

      He alighted, tied his horse to a tree, and walked up behind the house, where, under the old elm, he saw the low headstone gleaming dimly in the starlight.

      He knelt and bowed his head over it for a little while. Then he arose and stood with folded arms, gazing thoughtfully down upon it. Finally he murmured to himself: "Not here, but risen;" and turned and left the spot.

      He went to the tree where he had tied his horse, remounted, and rode on his way.

      Again he passed down the narrow path leading back to the broad turnpike road that wound around the brow of the hills to Brudenell Hall.

      Here also every yard of the road was redolent of past associations.

      How often, while self-apprenticed to the Professor of Odd Jobs, he had passed up and down this road, carrying a basket of tools behind his master.

      At length he came to the cross-roads, and to the turnstile, where he had once seen and been accosted by the beautiful Countess of Hurstmonceux.

      He rode past this spot, and taking the lower arm of the road entered upon the Brudenell grounds.

      A very short ride brought him to the semi-circular avenue leading to the house.

      It was now quite dark; but the front of the house was lighted up, holding forth, as it were, its hands in welcome.

      As he rode up and dismounted a servant took his horse.

      And as he walked up the front steps Mr. Brudenell came out of the front door and, holding out his hand, said cordially:

      "You are welcome, my dear Ishmael! I received your letter this morning, and have been looking for you all afternoon!"

      "And I am very glad to get here at last, sir," said Ishmael, returning the fervent pressure of his father's hands.

      "Come up, my boy! Felix, go before us with the light to the room prepared for Mr. Worth," he said to a mulatto boy who was waiting in the hall.

      Felix immediately led the way upstairs to a large back room, whose windows overlooked the star-lit, dew-spangled garden, and which Ishmael at once recognized as the happy schoolroom of his boyhood, now transformed into his bedroom. He welcomed the old familiar walls with all his heart; he was glad to be in them.

      Mr. Brudenell himself took care that Ishmael had everything he was likely to want, and then he left him.

      When Ishmael had changed his dress he went below to the drawing room, where he found his father waiting. The late dinner was immediately served.

      Old Jovial, who on account of his age and infirmity had been left to vegetate on the estate, waited on the table.

      He stole wistful glances at the strange young man who was his master's guest, and who somehow or other reminded him of somebody whom he felt he ought to remember, but knew he could not.

      At length Ishmael, attracted by his covert regards, looked at him in return, and in spite of his bowed and shrunken form and thinned and whitened hair, recognized the old friend of his boyhood, and exclaimed, as he offered his hand:

      "Why, Jovial, it is never you!"

      "Mr. Ishmael, sir, it's never you!" returned the old man with a grin of joyful recognition.

      They shook hands then and there.

      And old Jovial showed his increased regard for the guest by continually proffering bread, vegetables, meat, poultry, pepper, salt, in short, everything in succession over and over again, thereby effectually preventing Ishmael from eating his dinner, by compelling his constant attention to these offerings; until at length Mr. Brudenell interfered and brought him to reason.

      The next morning Mr. Brudenell proposed to Ishmael to go out for a day's shooting. And accordingly they took their fowling-pieces, called the dogs and started for the wooded valley where game most abounded.

      They spent the day pleasantly, bagged many birds and returned home to a late dinner; and the evening closed as before.

      "What would you like to do with yourself this morning, Ishmael?" inquired Mr. Brudenell, as they were seated at breakfast on Thursday.

      "I wish to go in search of a valued old friend of mine, known in this neighborhood as the Professor of Odd Jobs," was the reply.

      "Oh, Morris. Yes. You will find him, I fancy, in the old place, just on the edge of the estate," replied Mr. Brudenell.

      And when they arose from the table the latter went out and mounted his horse to ride to the post office, for Herman Brudenell's establishment was now reduced to so small a number of servants that he was compelled to be his own postman. To be plain with you, there were but two servants—old Jovial, who was gardener, coachman, and waiter; and old Dinah, his wife, who was cook, laundress, and chambermaid.

      Felix, the lad mentioned in the beginning of this chapter, was scarcely to be called one, upon account of the mental imbecility that confined his usefulness to such simple duties as running little errands from room to room about the house.

      So Mr. Brudenell rode off to the post office, and Ishmael walked off to the cottage occupied by Jim Morris.

CHAPTER XI.

       Table of Contents

      THE PROFESSOR OF ODD JOBS.

      An ancient man, hoary gray with eld.

      —Dante.

      The little house was situated right at the foot of the hill south of

       Brudenell Hall.

      Ishmael approached it from behind and walked around to the front. He opened the little wooden gate of the front yard and saw seated in the front door, enjoying that early autumn morning, a stalwart old man, whose well-marked features and high forehead were set in a rim of hair and beard as white as snow. A most respectable and venerable-looking form, indeed, though the raiment that clothed it was old and patched. But Ishmael had to look again before he could recognize in this reverend personage the Professor of Odd Jobs.

      A curiosity to know whether the professor would recognize him induced Ishmael to approach him as a stranger. As he came into the yard, however, Morris arose slowly, and, lifting his old felt hat, bowed courteously to the supposed stranger.

      "Your name is Morris, I believe," said Ishmael, by way of opening a conversation.

      But at the first word the professor started and gazed at his visitor, and exclaiming: "Young Ishmael! Oh, my dear boy, how glad I am to see you once more before I die!" burst into tears.

      Ishmael went straight into his embrace, and the old odd-job man pressed the young gentleman to his honest, affectionate heart.

      "You knew me at once, professor," said Ishmael affectionately.

      "Knew you, my boy!" burst out the old man, with enthusiasm. "Why, I knew you as soon as ever you looked at me and spoke to me. I knew you by your steady, smiling eyes and by your rich, sweet voice, young Ishmael. No one has a look and a tone like yours."

      "You think