Ishmael; Or, In the Depths. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

the interdicted subject; on the contrary, it left her all the more opportunity to do so, until they all three reached the door of the hill hut, where Reuben Gray bade them good-night.

CHAPTER III.

       Table of Contents

      PASSION.

      If we are nature's, this is ours—this thorn

       Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;

       It is the show and seal of nature's truth

       When love's strong passion is impressed in youth.

       —Shakspere.

      What a contrast! the interior of that poor hut to all the splendors they had left! The sisters both were tired, and quickly undressed and went to bed, but not at once to sleep.

      Hannah had the bad habit of laying awake at night, studying how to make the two ends of her income and her outlay meet at the close of the year, just as if loss of rest ever helped on the solution to that problem!

      Nora, for her part, lay awake in a disturbance of her whole nature, which she could neither understand nor subdue! Nora had never read a poem, a novel, or a play in her life; she had no knowledge of the world; and no instructress but her old maiden sister. Therefore Nora knew no more of love than does the novice who has never left her convent! She could not comprehend the reason why after meeting with Herman Brudenell she had taken such a disgust at the rustic beaus who had hitherto pleased her; nor yet why her whole soul was so very strangely troubled; why at once she was so happy and so miserable; and, above all, why she could not speak of these things to her sister Hannah. She tossed about in feverish excitement.

      "What in the world is the matter with you, Nora? You are as restless as a kitten; what ails you?" asked Hannah.

      "Nothing," was the answer.

      Now everyone who has looked long upon life knows that of all the maladies, mental or physical, that afflict human nature, "nothing" is the most common, the most dangerous, and the most incurable! When you see a person preoccupied, downcast, despondent, and ask him, "What is the matter?" and he answers, "Nothing," be sure that it is something great, unutterable, or fatal! Hannah Worth knew this by instinct, and so she answered:

      "Nonsense, Nora! I know there is something that keeps you awake; what is it now?"

      "Really—and indeed it is nothing serious; only I am thinking over what we have seen to-day!"

      "Oh! but try to go to sleep now, my dear," said Hannah, as if satisfied.

      "I can't; but, Hannah, I say, are you and Reuben Gray engaged?"

      "Yes, dear."

      "How long have you been engaged?"

      "For more than twelve years, dear."

      "My—good—gracious—me—alive! Twelve years! Why on earth don't you get married, Hannah?"

      "He cannot afford it, dear; it takes everything he can rake and scrape to keep his mother and his little brothers and sisters, and even with all that they often want."

      "Well, then, why don't he let you off of your promise?"

      "Nora!—what! why we would no sooner think of breaking with each other than if we had been married, instead of being engaged all these twelve years!"

      "Well, then, when do you expect to be married?"

      "I do not know, dear; when his sisters and brothers are all grown up and off his hands, I suppose."

      "And that won't be for the next ten years—even if then! Hannah, you will be an elderly woman, and he an old man, before that!"

      "Yes, dear, I know that; but we must be patient; for everyone in this world has something to bear, and we must accept our share. And even if it should be in our old age that Reuben and myself come together, what of that? We shall have all eternity before us to live together; for, Nora, dear, I look upon myself as his promised wife for time and eternity. Therefore, you see there is no such thing possible as for me to break with Reuben. We belong to each other forever, and the Lord himself knows it. And now, dear, be quiet and try to sleep; for we must rise early to-morrow to make up by industry for the time lost to-day; so, once more, good-night, dear."

      Nora responded to this good-night, and turned her head to the wall—not to sleep, but to muse on those fiery, dark-brown eyes that had looked such mysterious meanings into hers, and that thrilling deep-toned voice that had breathed such sweet praise in her ears. And so musing, Nora fell asleep, and her reverie passed into dreams.

      Early the next morning the sisters were up. The weather had changed with the usual abruptness of our capricious climate. The day before had been like June. This day was like January. A dark-gray sky overhead, with black clouds driven by an easterly wind scudding across it, and threatening a rain storm.

      The sisters hurried through their morning work, got their frugal breakfast over, put their room in order, and sat down to their daily occupation—Hannah before her loom, Nora beside her spinning-wheel. The clatter of the loom, the whir of the wheel, admitted of no conversation between the workers; so Hannah worked, as usual, in perfect silence, and Nora, who ever before sung to the sound of her humming wheel, now mused instead. The wind rose in occasional gusts, shaking the little hut in its exposed position on the hill.

      "How different from yesterday," sighed Nora, at length.

      "Yes, dear; but such is life," said Hannah. And there the conversation ended, and only the clatter of the loom and the whir of the wheel was heard again, the sisters working on in silence. But hark! Why has the wheel suddenly stopped and the heart of Nora started to rapid beating?

      A step came crashing through the crisp frost, and a hand was on the door-latch.

      "It is Mr. Brudenell! What can he want here?" exclaimed Hannah, in a tone of impatience, as she arose and opened the door.

      The fresh, smiling, genial face of the young man met her there. His kind, cordial, cheery voice addressed her: "Good morning, Hannah! I have been down to the bay this morning, you see, bleak as it is, and the fish bite well! See this fine rock fish! will you accept it from me? And oh, will you let me come in and thaw out my half-frozen fingers by your fire? or will you keep me standing out here in the cold?" he added, smiling.

      "Walk in, sir," said Hannah, inhospitably enough, as she made way for him to enter.

      He came in, wearing his picturesque fisherman's dress, carrying his fishing-rod over his right shoulder, and holding in his left hand the fine rock fish of which he had spoken. His eyes searched for and found Nora, whose face was covered with the deepest blushes.

      "Good morning, Nora! I hope you enjoyed yourself yesterday. Did they take care of you after I left?" he inquired, going up to her.

      "Yes, thank you, sir."

      "Mr. Brudenell, will you take this chair?" said Hannah, placing one directly before the fire, and pointing to it without giving him time to speak another word to Nora.

      "Thank you, yes, Hannah; and will you relieve me of this fish?"

      "No, thank you, sir; I think you had better take it up to the madam," said Hannah bluntly.

      "What! carry this all the way from here to Brudenell, after bringing it from the bay? Whatever are you thinking of, Hannah?" laughed the young man, as he stepped outside for a moment and hung the fish on a nail in the wall. "There it is, Hannah," he said, returning and taking his seat at the fire; "you can use it or throw it away, as you like."

      Hannah made no reply to this; she did not wish to encourage him either to talk or to prolong his stay. Her very expression of countenance was cold and repellent almost to rudeness. Nora saw this and sympathized with him, and blamed her sister.

      "To