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. "And now you have hurt his feelings, Claudia; let him alone," whispered the fair child, in a low voice, as the tears of a vague but deep sympathy, felt but not understood, arose to her eyes. Before another word could be said Mrs. Middleton entered the room. "Ah, Bee, so your are making acquaintance with your new schoolmate! This is my oldest daughter, Miss Beatrice, Ishmael. We call her Bee, because it is the abbreviation of Beatrice, and because she is such a busy, helpful little lady," she said, as she shook hands with the boy and patted the little girl on the head. The entrance of the teachers and the day pupils broke up this little group; the children took their seats and the school was opened, as before, with prayer. This morning the tutor led the exercises. Mr. Middleton was absent on business. This day passed much as the previous one, except that at its close there was Claudia to shake hands with Ishmael; to tell him that he was a bright, intelligent boy, and that she was proud of him; and all with the air of a princess rewarding some deserving peasant. CHAPTER XXIX. YOUNG LOVE. Have you been out some starry night, And found it joy to bend Your eyes to one particular light Till it became a friend? And then so loved that glistening spot, That whether it were far, Or more, or less, it mattered not-- It still was your own star? Thus, and thus only, can you know How I, even lowly I, Can live in love, though set so low, And my lady-love no high! --_Richard Monckton Milnes_.