Wondering at the deep gravity of his words and manner, Hannah allowed him to draw her out of the house and up the hill behind it to Nora's grave at the foot of the old oak tree. It was a fine, bright, starlight night, and the rough headstone, rudely fashioned and set up by the professor, gleamed whitely out from the long shadowy grass. Ishmael sank down upon the ground beside the grave, put his arms around the headstone, and for a space bowed his head. Hannah seated herself upon a fragment of rock near him. But both remained silent for a few minutes. It was Hannah who broke the spell. "Ishmael, my dear," she said, "why have you drawn me out here, and what have you to say to me of such a serious nature that it can be uttered only here?" But Ishmael still was silent--being bowed down with thought or grief. Reflect a moment, reader: At this very instant of time his enemy--he who had plunged him in this grief--was in the midst of all the light and music of the ball at Brudenell Hall; but could not enjoy himself, because the stings of conscience irritated him, and because the frowns of Claudia Merlin chilled and depressed him. Ishmael was out in the comparative darkness and silence of night and nature. Yet he, too, had his light and music--light and music more in harmony with his mood than any artificial substitutes could be; he had the holy light of myriads of stars shining down upon him, and the music of myriads of tiny insects sounding around him. Mark you this, dear reader--in light and music is the Creator forever worshiped by nature. When the sun sets, the stars shine; and when the birds sleep, the insects sing! This subdued light and music of nature's evening worship suited well the saddened yet exalted mood of our poor boy. He knew not what was before him, what sort of revelation he was about to invoke, but he knew that, whatever it might be, it should not shake his resolve, "to deal justly, love mercy, and walk humbly" with his God. Hannah, spoke again: "Ishmael, will you answer me--why have you brought me here? What have you to say to me so serious as to demand this grave for the place of its hearing?" "Aunt Hannah," began the boy, "what I have to say to you is even more solemn than your words import." "Ishmael, you frighten me." "No, no; there is no cause of alarm." "Why don't you tell me what has brought us here, then?" "I am about to do so," said Ishmael solemnly. "Aunt Hannah, you have often told me that she whose remains lie below us was a saint on earth and is an angel in heaven!" "Yes, Ishmael. I have told you so, and I have told you truly." "Aunt Hannah, three years ago I asked you who was my father. You replied by a blow. Well, I was but a boy then, and so of course you must have thought that that was the most judicious answer you could give. But now, Aunt Hannah, I am a young man, and I demand of you, Who was my father?" "Ishmael, I cannot tell you!"