Bee would scarcely have been flesh and blood if she had not indulged in this one hearty cry; but it was the last. She left her mother's side and went about her household duties cheerfully, and very soon she was as happy as if Ishmael had not come and gone; happier, for she followed him in imagination over the ocean and sympathized in his delight. CHAPTER XXIII. HANNAH'S HAPPY PROGNOSTICS. The morn is tip again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the night away with playful scorn, Rejoicing as if earth contained no tomb And glowing into day. --_Byron_. Ishmael had also keenly felt the parting with Beatrice. But accustomed to self-government, he did not permit his feelings to overcome him. And indeed his mind was too well balanced to be much disturbed by what he believed would be but a short separation from his betrothed. He rode on gayly that pleasant winter morning, through the leafless woods, until he came to those cross-roads of which we have so often spoken. Here he paused; for here it was necessary, finally, to decide a question that he had been debating with himself for the last two days. And that was whether or not he should take the time to go to see Hannah and Reuben and bid them good-by, before proceeding on his long journey. To go to Woodside he must take the road through Baymouth, which would carry him some miles out of the direct road to Washington, and consume several hours of that time of which every moment was now so precious. But to leave the country without saying farewell to the friends of his infancy was repugnant to every good feeling of his heart. He did not hesitate long. He turned his horse's head towards Baymouth and put him into a gallop. The horse was fresh, and Ishmael thought he would ride fast until he got to Woodside and then let the horse rest while he talked to Hannah. He rode through Baymouth without drawing rein; only giving a rapid glance of recognition as he passed the broad show-window of Hamlin's bookstore, which used to be the wonder and delight of his destitute boyhood. It was still early in the morning when he reached Woodside and rode up to the cottage gate. How bright and cheerful the cottage looked that splendid winter morning. The evergreen trees around it and the clusters of crimson rose-berries on the climbing rosevines over its porch, making quite a winter verdure and bloom against its white walls. Ishmael dismounted, tied his horse, and entered the little gate. Hannah was standing on the step of the porch, holding a tin pan of chicken food in her hands, and feeding two pet bantams that she kept separate from the shanghais, which beat them cruelly whenever they got a chance. On seeing Ishmael she dropped her pan of victuals and made a dash at him, exclaiming: "Why, Ishmael! Good fathers alive! is this you? And where did you drop from?"