a new-made grave, and yet you tremble at a friend's touch? Take heart,
child, and tell me what is your name and where is your home."

"Friend," replied the little boy, in a sweet though faltering voice,
"they call me Ilbrahim, and my home is here."

The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle with the
moonlight, the sweet, airy voice and the outlandish name almost made
the Puritan believe that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung
up out of the grave on which he sat; but perceiving that the
apparition stood the test of a short mental prayer, and remembering
that the arm which he had touched was lifelike, he adopted a more
rational supposition. "The poor child is stricken in his intellect,"
thought he, "but verily his words are fearful in a place like this."
He then spoke soothingly, intending to humor the boy's fantasy:

"Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim, this cold autumn
night, and I fear you are ill-provided with food. I am hastening to a
warm supper and bed; and if you will go with me, you shall share
them."

"I thank thee, friend, but, though I be hungry and shivering with
cold, thou wilt not give me food nor lodging," replied the boy, in the
quiet tone which despair had taught him even so young. "My father was
of the people whom all men hate; they have laid him under this heap of
earth, and here is my home."

The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim's hand, relinquished
it as if he were touching a loathsome reptile. But he possessed a
compassionate heart which not even religious prejudice could harden