and the child fell, and in which they suffered and struggled to keep
soul and body together for years and years.

It is wonderful how long life may be sustained under the severest
privations. Ishmael suffered the extremes of hunger and cold; yet he did
not starve or freeze to death; he lived and grew in that mountain hut as
pertinaciously as if he had been the pampered pet of some royal nursery.

At first Hannah did not love him. Ah, you know, such unwelcome children
are seldom loved, even by their parents. But this child was so patient
and affectionate, that it must have been an unnatural heart that would
not have been won by his artless efforts to please. He bore hunger and
cold and weariness with baby heroism. And if you doubt whether there is
any such a thing in the world as "baby heroism", just visit the nursery
hospitals of New York, and look at the cheerfulness of infant sufferers
from disease.

Ishmael was content to sit upon the floor all day long, with his big
eyes watching Hannah knit, sew, spin, or weave, as the case might be.
And if she happened to drop her thimble, scissors, spool of cotton, or
ball of yarn, Ishmael would crawl after it as fast as his feeble little
limbs would take him, and bring it back and hold it up to her with a
smile of pleasure, or, if the feat had been a fine one, a little laugh
of triumph. Thus, even before he could walk, he tried to make himself
useful. It was his occupation to love Hannah, and watch her, and crawl
after anything she dropped and restore it to her. Was this such a small
service? No; for it saved the poor woman the trouble of getting up and
deranging her work to chase rolling balls of yarn around the room. Or
was it a small pleasure to the lonely old maid to see the child smile
lovingly up in her face as he tendered her these baby services? I think