Noll looked upon the little sleeper's face, and then at the wretched surroundings, and was glad for the child's sake that sleep and peace had come at last. Yet his heart was heavy as he looked upon his basket and its now useless contents, and he thought, "Oh, if I had only been more careful last night!--perhaps--perhaps Hagar's medicines could have helped it." He turned to Dirk, saying, quietly,--

"I must go now. I'm--I'm _so_ sorry I was too late!"

The fisherman followed Noll out on to the sand, and, as the boy was about to turn away homeward, took both his hands in one of his own great brown ones, saying,--

"Ye be kinder to me 'an I ken tell ye, lad. I thought yer kind had no heart fur us folk. Bless ye, lad, bless ye!"

Noll's homeward walk seemed somewhat brighter to him, even though he left the child dead behind him. Dirk's grat.i.tude, a small matter though it may have been, gave him a thrill of pleasure. It was pleasant to think that he had one friend among the fish-folk, rough and ignorant though they were. He remembered how, in the little sea-town in which his father had once dwelt, the fishermen came at last to love and respect the kind minister who worked so patiently to raise them out of their slough of ignorance and degradation, and that whenever his father walked among them, they flocked about him to listen to his words and counsel, and watch for his look or smile of approval.

"And," thought Noll, "if Uncle Richard would only do as papa did, what a happy man he would be, and what good he could do for Culm!" But that time--if ever it came--was yet a long, long way off, he thought, and so the people must live on their old, dreary, wretched life till some one taught them better.

The boy walked soberly home, with a great many serious, earnest thoughts in his heart. Somehow, this morning's sight had made another impression upon his mind beside that of sadness and disappointment. He felt and saw that there was a great work to do. Who was to do it?

Hagar met him at the door, rejoicing that he had returned in safety, but, stopping only to tell her that the child was dead, Noll went on to the library. It was the boy's intention to open his heart to his uncle, and tell him of all the want and wretchedness there was at Culm, while the impression was so deep and vivid in his mind; but Trafford sat at the organ and took no notice of his nephew's presence, and, after a long lingering, Noll gave up the attempt for that day, at least.

It was late in the afternoon when he went out for his accustomed walk.

Partly by accident, partly by design, he came to the little place of graves in the frozen sand, and there found the funeral party from the fish-huts just gathering about the shallow resting-place which had been scooped for Dirk's treasure. The huddling crowd of poorly-clad men and women respectfully made way for him, and Dirk looked unutterable thanks for what he considered a great honor. Without a prayer, without a word of consolation, the little one was lowered into the earth amid the wailing of the women, and the shrill and lonely screaming of the fierce and bitter wind.

Noll had never seen anything so unutterably dreary, and when all was over, and the mourners had disappeared over the other side of the Rock, he went home, thinking more deeply than ever of the work to be done, and wondering who was to do it.

CHAPTER XII.

FIRELIGHT TALK.

The warmth and quietness of the library made such a bright and pleasant contrast to the dreary scene in the Culm burying-ground that Noll gave a great sigh of pleasure and relief as he entered the room and found it light and cheerful with the blaze of a brisk fire on the hearth. He sat down in one of the big arm-chairs which stood either side of the fireplace, and held his numbed hands in the warmth, and looked about him, thinking that the old stone house was a palace in comparison with the other Culm habitations. Uncle Richard sat in his usual seat by the window, with his face toward the darkening sea, and, with the dismal scene which he had just witnessed fresh in his mind, Noll felt a tenderer yearning toward the stern man,--feeling, somehow, as if they could not be too near and dear to each other on this lonely Rock, where, just now, it seemed as if there was little else than wretchedness. Perhaps it was this feeling which led the boy to leave his seat and stand by his uncle's chair, and, with one hand on the grim man's shoulder, to say, "Dirk's child is dead, Uncle Richard, and they've just buried it. Oh! what a lonely place to be buried in! I would rather lie in the sea, it seems to me."

Trafford turned suddenly about at these words, exclaiming, "Hush, hush! don't talk about death, boy! What have you been up to that dreary little heap of graves for?"

"Partly to please Dirk,--partly because I wished, Uncle Richard. It's a dismal place! I'm glad enough to get back."

"We shall both sleep there soon enough," said Trafford, who seemed to be in one of his gloomiest moods. "Why go there till we go for the last time?"

Noll's arm went about his uncle's neck. "Don't say such things!" he said. "Perhaps we'll not live here always, Uncle Richard; and, if we do have to be buried up there in the sand, heaven is just as near, after all."

Trafford looked at the boy's face, ruddy and glowing from the long walk in the wind, and sighed,--

"Yes, for you, Noll. But for me,--no, no!"

"Why, Uncle Richard?"

"Because--it is all dark,--dark! I have nothing, see nothing to hope for beyond."

"Why won't you try to hope?" said Noll, softly.

"Hush! it's no use. Your Aunt Marguerite bade me follow after her long ago. I did not try. Your father said almost the same, Noll. Yet here I am,--I have not tried, I see no light, there is no hope for me."

The crackle of the fire and the hoa.r.s.e voice of the sea had the silence all to themselves for a long time. At last Noll said,--

"When papa died, he did not fear at all, Uncle Richard. He said it was only the end of his journey, and that I was to follow on in the same way till I got to him at last. And papa said the truth, Uncle Richard."

"Yes! he never said aught else, Noll,--never!"

"And," continued the boy, his face growing grave, "papa said I was never to forget G.o.d, and never to forget to help any of his creatures if they were in trouble, and, oh! Uncle Richard, I hope I never shall!"

"Ah!" said Trafford, thoughtfully, "your father ever had others'

welfare at heart. I remember, when we were lads, how, one day, in coming from the woods with nuts and grapes, we pa.s.sed a poor creature by the roadside, who seemed fainting with fatigue or hunger. We both laughed at the queer figure at first, and pa.s.sed by merrily, and went on our way; but Noll's face grew graver and graver, I remember, and by and by he would turn about, in spite of me, and go all the long way back to empty his pockets of their pennies and bits of silver into the wanderer's lap. Yes, he had a heart for every unfortunate, and it was not closed against them as he grew older."

Again the room was silent, while the fire flickered and painted flame-shadows on the wall, and lit up the dusky corners with its red glow. Noll sat on the arm of his uncle's chair, and watched the quivering shapes, and, in fancy, went back over the sea to Hastings.

It was something such a night as this, he remembered, that papa had bidden him farewell,--lying so calm and patient in the great south chamber, where people were stepping softly about, and speaking in whispers and sighs. And papa's dear arms had been around him till the last, Noll thought, with his eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g, and seeming yet to feel their gentle pressure; and, as long as it could whisper, the dear voice had breathed love and solemn counsel and fervent prayer into his ears. Back to the boy came the vivid recollection of all the hushed voice had said,--all the injunctions, the earnest entreaties to follow in the path which led only heavenward, and his heart was so full that he longed to cry out, "Papa, papa! If I might only see your face in this dreary place!"

Trafford presently said, speaking his thoughts aloud, "It was an evil day that separated us. G.o.d only knows what I might have been, had I always lived in the sunshine of his pure, warm heart. Why are you so silent, Noll?"

The boy could not trust himself to speak, and Trafford suddenly saw that there were tears shining in his eyes. Noll felt his uncle's hand laid upon his head, and the stern voice said, with all the tenderness of which it was capable,--

"It's a hard life for you, Noll. I can see,--I know it."

"No, no!" said the boy, quickly, "it's not that, Uncle Richard! I was only thinking of--of papa,--that was all."

"What about him?" queried Trafford; "I never knew that you mourned before."

"Why," said Noll, chokingly, "papa told me so much,--so much that he wished me to do and be,--and it all came to me just then, as if he were saying it over again."

"What did he wish you to do and be?" Trafford quietly asked.

"He said that--that I should find Christ's work to do wherever I might be, and that I must do his work and follow him wherever I should go; and--and I'm a long way from that, Uncle Richard; though," Noll added, turning his face away from the shining firelight, "I do try to do it, and not forget him nor his work."

Again Trafford's hand was laid upon the boy's head, this time to stroke his curly locks away from his eyes, where the wind had blown them.

"Did he tell you aught of me?" he asked, presently.

"No,--only that if you ever found me, or I you, that I was to be your boy. Papa said you would care for me."

"He believed in me still! He trusted me!" said Trafford. "Alas! he knew not what a father I should make his child."

Noll slipped off the chair arm, saying, "Don't say that again, Uncle Richard. Papa trusted you,--so do I. And, if you please, will you go out to supper? Hagar called a long time ago. Come, Uncle Richard, don't look so gloomy! Papa smiled even when--when he was saying good-by to me."

The instant these words escaped Noll's lips he half regretted them. He had never before allowed his uncle to know that he thought him sad and gloomy, and he was not quite sure that the careless word would strike agreeably upon his ears. But Trafford only said,--

"Yes, Noll, I know. We will go out to supper," and rose from the chair and followed after his nephew.

The boy did his best to make the meal a cheery one, thinking to himself that this, as much as anything, was a part of the work which papa wished him to do; and, observing his efforts, Trafford endeavored to keep pace with his nephew's cheerful talk. Noll did not go back to the library after tea was over, but followed Hagar out to her kitchen as she went thither with her tray of dishes, and sat down in the cozy corner by the fireplace. Somehow, the boy thought, the old housekeeper's humble kitchen seemed to gather more brightness and cheerfulness into its rough and smoke-tarnished precincts than the great library, with all its comforts and elegancies, ever held. The reason for this he did not seek; he only knew that it was so, and liked the wooden seat in the chimney-corner accordingly. Hagar came out with her last tray-load from the dining-room, and set it down upon the table with,--

"Bress ye, honey, Hagar's glad 'nough to see ye sittin' dar. 'Pears like I never heard de sea shoutin' like it is dis yer ebenin'. Seems as ef all de folks dat de cruel ole monster hab swallered wur jes'

openin' the'r moufs and cryin' 'loud! Hagar t'anks de Lord dat yer ain't in de bottom ob it, honey."