"What plans have you made for winter about your school, my boy?"

A sudden look of surprise flitted over the boy's face ere he answered, "I haven't made any, Uncle Richard. I can't, you see, because the days will be so short that I'm afraid there'll not be time after my recitations. And there's no stove nor fireplace in the room, and not much of anything comfortable. But I'm going to try, though," he added, hopefully.

Trafford was silent and thoughtful for a long time. At last he said, "What would you say if I forbade you to continue your school through the winter?"

"I don't think you'll say that, Uncle Richard," said Noll,--not very confidently, however. "I should be very sorry to give it up now."

"Even if I thought it best?"

Noll could not deny but that he should. "They're just beginning to learn," he said, "and it would be too bad for them to lose all they have gained. Don't you really think so, too, Uncle Richard?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: Culm Rock.]

Trafford made no reply to this question, but, when he spoke again, said, "Not even if another teacher filled your place, Noll?"

The boy's tongue was silent with wonder and astonishment. Then, thinking his ears had deceived him, he said, "Why--why--what did you say, Uncle Richard?"

"I asked you," said Trafford, "whether you would be willing to give up the school if another teacher took your place?"

The warm, eager color rushed into Noll's face, and he cried, "Do you mean that--that--a teacher might take my place, Uncle Richard? Do you really mean it? Were you in earnest, and shall I answer?"

"To be sure," said his uncle, gravely enough.

"Oh, Uncle Richard!" cried Noll, "I _knew_ the time would come some day! I knew it! I knew it! And will you hire a teacher for those Culm children? Was that what you meant?"

"I do not know that they need two," said Trafford.

"Yes, I'll give up the school this minute!" said Noll, remembering that he had not answered his uncle's question; "I'm willing to, if the children can only have a teacher. Oh, but it seems too good to be true! And are you really going to hire some one to take my place?"

"I have hardly thought yet; you must not press questions upon me too fast. I do not know my own mind."

Hagar heard their voices, and came around the piazza corner to say, "Tea hab been waitin' fur ye dis yer whole hour, Mas'r d.i.c.k, an'

'tain't growin' better, nohow. Will ye hab it wait any longer?"

"No, we're coming, shortly," said Trafford, and presently they went in to tea, for which Noll had not the least appet.i.te, in spite of his long walk,--it being quite driven away by the question which his uncle had put to him,--and he spent most of the meal-time in taking keen and watchful looks at Uncle Richard's face, to see when it began to cloud over with gloom and grow stern and moody again. But the shadow which he so much dreaded did not make its appearance, and from the supper-table they went to the library, where Hagar had lit the lamp, Noll feeling wonderfully happy and quite sure that this was the eve of a brighter day for Uncle Richard and the Culm people.

Contrary to his usual habit, Trafford did not take up his books on reaching the library, but sat looking thoughtfully at Noll, and at last, as if speaking his thoughts aloud, he said,--

"If a new teacher comes, a new schoolroom will have to follow, as a matter of consequence; and those two rough benches which I saw over at Culm are hardly the best style of school furniture. And how is it about books?"

"There are none but primers and leaves from old spelling-books," said Noll, sitting very still and quiet with delight at hearing Uncle Richard ask such questions. It all seemed like a dream, and not at all a matter of reality. What could have come across the man's feelings so suddenly and with such effect?

Trafford resumed his inquiries after a short silence, and little by little drew from his nephew the whole story of the school's commencement, and what drawbacks the lack of a good room, with seats and desks and the necessary books, were, till he had made himself acquainted with all the needs of the school. He talked with Noll about the Culm people, and listened to the boy's hopeful and enthusiastic account of their slight improvement, with something that was very like interest. But the school seemed to interest him most. He proposed that a teacher be sent for to take charge of the school during the winter, and that the best room which could be found among the houses be fitted up as a schoolroom, and as nicely and warmly as possible. The teacher and the furniture would have to come from Hastings, and most likely a carpenter would be needed. Noll thought of John Sampson at once.

So the evening pa.s.sed away in planning and discussion, and when Noll went to bed, it seemed as if all the events of the afternoon and evening were but phases of a happy dream, which morning light would banish as unreal. His thankfulness for this token of dawn, after the long, black, weary night of gloom through which he had struggled, could not find words enough in which to praise G.o.d for this promise of brighter days. He prayed that it might not be fleeting, and that morning might not show this gleam of brightness to be only imaginary.

But the morrow came, and proved yesterday's events to be real and true, and Uncle Richard still without his stern and gloomy face, and ready to perfect the plans which they had discussed the previous evening.

One day after another pa.s.sed, till Noll began to be certain that Uncle Richard's gloom and moroseness had departed from him forever.

The boy wondered and surmised, but could not account for this sudden disappearance of the shadow. What had wrought the change so suddenly?

Would it last alway? True, Uncle Richard was not cheerful yet, and he seemed to be carrying some heavy grief or sorrow about with him; but from his face the grimness and gloominess were gone, and Noll was sure that there must be some little change in his heart, else he would not care for the welfare of these Culm children.

A week or two elapsed before this new plan was put in operation, or rather before anything was done toward carrying it out. The skipper was hardly the person to intrust with the care of finding a teacher and looking up school-books, and for a time they were in doubt and perplexity. Then Noll proposed--what he had long been wishing--to go to Hastings himself, and find such a teacher as was needed, procure the suitable books and furniture, and bring John Sampson back with him. It would require but a week's absence, and in that time all the business could be done, and some happy days be spent with Ned Thorn and old friends.

Trafford hesitated a long time. Who could tell what peril the boy might be in while crossing the sea? How could he lose him now? And, when once in the charmed circle of old friends and a.s.sociations, would he not dislike to return to gray and barren Culm Rock? But Noll went.

CHAPTER XXI.

IN PERIL OF THE SEA.

The day had dawned clear and brilliant, but as the afternoon waned, a gray curtain of ragged cloud slowly rose and hid the sun, and brought an early nightfall. The wind was strong, and the sea--calm and silvery but a few hours before--began to toss and thunder heavily. Hagar came from the pine woods with a great basket of cones, just as the early dusk began to settle over the windy sea and to wrap the forest in heavy shadow, and as the old woman crossed the narrow bar of sand which connected Culm Rock with the main-land, the wind swept over in such strong gusts, and with such blinding sheets of spray, that her safety was more than once endangered. But she reached the firm, unyielding Rock, with no worse misfortune than a drenching befalling her, and made her way to the warm and comfortable precincts of her kitchen, with many e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of delight and thankfulness. The first sound which greeted her ears on entering was the long-drawn, solemn voice of the organ.

"Wonder what Mas'r d.i.c.k's got on his heart dis yer night?" she muttered, bustling about to prepare supper; "'tain't sech music as dat yer organ make lately. 'Pears like somethin' was de matter, anyhow."

She prepared supper in the dining-room, muttering to herself about the lonesomeness and silence of the house since "Mas'r Noll dun gone off;"

and when the solitary meal was in readiness, put her head in at the library-door and called her master to tea. When she had got back to her kitchen, and was standing in the open door, her grizzled head thrust out into the gathering gloom and tempest to watch the progress of the storm, she noticed that the music did not cease, but kept on in its slow and solemn measure, rising and falling and stealing plaintively in.

"Something's de matter, sure," Hagar said, turning about and shutting the door; "dat ain't de kind of music dat Mas'r d.i.c.k's made lately.

'Pears like he's 'stressed 'bout somethin'! But, Hagar, ye can't do nuffin but jes' trust de Lord, nohow. Ye'd better get yer own supper, ef yer Mas'r d.i.c.k don't tech his."

She ate her supper and washed the dishes, and gave the little kitchen a stroke or two with her broom, and yet the music from the library came stealing in as sad-voiced and heavy as ever.

"'Pears as if he'd never eat his supper," Hagar grumbled; "de chile can't live on music, allers, nohow. Reckon he'll nebber hab much sperits till he eats more. But jes' stop yer talkin', chile, ye can't do nuffin' but trust de Lord."

By and by the wandering notes ceased, and in the deep silence there came up the hoa.r.s.e and awful roar of the surf, with the wailing of the wind over the chimney, and filled the house with their echoes. Hagar heaped wood on the fire, drew her little low chair nearer the light and gladsome blaze, shivering and muttering as she did so. She had a great dread of cold and darkness, and the deep hush, broken by the clamor of the sea, made her afraid.

"De Lord's about," said she, drawing her old woollen shawl close around her; "de Lord's on de sea, an' 'pears like n.o.body need be feared when he holds it in his hand like as I holds dis yer silber ob Mas'r Noll's dat he lost under de rug in de dinin'-room,"--looking down at the shining coin which she had picked up that morning, and wondering where the boy was at that moment. "'Pears as ef de sunshine had been hid de whole time sence he went off to de city," she muttered, gazing in the coals. "Wonder ef Mas'r d.i.c.k misses him?

Wonder ef dis yer ole woman won't be tickled 'nuff to see him when de day comes? Ki! Hagar, ye knows ye will."

The roar of the sea and the cry of the wind came in again, more lonesome, sadder than ever. The old negress shivered, peered about her into the dark corners of the kitchen, and crooned to herself,--a wild, monotonous air, set to words which came to her lips for the occasion:--

"Oh, Hagar, don't ye know De Lord's on de sea?

He rides on de waves, And de wind is in his hand,-- De Lord keeps dem all!

What ye feared of, Hagar? Kase, don't ye know de Lord's in it? 'Pears like ye done forget dat de whole time--Now!" and she broke into her rhymeless chant again. It was only a way she had got of setting her thoughts to music, drawing the words out very slowly, and weaving to and fro the while. When she had repeated her first lines, she kept on with her thoughts, peering over her shoulder at the flickering shadows which the fire cast on the wall behind her, shivering with awe at the clamor without, and chanting, waveringly,--

"Oh, Hagar, don't ye know De Lord's on de sea?

De wind blows, an' de sky is dark, An' de sea _cries like a little chile_, An' de boats will be blowed away; But de Lord is good, an' mornin' will come, An', oh, Hagar, sing hallelujah!

Fur de Lord is in it all!"

Here she stopped her chanting, and began to sing "Hallelujah!" softly, ceasing her swaying, to look into the coals. The fire burned down to rosy embers, in which little blue-tongued flames darted up fitfully,--anon lighting up the room brilliantly, then dying away and leaving it almost in darkness,--while Hagar's crooning died away to a whisper. A little gray light still shone in at the kitchen-window, but it was fast flitting. The roar of the sea became thunder, the wind grew tempestuous. By and by the rain began to fall, sounding strangely soft and still, when compared with the din of wind and waves.

"G.o.d bress us!" said Hagar, "dis yer is an awful night. Keep de boats off de Rock, Lord, and pity de sailors in dis yer awful storm!"

The old woman knew how the sea must look now,--yeasty, horrible, its white wave-caps shining through the darkness and hurrying to topple over and thunder against the rocks. To her, as she sat crouched before the fire, it seemed to howl and scream and mourn hoa.r.s.ely, like some great voice rending the night with lamentation.