Part 11 (2/2)

”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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+ning 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.”

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