ichard Trafford was a man of forty; but his hair was tinged with gray, and grief and wretchedness had worn heavy lines in his face. As he sat in the library this September afternoon, looking up at the portrait on the wall, he seemed almost an old man. The room was wide and high, with tall oaken bookcases at either end. Two great windows, before one of which he sat, looked out upon the sea and the white line of foam curling upon the sand. The waves were but mere ripples this calm afternoon, but from the shore there came up a ceaseless, steady murmur that made itself heard in the quiet of the room; and by and by Trafford's eyes turned from the calm face above him and looked out seaward. White and shining lay the vast expanse, with here and there the faint film of a sail upon the horizon. Nothing to be seen but water and the great dome of sky and the little spit of yellow sand where the tide was murmuring. How many sunny afternoons he had thus looked out upon the sea, vast and gleaming! How many lonely afternoons and long, weary nights he had listened to the slow chanting of the tide, watched it creep up the sand with its puffs of thick foam, watched it as it slowly receded and left its burden of weed and shell behind! Flowing and ebbing forever, alway at its work, in and out, in and out, through storm and shine, through night and day, it seemed to mock his own idle, useless life, and reproach him with its never silent voice. Of what use, he wondered as he sat there, was such a life as his? To-morrow the tide would be at its work again, the ships go on, the sun shine warm and bright over all,—and he? For him to-morrow would be but the repetition of to-day; the same dragging hours, the same apathetic poring over books, the same half-hours at the organ with the music-books, playing sad melodies which accorded well with his own sombre feelings. He looked up at the portrait and sighed; remembered the dear one's dying words, and thought, "I might have found Him once; but it's too late now. All that passed away a long time ago, and now,—it's only to plod on and on, year in and year out, till the end." And what then?

There came a soft rap at the door.

"Come in, Hagar," said he, heavily, without taking his eyes off the sea; and then the door was pushed open, and a head, surmounted by a great yellow turban, looked in.

"Somethin' fur you, Mas'r Dick," said the owner of the turban, without coming in, however.

"What is it?" said Trafford, abstractedly.

The door opened wider, and the old housekeeper entered. She was bent and thin, with great wrinkles in her forehead and face, and wherever a tuft of wool peeped out from under the fanciful headgear, it showed quite gray; but her step was quick and firm as she went across the floor to the figure by the great window.

"A letter, Mas'r Dick," said she, standing by Trafford's chair; "dat yer old skipper brought it. Said he brung it straight from de city."

"Ben Tate?" asked the master.

Hagar nodded assent. "Said ye was to hev it dis yer afternoon, sure," said she; "'twa'n't no letter to be lyin' 'round in dem Culm huts, so he cum up here wid it hisself. Be it frum Hastings, Mas'r Dick?"

Hagar had lived in the Trafford family from childhood, and Richard had grown up to manhood under her eyes, had married, and she went to live with the young people. She had seen the wife fade and die, and the husband grow stern and gloomy, and out of solicitude and affection had clung faithfully to him through all fortunes. It would seem, to hear her talk, that she never had quite realized that Richard Trafford, the man of forty, was any other than "Mas'r Dick," the boy whose smartness at school, and whose popularity among his companions, had always been her boast and pride. Gray and worn he was getting, gloomy, sad, even harsh at times to her, yet he was only "Mas'r Dick," and her own little boy, for whom she must watch and care to the best of her ability. Now, as she queried where the letter might be from, she dropped down in a chair a little way from him, and waited till he should see fit to answer her question; for could there be a paradise on earth, it would have been represented to Hagar by Hastings,—that great city where their old home had been, where her own childhood had been spent, and where all the friends of her kin and color dwelt. It was a hard matter to tear herself away from them all and follow Richard Trafford to dreary Culm Rock; but, with some tears and sighing, she had said to her people, "Yer don't know nuffin about it. Ye habn't got any 'Mas'r Dick;' so how ken ye? 'Tain't in dis yer old heart to let de chile go off sufferin' all by hisself, now! Bress de Lord, I'll stick to de poor boy, an' keep him frum jes' worryin' his life out." So here she was in her old age, away from all her people, yet happy because it was to serve "Mas'r Dick."

Trafford took up the letter,—a large, thick one, bearing the marks of the skipper's great fingers on its envelope, and smelling of fish, as if it had performed its journey in company with herring and cod,—and said, "Yes, Hagar; it's from Hastings, of course."

The old housekeeper lingered, looked at the master in hopes that he would bid her stay, and then, as he tore open the letter with a moody face, went slowly out, closing the door softly behind her.

The handwriting was unfamiliar, and Trafford wondered where it came from, feeling vexed that it should have arrived at that moment; and so began to read an emphatically business letter:—

"Hastings, Sept. 7th.

"To Mr. Richard Trafford, of Culm Rock:

"Sir,—I am sorry to be under the painful necessity of informing you of your brother's death. The Rev. Oliver Trafford died the 15th of March last, leaving me as the executor of his estate. He was anxious to see you till the very last; but as we had no clew to your whereabouts, and only discovered your place of residence by accident a short time ago, that pleasure was denied him. He left one child—a boy of fourteen, or thereabouts—for whose welfare he was much distressed. He often expressed it as his desire that, should you ever make your appearance, this boy might be received by you as your own, and, indeed, left written statements to that effect. There is, also, among his private papers, a sealed letter for you, which, I doubt not, contains some such request. The boy, I am happy to say, is not likely to prove a burden or trouble to you, being obedient and all that could be desired. He is smart and sprightly, and quite a favorite in the circle in which his father moved, and from my own acquaintance with him (very intimate during the past six months) can assure you that he will prove anything but a poor acquisition.

"As to the estate, I am sorry to say that Mr. Trafford left but little of value,—enough, perhaps, to educate the boy; but, as I hear you are a gentleman of fortune, this, I presume, is a matter of very little moment. I shall be happy to show you your brother's accounts at any time, and to have the honor of answering any inquiries which you may be disposed to make. I enclose a note from your nephew. Awaiting your decision in the matter, I am, sir, your most obedient servant,

"Thomas Gray.
"Room 8, at No. 67 Court St."

With a gloomy face, Trafford laid down the lawyer's letter, and took up his nephew's. He did not remember ever having seen the boy. He was, most likely, a crazy, boisterous lad, that would be forever in mischief, and bring the house about their heads. As for having him at Culm Rock, it was too preposterous a thought to be entertained for a moment. He had decided at once how Mr. Gray's letter should be answered, and felt too indifferent to care about reading his nephew's. What did these things matter to him? Yet, after a time, he thought better of it, and took up the note again, saying to himself, "I'll read it, if only because it's poor Noll's boy;" and opening the missive, found therein the following frank boy's letter:—

"Hastings, Sept. 7th.

"Dear Uncle Richard,—I don't know what to say to you—it all seems so
strange and awkward. Mr. Gray said I was to write, however, and send the note with his; so I am trying. It is such a long time since I saw you that I've forgotten your face, and I think you must have forgotten that there was such a person as myself in the world. Papa died almost six months ago, and he said all the time, at the last, 'Go for Uncle Richard!' but I didn't know where you were, and Mr. Gray could not find out till a short time ago; so papa died without seeing you. I don't know what he wanted to say, but he told me that I was to live with you and be your boy; and Mr. Gray says the papers say the same thing." Here the writer had evidently faltered, and been at a loss how to proceed further with intelligence which it, apparently, was very irksome for him to disclose; but he continued with, "There are only you and me left, and I am sure I would like very much to be your boy and live with you, as papa said; but—but I don't know—I mean—Well, I can't say it, Uncle Richard, but I mean that I wish I might know what you thought about it first. I wouldn't like to come, you know, unless you liked,—unless you were glad to have me. Mr. Gray has all papa's business to settle, and I suspect he wants to get me settled, too, somewhere, pretty quick; and so, if you please, I hope you won't mind whatever he may say about me, and only do just as you like about giving him permission to send me. I can find a home somewhere, if you would rather.

"My name is Oliver,—Noll, everybody calls me; I'm almost fifteen, and have always been at school in Hastings, and papa used to give me lessons beside. Is there a school at Culm Rock? I do wish you could have seen papa, dear Uncle Richard, he longed so for you when he died; but there is a letter for you among his papers, which will be sent to Culm Rock, if I do not come to bring it. Mr. Gray will tell you all about me, I suppose, and the affairs besides; so I will stop.

"Your nephew,
"Noll Trafford.

"—And don't mind what Mr. Gray says, please, and only do as you like."

Richard Trafford finished this letter with something like a grim smile on his lips.

"The boy has got the true Trafford spirit," he said to himself, "and some of Brother Noll's gentleness, I fancy. Ah, Noll was always a happier man than I!"

He read the boy's letter again, wondering what made it seem so bright and pleasant, and feeling vexed with himself for doing it. Why should he care for this boy or this boy's letter? Had he not fled to Culm Rock to escape all knowledge of what was transpiring in the world without,—to forget friends and kin, if that was possible? He looked up and met the sweet, grave eyes of his wife looking down into his, and read something there which made his eyes fill and his lip quiver.

"Ah," he sighed, "why did I not try to follow after?" And with this thought in his heart, he rose and stood by the window, looking down at the crawling tide. His thoughts came back to the boy, presently, and with another grim smile upon his face, he remembered what a dull and dreary place Culm Rock would be for a lad of fourteen. He would soon tire of it, and be glad enough to go back to Hastings, he fancied. If he was a wild boy, he should go back on the return of the "White Gull;" if he could be tolerated, he might stay till he tired of it. It was poor Brother Noll's boy, after all, he thought, and he could not make his heart quite hard enough to refuse him a home. So, when Skipper Ben returned to Hastings with his next cargo of fish, he carried a letter hidden away under his pea-jacket, and this was what it contained:—

"Culm Rock, Sept. 12th.

"To Noll Trafford:

"Come; you are welcome.
"Uncle Richard."