oll stayed. The day on which the decision was to be made he came into the library, where Trafford sat, saying, gravely, "Uncle Richard, to-day I was to choose, you know; and I would rather stay at Culm Rock and be your boy than to go back. May I?"

"May you?" exclaimed Trafford, on the impulse of the moment, while even his heavy heart was glad. "How can you ask that? Oh, Noll! do you know what you are doing?"

"To be sure, Uncle Richard! I'm going to stay with you," replied Noll, without any shadow of regret in his eyes.

"Ah, boy, I fear you will rue it," said his uncle, shaking his head mournfully; "remember, whatever befalls, that I did not bid you stay,—it was at your own risk."

"Why, what do you mean?" Noll asked, with a puzzled face,—"what is to befall me, Uncle Richard?"

"I know not,—I know not," Trafford answered; "there may be nothing to harm you; yet death ever snatches all that is dear to me, and I tremble for you, my boy."

Noll looked grave and puzzled still. "I don't understand, Uncle Richard," he said.

"No; how can you?" his uncle said, after a pause. "To you, death is only God's hand; to me, it—oh, Noll, I cannot tell you what it is! I don't wish to shock you, boy, but I'm a long way from where your father was when he penned me that calm note,—lying in the very arms of death at the moment." Noll was silent. "Yes," continued Trafford, "for me there is no brightness beyond the depths of the grave. All is dark,—dark! and so many of my friends have vanished in it,—so many have been lost to me there! Ah, my hope was all wrecked long ago!"

Noll looked up quickly, with, "Papa lost to you, to me, Uncle Richard? Oh, that is not true at all! Papa lost to us?"

"Not to you, not to you, Noll, thank God!" Trafford replied; "but to me,—yes! His faith he left to you,—I can see, I feel it; but I have none."

Noll looked up to the sad-eyed, gloomy man, and fathomed the mystery of his sorrow at once. Who would not be forever sad with nothing beyond the grave but blank and darkness in which loved hearts were alway vanishing?

"Oh, Uncle Richard," said he, "I'm sorry for you!"

"I don't deserve it," Trafford said, with unusual tenderness. "How can you love such a man as myself? Oh, my boy, I've been harsh with you, and cold and stern; go where you'll find some one that can care for you better than I!"

But Noll's face suddenly grew bright. "I wouldn't do that," he said, earnestly,—"never, Uncle Richard! Papa said I was to live with you and love you, and I will, unless you wish me to go. And if you do not, don't tell me to leave you again!"

"I will not, Noll," Trafford said.

So it was all settled, at last, and Noll's heart—in spite of Uncle Richard's gloominess—was light and glad. He would stay and see if the man's sorrow and wretchedness could not be driven away, he thought; perhaps—who could tell?—he would lose his sternness, and become kind and regardful, and follow in the path which papa had trod. It all seemed very doubtful now, it was true, but such a thing might be, after a time.

"Yes," said Noll, as he thought of these things, "I would much rather stay with you, Uncle Richard—always. And now shall we talk about studies?"

"True, we were to consider that matter," said his uncle; "yet I had little hope that you would stay, then. What do you study, Noll?"

"At Hastings I had arithmetic and geography and Latin. Then with papa I studied history, and a little—a very little, Uncle Richard—in mineralogy,—he liked that so, you know."

"And what do you propose to do here?" asked his uncle.

"I would like to do just the same," said Noll, "and keep up with my class, perhaps."

"He has still some thoughts of returning?" Trafford wondered; then said aloud, "Well, it shall be as you like. And when will you commence?"

"At once, if you please, Uncle Richard. I've had such a long vacation that it will seem good to get back to books once more; they're all waiting for me up-stairs. Shall I get them?"

Noll bounded away as his uncle nodded assent, and went up-stairs with a merry whistle. Trafford listened to the quick footsteps and the light-hearted music, and really rejoiced that they were not to flee and leave the old house desolate. It would be a brighter dwelling than it had been till—till death came, he thought. And if he could not teach the boy as Brother Noll had desired him to do, yet he would see that in the matter of books and study he had every advantage. So, when the boy came down with his arms full of books, he set himself to his task with an earnestness that pleased Noll wonderfully.

"Uncle Richard means that I shall progress," he thought; "and oh, I do hope I can keep up with Ned and the rest!"

Trafford found his nephew an apt scholar. He had expected that, however, for the boy came of a book-loving race. Very likely, had the pupil proved but a dull one, he would sometimes have wearied of his task of hearing the recitations every day; but as it was, he found a positive pleasure in his capacity as Noll's instructor, and generally a relief from his gloominess.

Noll's study-hours were at his own discretion; the recitations came in the afternoon, and after four the boy had the remainder of the day to spend as he liked. Sometimes the shore claimed him, sometimes the rocks. Then there were excursions, in company with old Hagar, to the solitude of the pines, after cones and dry, resinous branches for the kitchen fire, which never seemed to burn well unless the old housekeeper had an abundance of this kindling material.

"Nuffin like dem yer pine cones fur winter mornin's," Hagar always said; and many were the visits which she and "Mas'r Noll" paid to the woods, returning with laden baskets.

Somehow, after a time, the boy found more delight in these simple pleasures than at first. Once, with all his friends about him, he would have found no entertainment in a journey into the forest after cones,—there were other delights in abundance, then; but now, forced to get all his enjoyment out of the simplest, humblest events, this work of gathering winter fuel grew to be a positive pleasure, after the recitations were over, and the short October days drawing to a close. Then, too, the winter stores were being brought down from Hastings on the "Gull," and Skipper Ben and his crew came often to the stone house, to break the monotony of days in some little manner.

"Yer 'live an' hearty yet, lad!" was his greeting as he came around in the "Gull's" boat with a variety of provisions for winter use, one cloudy afternoon. "Well, I mus' say I didn't think to find ye so? Lonesome any? Goin' to let me carry ye back to Hastings afore the 'Gull' stops runnin'?"

"No," said Noll, bravely, "I'm going to stay, skipper."

"Ye'll find the weather a tough un, bime-by," drawled Mr. Snape, as he rolled a flour-barrel up the sand.

"Yes," said the skipper, "winters are mos'ly hard uns down here. An' what ye goin' to do when the 'Gull' stops cruisin' fur the season, an' ye can't get a word frum the city?"

This was a contingency for which Noll had made no calculation. Not hear a word from Hastings for a whole long winter?

"Well," he said at last, "that isn't pleasant to think of, but I'll manage somehow, skipper. And you must bring me a great packet of letters to last till the 'Gull' commences her trips again."

"Ay, lad," said the skipper, his eyes twinkling. "What be these?" drawing a parcel from under his pea-jacket.

Noll's eager "Letters! and for me?" tickled the old sailor wonderfully.

"Yes, these be letters," he said, chuckling; "Jack, here, talks o' runnin' a smack down this winter purpose to bring yer mail!"

"'Tw'u'd take something bigger'n a smack," observed Mr. Snape, looking askance to see how Noll grasped the precious parcel.

"All yer frien's said as how I was to bring ye back on the 'Gull,'" called the skipper after him, as Noll went running across the sand toward the house.

"Oh, how I wish—No! I can't go, skipper; it's no use talking," Noll answered back as he gained the piazza, and there sat down to open his precious missives.

Five or six of his boy friends had agreed to surprise him each with a letter, and here they were, together with a kind note from Mr. Gray. What a comfort and pleasure they were! It was almost like seeing the writers' faces and talking with them, Noll thought.

Trafford came out upon the piazza while he sat there absorbed in their contents, and as he walked along toward the skipper, who stood waiting at the bottom of the steps, noted the boy's eager, delighted face, and wondered why the lad did not return to his friends, where, it was quite evident, he was much desired and longed for. Why did he stay on this dreary Rock? What was there here to make the place endurable for a boy of his age and tastes? He could not see.

Those were the last letters which Noll received. The "Gull" made one or two trips after that, but the first of November brought keen, sleety weather, and Skipper Ben came no more; so that for the long months ahead Culm Rock was to be shut out from the world entirely. The thought of being isolated from all assistance, in case of illness or trouble, oppressed Noll somewhat till he had accustomed himself to the thought, and then a vague dread of loneliness and homesickness in the dragging days of winter haunted him for a time. But getting bravely over these, and interested in his studies, he began to find that the November days were not so intolerable, after all.

Uncle Richard had surprised him one day by bringing in a writing-table, from one of the unoccupied rooms, and placing it opposite his own chair by one of the tall windows. "For your books, Noll," he had said; and from thenceforth the boy's well-worn school volumes had a place there, and study in the cold chamber was exchanged for the comfortable warmth of the library. It was not an unpleasant schoolroom, by any means, though the high, old window framed nothing but a great stretch of sea and sky,—both, this chilly month of November, often gray and misty.

Instead of the roar and din of the city which sounded about the dearly-remembered room at Hastings, there was the hoarse murmur of the tide on its rocks and pebbles, the wild whirling of the wind and its screaming around the corners and over the chimney,—not cheery sounds, any of them; yet, in the still afternoons, and the cozy quietness of long evenings when the lamp shed its mild light over the room, and the fire on the hearth shone redly, there was such calm and peace for books and study as Noll found both pleasant and profitable.

In these days, you may be sure, the boy's thoughts were often across the vast gray sea in front of his window, even when he was bending over his problems or translations; not that he regretted his decision to share Uncle Richard's life with him, nor that he had any thoughts of fleeing away, but those flitting sails on the far horizon were messengers which alway bore on their white wings thoughts of hope and love and patience to those over the sea.

It was not the natural sphere of a boy,—this monotonous, unvarying round of days, with no companions of his age or tastes; and, as week after week passed, and Noll was still blithe and apparently contented, Trafford wondered and conjectured, and could not surmise a reason for it; though, had he observed closely, it would not have been a great mystery. For Noll there was the unfailing comfort of the little Bible which lay beside the huge old bed up-stairs, and which gave the double comfort of its own blessedness and the remembrance of its preciousness to her who turned its pages to the last; and there were ever the pitying ears of Jesus ready to hear the story of discouragement and loneliness, when the burden of slow, weary days seemed too heavy to bear.

Into Trafford's life had come more brightness and content than he had known since that dark day when his wife left him and vanished in the darkness which, to his eyes, filled and hovered over the grave. It did not, as yet, seem like a real and lasting joy; he trembled lest some day it should prove but a dream, a vision, and so vanish. He often laid aside his book and looked up, half expecting to find the room as silent and lonely as when, of old, he was the only inhabitant of the great library; but there, at the opposite window, sat the pleasant figure of the boy, busy with his books, and as real and tangible as heart could wish. It was a perpetual delight, though he hid all knowledge of it from Noll, to feel that the boy was present, to see him curled up in a great chair by the fire, watching the flames or the depths of rosy coal, of a twilight, and to feel that he was his,—a precious gift to love and cherish. So the man's heart began to go out toward the boy,—tremblingly, warningly at first, then, as he found him true and worthy, with all its might and all the fervor of which it was capable.