t the first gray glimmer of the wintry dawn, Noll was awake. He felt stiff and lame after his adventure of the previous evening, and not at all inclined to stir. But a sudden recollection of Dirk and his child, and the aid which he had promised them, came to him almost as soon as he was conscious of the day's dawning, and he got up and limped to the window to see whether there was any prospect of Hagar's journey to Culm being realized. The sky was as gray and sombre as yesterday's had been. All the sea was in a great turmoil, and rolled in a flood of foam upon the shore as far as he could see. Not a sail in sight upon the lonely waste, not a sign of human life anywhere. Now and then a snow-flake fluttered down; and the wind screamed shrilly about the house-corners, and wailed hoarsely in the casements.

"Hagar can't go to-day," thought Noll, with a sinking heart; "and, oh! what can be done?"

He trembled for fear Uncle Richard would forbid him to go to Culm again. He felt as if he could never bear to meet Dirk's eyes after promising him aid and failing to bring it; and, with this thought oppressing him, and the lonely cry of the sea filling his ears, he dressed himself, and went down to the library with a downcast heart. His uncle sat by a window, looking, with a sad and gloomy face, upon the sea; and, as his nephew entered, acknowledged his "Good-morning, Uncle Richard," with only a cold nod. But Noll, resolved to have the matter settled at once, came up to his chair, saying,—

"I've got a great favor to ask of you, Uncle Richard. May I go around to Culm after breakfast?"

Trafford's face grew gloomier than before.

"For what?" he asked.

"To carry something for Dirk's child," Noll answered, meeting his uncle's stern eyes with his own pleading blue ones.

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Trafford, impatiently, "what are these miserable fish-folks to you? I don't want you to care for them!"

"But, Uncle Richard—"

"Well?"

"Dirk's child is sick,—dying, I'm afraid!"

"So are hundreds in this world. There's misery everywhere."

"Perhaps I might aid this misery, Uncle Richard, if you'll let me try. Will you?"

"You will have more than your hands full if you are going to look after these Culm people," said Trafford, coldly; "you had better not begin."

Noll's face grew graver and graver, and he made no reply to his uncle's last remark.

"Well," said Trafford, after a long silence, "do you wish anything more, Noll?"

The boy turned away, as if hurt by his uncle's coldness, and walked quickly to the library door. There he wavered—stopped—then turned about, and came back.

"Uncle Richard," said he, tremulously, "papa said I was to do all the good I could in the world, and never pass by any trouble that I might help, and—and I think he would tell me to go to Dirk's, if he were here."

Trafford turned about with an impatient word upon his lips, but it was not spoken. It seemed to him as if his dead brother stood before him,—as he had known him when they were boys together,—and that those words were meant for a reproach. He put out his hand and touched Noll's shoulder, as if to make sure that it was really his nephew and no vision.

"Ah!" said he, with a sigh, "your father looks out at me from your eyes, Noll. Turn them away from me. Go to Culm, if you like,—you have my permission."

"Breakfas's waitin' fur ye!" said Hagar, at the door.

"But, Uncle Richard," said Noll, in some perplexity, "I don't like to go and have you all the time wishing me at home."

"I cannot help that," said Trafford, as he rose to answer Hagar's call. "I have given you permission,—go."

The breakfast was a silent one. After it was over, and the door had closed upon the grim master of the house as he went back to his books, Hagar said,—

"Don't ye let nuffin make ye downhearted, honey! De Lord'll help ye, ef yer Uncle Dick won't. 'Tain't de might nor de money dat'll do eberyting, chile. All 'pends on whether de Lord's on yer side. Jes' come in my ole kitchen and see what I's put up fur ye to carry to dem yer mis'able folks."

"Dis yer is brof."

Noll got his overcoat and cap, and followed the old housekeeper into her cozy and comfortable dominion.

"Look at dis yer," said Hagar, taking a basket off the table; "jes' as chock full as nuffin ye ken think ob. Dis yer is brof,—chicken-brof,—an' dat yer bundle is crackers. Dis bottle's de med'cine, an' de chile is to hab a teaspoonful ebery half an hour. Ef I could be there, de chile should hab a sweat, sure; but dis med'cine'll hev to answer! Dis yer is a teaspoon an' a teacup, 'cause ye won't find nuffin fit fur to drink nuffin out ob. Hagar knows how dem yer Culm folks lib! Now, ken ye 'member all dat, honey?"

"Yes," said Noll, "and I thank you a hundred times, Hagar. I'd better start at once, without waiting another minute."

The old housekeeper followed him to the door, cautioning, "Keep 'way from dat yer sea, chile! Don't yer git into dat yer drefful tide, honey! an' de Lord bress ye an' bring ye safe back!"

The wind was keen and bitter, and the sea thundered as mightily as on the previous evening. Noll hurried along over the great patches of icy sea-weed and frozen pools of water in the rocks and hollows, and thought, now that he was making such haste, that the way had never seemed quite so long before. He paused for a moment to look upon the scene of last night's peril, and remember, with a shudder, how the waves battered, and how they pierced and numbed him with their cold. Then he ran along the hard, sandy beach as fast as the wind and his burden would let him. The Culm huts came in sight at last, cheerless and desolate, and with no sign of life or occupancy about them, save the faint smoke which the wind whirled down from the chimneys.

Noll began to regard Dirk's habitation with anxious eyes long before he drew near. He half expected to see the fisherman's tall figure pacing up and down the sand, beating his breast and groaning with despair, perhaps; but instead, the sands were deserted. Noll came opposite the miserable dwelling, and paused a few seconds before rapping, waiting to hear the sick child's low wail. He heard only a confused, unintelligible murmur of voices.

A woman answered his summons,—not the child's mother, but a neighbor, evidently,—and stood staring blankly at him.

"Can I see Dirk,—Dirk Sharp?" Noll asked.

At the sound of the boy's voice, the fisherman himself came to the door. His face was haggard, and looked wan and worn, for all the bronze of wind and weather that was upon it,

"Lord bless ye, lad!" he cried to Noll, "but ye be too late."

"Too late?"

"Yes," brokenly, "my little gal died las' night."

Noll was silent with surprise. He was too late,—too late.

"Oh, Dirk," he said, as soon as he could speak, "I would have come back last night, but I got into the sea, and—and it was impossible. So I brought what I could this morning."

Dirk looked at the lad and his basket, and choked. At last he said, gratefully, "It be good in ye to care for the like o' us, lad. We be poor folks fur ye to look at, the Lord knows! What did ye bring fur my little gal?"

Noll lifted the cover of his basket, and Dirk peered in, exclaiming, "My little gal never seed the like o' them, lad! She wur a tender thing, my little gal wur, and mabby ef she'd had a bit o' somethin' better'n the salt fish—Well, she be beyond meat and drink now," he said, choking again.

Noll knew not whether to turn back, or to stay. Dirk, however, presently said, "Come, lad, step in an' see my little gal. She wur as white an' sof'-cheeked as yerself. O Lord! I might ha' knowed she'd never come up stout an' growin' like the rest," he groaned as he turned back to lead the way for Noll.

In the room where the little one had lain sat three or four old fish-wives,—wrinkled, weather-beaten old faces they had,—who were nodding and whispering over their pipes in a solemn kind of way, occasionally addressing a word to the mother, who sat enveloped in the smoke which poured into the room from the ill-constructed fireplace. They regarded Noll with many curious glances as he passed through after Dirk to the apartment where the child was laid, and one old creature followed after them, apparently to ascertain the boy's errand.

It was a bare room where Dirk's treasure was sleeping,—not a thing in it save the two wooden stools and rough board which upheld their still little burden. Pure and white the child lay,—a fair, delicate flower when compared with the dinginess and squalor of everything about it; and something of this contrast seemed to glimmer upon Dirk's rough perceptions, for he said to Noll,—

"Ye wouldn't think she could be mine, lad! Ye don't wonder the little gal couldn't come up like the rest o' the young uns?"

"It wur a fair gal, Lord knows," said the old fish-wife who had followed them in; "it warn't black and freckly, never. Sich kinds don't love this salt water, Dirk Sharp,—ye couldn't ha' raised her, man!"

"Oh, my little gal!" murmured Dirk, smoothing a fleck of golden hair with his great brawny hand.

"Ye be fair an' white," said the old fish-wife, touching Noll's cheek with her skinny finger, "an' what be ye here on the Rock fur?"

"Sh!—ye let the lad alone, mother," said Dirk; "he be come here to bring my little gal somethin', an' she be beyond eatin' an' drinkin'. He be a good lad to do it!"

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 gratitude, 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.