he long, long, weary night gave way to a gray and gloomy dawn. The tempest had not abated, and the sea thundered as furiously as ever. The wet and shivering women had gone back to their houses and their little ones; and as the cold, steely light of the coming day began to whiten in the east, Hagar made her way back to her kitchen, where she kindled a fire to warm her numb limbs. Never more, she thought,—rocking to and fro before the pleasant blaze,—could the old house be bright or cheerful. The sea had quenched its life and its joy, and never again would the merry voice echo in the great rooms, or the quick, eager steps sound along the hall and in at her kitchen-door.

"O good, bressed Lord!" moaned she, "bress yer poor chil'en dat's lef' behind! 'Pears like dey was jes' ready ter fall down an' faint ter def ef ye didn't hold 'em up. O Lord, keep Hagar up, an' 'vent her from 'strustin' ye! Bress us, Lord, fur we ain't nuffin dis yer time. Ye's all we hab ter hold on ter."

Meanwhile, Trafford and the fishermen lingered on the shore, waiting for the sea to give up its dead. The east grew whiter, and light broke dimly over the waste of waves, and faintly showed them where the "Gull" had struck. There was not much left of the little craft,—only a few timbers and the taper point of a mast, wedged in between some outlying rocks, which the sea thundered over. It was a dreary sight,—the vast, immeasurable waste lashed into foam, and dimly discerned through the gray gleaming of the dawn, with the bit of wreck swaying in the wares, where those lives had gone out in the awful thunder and darkness; but Trafford gazed upon it with a calm face. Groans and lamentation could not express the agony which rent his heart, and he walked up and down the drenched sand with a calm, white face that awed Dirk whenever he looked upon it.

"It be a heavier stroke for the master an' we ken tell, lads," he said to his comrades, as they kept keen lookout for the poor bodies which the sea still kept.

"Ay, there be a heart within him like the rest of us," said one of the fishermen, looking at Trafford as he kept his watchful vigil; "an' he be only losin' what we hev lost afore."

"But the lad wur not like ours," said Dirk, pityingly, "an' it wur a finer lad an' ever I see afore."

So they talked as they watched and waited, and the light grew, and somewhere behind the lowering banks of clouds in the east the sun had risen, and all the land and sea lay cold and warmthless and forlorn. Trafford relinquished not his keen search for a moment, fearful lest the waves should cast his lost treasure at his feet and snatch it back before he could grasp it. The dear face might be bruised and battered by the cruel, remorseless sea, and the eyes could never beam upon him with any light of love or recognition, he thought; yet find it and look upon it he must, even though the sight agonized him. So he watched and waited, with his tearless eyes roaming along the line of foam.

An hour fled. The sea relented, and gave up one poor form into the fishermen's hands. Trafford walked calmly out to where the men were bending over it with pale, awed faces, and saw that it was not Noll. He shivered, looking at the skipper's stalwart figure, and wondered whether, if the sailor but had the power of speech, he might not tell him something of his boy,—whether he met death's dark face calmly and fearlessly, and whether he sent a message to those whom he saw on the shore and could not call to. This thought gave him fresh anguish. If Noll had sent him a farewell,—a last message,—oh, what would he not give to hear it? But, if that were really the case, it had died with those to whom it was intrusted. The sea would never whisper it,—the dead could not. He went back to his lonely pacing.

Another long, long hour passed. The bit of wreck that was jammed between the rocks went to pieces and came ashore. Ben's mate came with it, but no Noll. The men began to straggle homeward, weary and worn with the night's vigil, till only Dirk and Hark Darby were left to keep the stricken master of the stone house company. Oh, such a weary waiting it was!—the ceaseless pouring of the waves upon the sand filling their ears with clamor, and the fearful tide bringing them not the treasure which they sought. Would the sea never give it up? Was the dear form caught and held by the entangling arms of some purple weed in the sea depths? or was it cradled in the calm, unruffled quiet of some crevice of the rocks?

"Oh, cruel, cruel sea!" he cried to himself, "to rob me of my boy, and refuse to give back the poor boon of his body."

It never came. The morning wore on to noon, the noon to night, and still the lonely watcher paced up and down. Toward night the tempest abated, and the turmoil of the sea subsided somewhat. The gray clouds broke and let through a slant mist of yellow sunshine as the sun departed, and the storm was over. Its work was done; and as the clouds fled in ragged squadrons, the calm, untroubled stars shone out over the sea, and mocked, with their deep, unutterable peace, the aching, wretched heart of him who still kept up his lonely pacing. Trafford's eyes suddenly caught sight of their silvery glitter, and he stopped, looking up at them, while the sudden thought flashed through his mind, "Is my boy up there? beyond those shining worlds, in that happy heaven which he trusted in?"

The thought held him silent and motionless. It had not entered his heart before. He had been searching for the lad upon this dreary, sea-beaten shore, without a thought of anything beyond. Was he really standing upon a heavenly shore, where no waves beat nor tempest raved, and, perhaps, looking down upon his own lonely vigil?

There was something in this thought which brought a great calm upon his heart. True, the boy was no less dead nor separated from him; the merry voice was no less hushed to him for all his life and journeying, and the echo of his footsteps might never float down from heavenly paths to gladden his ears; yet, though he realized this, there was a wonderful peace and joy in thinking of the lad as happy and joyous in a sphere where nothing would ever blight his happiness; where he had found those who bore him a great love and had been long waiting for his coming. Trafford sat down on the great pile of broken timbers, and once more looked upward at the stars. Pure and unwavering their gentle eyes looked down at him. And then peaceful as an angel's whisper, came the remembered words of one who was an angel too: "Oh, Richard! don't fail—don't fail to find Him and cling to Him, and come up,—come up too."

Why, oh, why, of all times, did this gentle breathing come to him here? It seemed to Trafford as if his wife's lips had whispered it close to his ear, and he bowed his head upon his breast, while his breath came quick and fast, and bitter tears of grief stood in his eyes. Had God taken his treasures, one after another, and placed them in that heaven which they all looked forward to, that his own wayward, straying heart might be drawn thither? Was this last loss meant to be the great affliction which, through love, should turn his heart toward God and his kingdom? He could not tell; his heart was strangely stirred and melted within him. It seemed to him as if that angel whisper had driven the great burden of despair and agony out of his heart by its gentle breathing, and left it broken and sorrowful, yet not without peace and hope. He looked up at the stars and thought of Noll, and wept. They were not tears of agony, and he did not rave and groan. A slow step came along the sand, turning hither and thither, as if in quest of some one. It drew near Trafford, at last, and a tremulous old voice said,—

"Is dis ye, Mas'r Dick? Hagar's glad 'nough ter find ye, anyhow. 'Pears like she couldn't stay up ter de house, nohow,—'twas so lonesome."

"Yes, I know, Hagar," said the man, without raising his head.

The twilight was so thick that the old negress could not see the speaker's face, but a certain tremble and softness of his voice did not escape her notice.

"Have ye foun' de Lord, Mas'r Dick?" she asked, quickly.

"I know not what I have found," Trafford answered, while his tears fell; "but if I might find his face, and know that it smiled upon me, I should care for little else."

"Now praise de Lord!" said Hagar, fervently; "dat's more'n ye ever felt afore. Thar's help fur ye, Mas'r Dick, an' 'tain't fur off!"

"Too far for me to find it!" said Trafford; "he does not smile upon those who have rejected him."

"Oh, chile!" said Hagar, in a shocked tone; "don't ye know de Lord's all mercy an' lubbin' kin'ness? Don't ye know he won't 'spise an' hate ye jes' as ef he was like a man? Oh, honey! Hagar's feared ter hear ye talk like dat. 'Pears as ef ye made de Lord jes' like poor, eble, good-fur-nuffin man."

Trafford made no reply. A sudden darkness seemed shutting down upon him. It was as if a great golden gleam had fallen out of heaven upon him, warming and softening his heart, and when he turned with tears and joy to look along its pathway heavenward, it vanished and left him groping in confusion and dismay. He got up from off his seat, saying, mournfully,—

"The brightness is all gone from me! I'm in doubt and fear. Oh, how can I ever find his face?—and how can he ever smile upon me who have rejected him?"

Hagar sighed heavily as she said, "Ye don't 'preciate de Lord, chile. Ye talks jes' as ef he was a man, an' could feel 'vengeful towards ye! Don't s'pose any man could forgive ye, honey, but de bressed Lord is all lub,—Hagar knows dat,—an' Jesus died jes' as much fur ye as he did fur anybody. Ye's got to look to dat bressed Lord Jesus, an' ef ye looks hard 'nough, ye'll find him. Oh, Hagar t'anks de Lord frum de bottom ob her heart fur yer feelin' so to-night."

"But I have not found him! He is hidden from me!" said Trafford.

"But ye will ef ye looks long enough!" said Hagar, cheerfully; "he'll come out ob de darkness to ye: bimeby. Bress ye, chile, dis ole woman was lookin' an' seekin' an' stribin' in mis'ry till she was 'bout ready to give up in 'spair; but I foun' him at las', an' he nebber 'sook Hagar,—nebber!"

The sea was growing calmer with every hour that passed. But it was rough and thunderous still, and its wave-crests gleamed whitely under the starlight. Trafford at last remembered the lateness of the hour, and said, "Come, Hagar, this is no place for us. We will go in."

The two slowly made their way along the shore up to the dark and deserted stone house. Hagar smothered the sigh that rose up from her heart as the silence and loneliness smote upon it, and led the way around to her kitchen-door.

"Poor chile! ye habn't had nuffin to eat dis day," said she, after they were once within her little dominion and she had kindled the fire; "go into de libr'y, honey, an' I'll hab ye sumfin' purty quick."

But Trafford shook his head, saying, "Not there!—not there, yet!" and sat down on the bench by the fire.

Hagar moved wearily about from the cupboard to the table, saying to herself,—

"What ye t'inkin' ob, Hagar, to tell him dat? Dar's all poor Mas'r Noll's books an' t'ings lyin' 'bout eberywhar, an' how ken de poor chile stan' it? De Lord's han' is heaby upon him, an', O good Lord Jesus, jes' come an' bress de poor chile an' sabe him!"