he fourth week after the shipwreck dragged slowly away,—spent in watching and waiting for a sail. None came. The lack of good food was getting to be a serious matter for both Culm folk and the inmates of the stone house. Trafford's stores were well-nigh exhausted, and the last day of that long fourth week was spent in company with Dirk Sharp and some of his comrades, devising plans by which they might communicate with Hastings. The master of the stone house walked homeward after his conference with the fishermen, and paused in the gathering dusk on the spot where he had stood that fearful night when the "Gull" and her crew were on the rocks in the awful roar and thunder of the tempest. How silent and peaceful it all lay now,—the sea purpling in its calm and shadowy depths, its waves faintly murmuring on the pebbles, and, overhead, the arch of silvery sky bending down to the far horizon, full of the tender lights of the after-glow! Only one month since that fearful night, yet how far in the dim past the event seemed! What a great darkness and despair he had struggled through! How full and real every minute of those four weeks had been! And, as he stood there, such strong and tender memories of the lad he had lost came back to him that he turned away with a throbbing heart, and walked homeward along the sand with a bowed head, and so failed to see the white gleaming of a sail which rose out of the sea and stood toward the Rock. The lingering daylight touched it with a rosy flush as the rising night-breeze bore it steadily onward; but Trafford saw it not, and went up the piazza-steps, and into the stone house, without turning his eyes seaward.

He ate his scanty supper, which Hagar—poor heart!—had placed upon the table with a wonderful display of dishes, as if to make up for the lack of food by a board spread with cups and plates enough for a feast, and then took his way to the silent library. He sat down at his organ, and from its long-silent pipes drew soft and tender music that filled the room and stole gently through the house. The tears came into Hagar's eyes as she listened to it.

"'Pears as ef de angels was singin'," she said, wiping her cheeks. "Hagar wonders ef de Lord'll gib her a voice like dat when she gets ter glory."

It died away at last in gentle, tremulous whispers, and Trafford walked to the window and looked out. Twilight had settled so thickly that the sea was quite hidden, save a faint glimmer of ripples along the sand. Deep quiet reigned over land and sea, and nowhere with such undisputed sway as in the stone house. Trafford lit his study-lamp and sat down, with no desire, however, to read or study. Hardly had he seated himself, when, with startling suddenness, a shrill scream broke upon the deep quiet. It was Hagar's voice, and the cry came from her kitchen; and before Trafford had recovered from his surprise, there was a little sound of commotion in her distant province,—doors were thrown open, voices echoed, and then along the silent hall came a sound—the rush of eager feet—that drove every trace of color from Trafford's face, as well it might, and made his heart beat so loud and wildly that he pressed his hands over it to stay its tumultuous beating. He started up, gazing with wide-open eyes at the library-door, while at every echo of those coming footsteps, he started and trembled, and grew faint with anticipation. The door burst open, and there stood—Noll Trafford!

"It's I, Uncle Richard".

One moment the boy paused, perhaps frightened by the white face of the man who sat gazing motionlessly at him, then he bounded forward, crying, "It's I, Uncle Richard!—your own Noll!"

Trafford's arms did not clasp the boy about; his tongue refused to articulate; his heart could not take in this great, overwhelming joy. But Noll's arms were about his neck, the boy's warm breath was upon his cheek, and in his ears was the lad's whisper, "It's I,—I, Uncle Richard! no one else!"

Then the man began to sigh, just as if he were awakening from a long and troubled dream, and presently he put out his hand and touched the boy's cheeks, as if to assure himself that it was not all a vision, and then he said, chokingly, "My boy,—mine! O God! I don't deserve this."

His arms clasped the lad in one long, fervent embrace. He bent his head over the curly locks, and wept for joy, stroking the lad's shoulders and pressing his hands the while, as if he were not yet sure that the boy was a reality. He looked upon him as one from the dead. Had the sea given him up?—had that terrible tempest spared him in its wild fury? Why had the boy lingered so long? Where had he been sojourning all these long weeks? But too happy in the consciousness that it was really Noll, safe and unharmed, who was before him, to care for aught further at present, he sat silently holding the boy's hands, while his heart gave grateful thanks to God.

"Poor Uncle Richard!" said the boy, at last.

Trafford's lips moved, and with an effort he said, "No, no,—not poor! I'm rich, rich!—so rich! O God, help me! I can't believe my own happiness."

"But it's really I, Uncle Richard!" said Noll, assuringly; "you've felt my hands, my face, my shoulders, and aren't they alive and warm?"

"Yes, it is really you, thank God!" said Trafford, drawing a long breath, while he gazed upon the merry face that he never more expected to see on earth.

"Yes, and oh, Uncle Richard, you can't know how I longed to see you, to tell you that I was alive and safe! I knew you would worry, but I didn't think you'd think me dead. I didn't think that till we got to Culm, and Dirk and all the rest trembled, and were actually going to run away from me!"

"Then you have not been harmed?" said Trafford: "but oh, my boy, where were you on that awful night?"

"Safe and sound, with Ned Thorn, at Hastings, Uncle Richard, and not even dreaming of danger or shipwreck. You see, the furniture was not ready, and I hadn't found a teacher, and so I stayed. Ned and I went down to the wharf the night before the 'Gull' was to sail, and carried a letter to the skipper to give to you, telling you why I couldn't come; but poor Ben never got here alive, and the letter was lost with him, I suppose. Oh, Uncle Richard, if I had started,—if the furniture had been ready—"

"Thank God it was not!" interrupted Trafford, presently; "he watched over you, he stayed your coming, and now he has brought you out of the sea, as it were, to me. Oh, Noll!"

The boy looked up eagerly. "Have—have you found the Lord Jesus, Uncle Richard?" he asked.

Trafford's hands rested tenderly on the boy's head. "Yes," he said, with a great calm and peace in his voice, "I found him through great sorrow and grief. I think God led me through all this suffering that my heart might be softened and turned toward him. And now this Saviour has brought you back to me!"

A deep silence followed, full of unutterable joy. Trafford reverently bent his head, his lips quivering with emotion, and with his nephew's hands clasped in his, silently thanked God for his goodness, for this great joy which was come into his life, for this precious lad that was dead and now was alive again. It seemed as if God had brought him out of the sea to him. At last Noll said, taking up his explanation where he had left it off,—

"After we had given the letter to the skipper, I thought no more about it, and Ned and I were busy enough with seeing about the furniture for a day or two, and we didn't notice the storm, or even think of the 'Gull' being in danger. And Mr. Gray helped me to find a teacher, and we were so busy with plans that the time passed away before I knew it, and when I came to go down on the wharf to engage a passage with Ben, the men said the 'Gull' had never got back from her last trip, and they were afraid it was lost. Ned didn't believe there had been a shipwreck, neither did Mr. Gray. He said that most likely the skipper had been kept by some business, or perhaps the 'Gull' had gone farther down the coast than usual. Oh, Uncle Richard! we didn't think that poor Ben was drowned, nor that you thought me wrecked with him."

Trafford said, "Those were fearful days for me. Go on, go on, Noll."

"We went down to the wharf every night till another week was gone, and then, we began to be certain that Ben was either wrecked or sick, and I began to be anxious to get some word to you. I thought that perhaps you might be worried about me, though Mr. Gray said that if the 'Gull' was wrecked anywhere near Culm, you could not help but know I was not on board. We waited and waited till the three weeks were gone, and then some of Ben's friends began to talk of going in search of him. But it was only till last night that they were ready to go, and we came off before daylight this morning. Oh, the time has seemed so long, Uncle Richard! but here I am, safe and sound, once more."

Trafford looked at his nephew as if he could yet hardly believe his eyes.

"And you should have seen Dirk and the rest!" continued Noll; "why, he wouldn't speak to me at first, but was going to run away; but when he did find that it was really I, he cried like a great child. He said that you thought me dead,—you can't know how I felt when he said that, Uncle Richard,—and so Ned and I didn't wait any longer, but ran all the way here. I can think, now, why you looked so white when I came in at the door!"

Trafford stroked the boy's hair, saying, "I never thought to hear the echoes of your feet again. God knows. Oh, my boy, you can never know what this night has brought to me. He who led you thither only can. But whose name did you mention?"

"Ned's; he came down with me, Uncle Richard, for it's vacation at Hastings. We came up to the kitchen-door, because Hagar's light shone so brightly, and what do you think? she threw up her hands and screamed at the sight of me. But it didn't take long to make her certain that I was real, and not a vision. And, oh, there's one thing I'd forgotten! The new teacher is at Culm, waiting for Dirk to come over with his trunks. It's one of papa's old scholars, Uncle Richard, and his name is Henry Fields. He worked with papa in the old sea-town where we lived, and he's come down to work here at Culm among our fish-folk. I like him very much, and you can't help but like him, too; and we've brought a cargo of benches and desks all ready to—"

The library-door began to swing softly open,—not so softly, however, but that Noll heard and stopped.

"It's Ned," he said, looking over his shoulder. "Come in!"

Ned came shyly around to where they were sitting, his usually merry face sobered by something which he perceived in the faces of his friends before him. A silence fell upon them here. Ned leaned against his friend, looking soberly at Trafford's rapt face, and wondering where all the man's grimness and gloominess had gone. And just then a sudden thought came into Noll's heart, and he said, looking up brightly,—

"It's a year this very night since I came to you, Uncle Richard! Don't you remember? What a long, long time!"

Trafford said, "Yes, I remember. Through all the days since then God has been teaching me, and he has led me on to this; and, oh! my boy, the sea may never divide us again, for, though through its dark floods we go down to death, beyond there is light and God and heaven!" And in his voice there was peace unutterable.

If this Story of a Year, and what it taught, is not already too long, you may know that a schoolhouse was built at Culm, and that Henry Fields proved a good and faithful teacher; that a stanch, new "White Gull" was built, and one of Skipper Ben's sea-loving sons was its captain; that the Culm children and their parents slowly improved in more ways than one under the constant, unfailing care and effort of Trafford and his nephew; that the Rock was not always Noll Trafford's home, but exchanged for a pleasanter one in Hastings, though the old stone house was often brightened by his presence, and never got to be entirely gloomy and deserted again.