"'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.