A sudden mist came across the reader's eyes, a sudden throb to his heart. Brother Noll! the blithe, warm-hearted, once precious brother! he who had astonished all his friends by studying for a minister, and who, with all the fervor of youth, had devoted every talent and energy to the sacred cause. How he had loved him once! How proud and happy he had been at his success! And here were words, his last thoughts on earth, breathed from the very depths of his heart, and thrilling with love for himself and this boy. They stirred the man's heart as it had not been stirred before since that dreary afternoon when all the joy and sunshine fled out of his heart and left it so cold and bitter. He had not realized before that Brother Noll had really ended his pilgrimage, and passed out of the earth, which, to himself, was such a weary abiding-place. Now, with the last whispers of that dear heart before him, the whole bitter sense of his loss came upon him, and he covered his face, sighing heavily. Back came the remembrance of the long and happy days of boyhood, with visions of the shining meadows where they strayed together; with visions of careless, joyful hours, when they sailed and fished and hunted the woods for purple grapes and glossy nuts; with visions of those calmer days when they grew up to manhood together,—Noll always bright and brave and loving, and a check upon his own wilder spirits. Now he was gone; and all the years to come could never again bring joy so deep and love so everlasting. Yet, true and dear to the last, he had breathed his life out in one sweet message to himself, confiding his love and this boy to him as a precious legacy. Trafford almost groaned when he thought of his loss. Oh, what a cruel thing was Death! A fierce, pitiless robber, seeking for the loveliest and brightest, it had lain in wait, all his life long, despoiling him of whatever he set his heart upon, he thought, and leaving him wrecked and desolate. He had thought that no death or sorrow could ever move him again; yet here was his heart aching as wretchedly as ever. Was there no place in the wide, wide earth where such wretchedness could not pursue? He had hoped to find it in this wild and barren Rock; yet here sorrow had crept in, bitter and poignant as in the busy city.
Trafford rose from his chair, put away the message from out of his sight, and sat down at his organ to still the pain in his heart with the charm of its music.
Noll had had his supper, and was sitting, sad and solitary, by Hagar's fire in the kitchen. He would wait a little, he thought, before going back to the library, that Uncle Richard might have time to read his letter. He wondered what its contents could be, and wished and hoped that papa had written some message there for himself. Would Uncle Richard tell him if there were? he wondered. Then his thoughts went back over the sea to Hastings, and there came up such pictures of the dear old home there, and the faces of his school friends flocked before him so vividly,—Ned Thorn's in particular,—that he could look about him only through tears that he strove in vain to banish.
Hagar had gone out with the candle, so the kitchen was quite dusk, save where the fire flared scarlet light on the wall and ceiling. Suddenly, in this silence, there stole in a heavy throbbing, like the beating of a great, muffled heart, and with a slow and solemn movement, rolled and swept in long chains of sound through the house, till, at last, a clear, sweet, flutelike warble broke in and ran up and down, seeming to wind in and out with the heavy undertone. Hagar came in just then with her flaming candle, and began to rattle about among her pots and kettles.
"What is that?" Noll asked, quickly, as the strains kept stealing in above the clatter which the old negress made. It had startled him at first, coming so suddenly, and corresponding so well with the gloom and mystery which seemed to fill the house.
"Bress ye, honey!" said the black old figure, stooping over the cooking utensils on the stone hearth, "don't ye know? Dat's Mas'r Dick at his organ. He sits dar mos' times at ebenin', an' 'pears like I ken jes' tell his feelin's by de music he makes. Sometimes I ken hear it jes' as sad as nuffin ye ken think ob, an' sometimes it's singin' as ef 'twas 'live and 'joicin.' It dun make ye homesick?" queried Hagar, dropping her dishcloth and looking up into the boy's face.
"No," Noll answered, with a sigh, "'tisn't the music. It will all be gone in the morning, I guess," and tried to look his cheeriest.
"You's tired out, chile," said Hagar, with ready sympathy; "better go to bed. I's been makin' ye one in de room jes' side o' Mas'r Dick's. Bes' room in de whole house!"
The music had ceased, and Noll left his seat and went groping his way along the dark, echoing hall, through the dimly-lighted dining-room to the library-door. Entering, he found his uncle still seated before the organ, but with his head bent forward upon the music-rack, and apparently lost in deep thought, for he did not look up till Noll stood beside him. Trafford made a faint attempt to smile, and asked,—
"Could Hagar find you anything fit to eat? We can't live here as at Hastings. The sea brings us our food."