Trafford heard these words with astonishment; then, as his nephew's footsteps died away along the hall, he covered his face and sighed heavily.
"Ah," he thought, "I did it for his good; yet—the boy distrusts me. He can't know what I would be to him if I could; how can he? He thinks me cold and unloving, and—well, he has reason to."
Hardly had ten minutes elapsed before the door swung softly open, and Noll re-entered. Trafford did not look up, did not hear him, in fact, and presently was startled by a voice saying, brokenly,—
"Uncle Richard!"
Then he looked up. Noll stood before him with downcast eyes and a trembling lip.
"Well?" said Trafford, speaking neither with coldness nor yet with kindness.
"I—I—I didn't mean what I said a few minutes ago, Uncle Richard," said Noll, chokingly; "there was not a word of truth in it, and I oughtn't to have said such a thing."
A deep silence followed, broken at last by another "Well?" from Trafford's lips.
"Will you forgive me, Uncle Richard? I was angry then, and I don't wish I was back at Hastings," said Noll, grieved, and fearful lest he had only put a wider gulf between himself and his uncle.
Trafford was silent so long that the boy ventured to raise his eyes. To his surprise and astonishment, his uncle was regarding him with eyes that were neither cold nor stern, but almost tender and yearning.