"Why won't you try to hope?" said Noll, softly.
"Hush! it's no use. Your Aunt Marguerite bade me follow after her long ago. I did not try. Your father said almost the same, Noll. Yet here I am,—I have not tried, I see no light, there is no hope for me."
The crackle of the fire and the hoarse voice of the sea had the silence all to themselves for a long time. At last Noll said,—
"When papa died, he did not fear at all, Uncle Richard. He said it was only the end of his journey, and that I was to follow on in the same way till I got to him at last. And papa said the truth, Uncle Richard."
"Yes! he never said aught else, Noll,—never!"
"And," continued the boy, his face growing grave, "papa said I was never to forget God, and never to forget to help any of his creatures if they were in trouble, and, oh! Uncle Richard, I hope I never shall!"
"Ah!" said Trafford, thoughtfully, "your father ever had others' welfare at heart. I remember, when we were lads, how, one day, in coming from the woods with nuts and grapes, we passed a poor creature by the roadside, who seemed fainting with fatigue or hunger. We both laughed at the queer figure at first, and passed by merrily, and went on our way; but Noll's face grew graver and graver, I remember, and by and by he would turn about, in spite of me, and go all the long way back to empty his pockets of their pennies and bits of silver into the wanderer's lap. Yes, he had a heart for every unfortunate, and it was not closed against them as he grew older."
Again the room was silent, while the fire flickered and painted flame-shadows on the wall, and lit up the dusky corners with its red glow. Noll sat on the arm of his uncle's chair, and watched the quivering shapes, and, in fancy, went back over the sea to Hastings. It was something such a night as this, he remembered, that papa had bidden him farewell,—lying so calm and patient in the great south chamber, where people were stepping softly about, and speaking in whispers and sighs. And papa's dear arms had been around him till the last, Noll thought, with his eyes brimming, and seeming yet to feel their gentle pressure; and, as long as it could whisper, the dear voice had breathed love and solemn counsel and fervent prayer into his ears. Back to the boy came the vivid recollection of all the hushed voice had said,—all the injunctions, the earnest entreaties to follow in the path which led only heavenward, and his heart was so full that he longed to cry out, "Papa, papa! If I might only see your face in this dreary place!"
Trafford presently said, speaking his thoughts aloud, "It was an evil day that separated us. God only knows what I might have been, had I always lived in the sunshine of his pure, warm heart. Why are you so silent, Noll?"
The boy could not trust himself to speak, and Trafford suddenly saw that there were tears shining in his eyes. Noll felt his uncle's hand laid upon his head, and the stern voice said, with all the tenderness of which it was capable,—