"It's a hard life for you, Noll. I can see,—I know it."
"No, no!" said the boy, quickly, "it's not that, Uncle Richard! I was only thinking of—of papa,—that was all."
"What about him?" queried Trafford; "I never knew that you mourned before."
"Why," said Noll, chokingly, "papa told me so much,—so much that he wished me to do and be,—and it all came to me just then, as if he were saying it over again."
"What did he wish you to do and be?" Trafford quietly asked.
"He said that—that I should find Christ's work to do wherever I might be, and that I must do his work and follow him wherever I should go; and—and I'm a long way from that, Uncle Richard; though," Noll added, turning his face away from the shining firelight, "I do try to do it, and not forget him nor his work."
Again Trafford's hand was laid upon the boy's head, this time to stroke his curly locks away from his eyes, where the wind had blown them.
"Did he tell you aught of me?" he asked, presently.
"No,—only that if you ever found me, or I you, that I was to be your boy. Papa said you would care for me."
"He believed in me still! He trusted me!" said Trafford. "Alas! he knew not what a father I should make his child."