"Yes, sir."
"And you have been exposing yourself? Speak, Noll!"
"Why—yes—I suppose so, Uncle Richard. I was in the room where Hark Darby's little boy was sick."
Trafford stamped upon the floor with impatience. "What were you there for?" he cried.
"To carry something that Hagar made for it to drink. There's no doctor, you know; and they're terribly poor, Uncle Richard. Oh! if you could only—"
"Stop! I wish to hear naught of those fish-folks," cried Trafford. "Oh! you careless lad, what can I do with you? Are you determined to catch the fever? Are you bound to be always in danger?"
"No; but it's terrible over there, and—and they're dying with the sickness, and nothing to make them comfortable! Oh! how can I help it, Uncle Richard?"
Trafford looked into the lad's earnest eyes and sighed. "Would you like to take the fever and be buried with the rest up there in the sand?" he asked.
Noll shivered a little, and answered, "No, I don't want to die, Uncle Richard. But I think I ought to help them all I can, over there, for all that. And it's such a little—such a very little—that I can do! Oh! Uncle Richard, don't you think it is terrible to see them so wretched, and no one to help them?"
"I don't see them!" said Trafford; "I should know nothing of it but for you, and I don't want you to see them or know aught of the misery or the sickness. Do you understand?"