and the cry came from her
kitchen; and before Trafford had recovered from his surprise, there
was a little sound of commotion in her distant province,--doors were
thrown open, voices echoed, and then along the silent hall came a
sound--the rush of eager feet--that drove every trace of color from
Trafford's face, as well it might, and made his heart beat so loud and
wildly that he pressed his hands over it to stay its tumultuous
beating. He started up, gazing with wide-open eyes at the
library-door, while at every echo of those coming footsteps, he
started and trembled, and grew faint with anticipation. The door burst
open, and there stood--Noll Trafford!

[Illustration: "It's I, Uncle Richard" Page 421.]

One moment the boy paused, perhaps frightened by the white face of the
man who sat gazing motionlessly at him, then he bounded forward,
crying, "It's I, Uncle Richard!--your own Noll!"

Trafford's arms did not clasp the boy about; his tongue refused to
articulate; his heart could not take in this great, overwhelming joy.
But Noll's arms were about his neck, the boy's warm breath was upon
his cheek, and in his ears was the lad's whisper, "It's I,--I, Uncle
Richard! no one else!"

Then the man began to sigh, just as if he were awakening from a long
and troubled dream, and presently he put out his hand and touched the
boy's cheeks, as if to assure himself that it was not all a vision,
and then he said, chokingly, "My boy,--_mine_! O God! I don't deserve
this."

His arms clasped the lad in one long, fervent embrace. He bent his
head over the curly locks, and wept for joy, stroking the lad's
shoulders and pressing his hands the while, as if he were not yet sure
that the boy was a reality. He looked upon him as one from the dead.
Had the sea given him up?--had that terrible tempest spared him in its
wild fury? Why had the boy lingered so long? Where had he been
sojourning all these long weeks? But too happy in the consciousness
that it was really Noll, safe and unharmed, who was before him, to
care for aught further at present, he sat silently holding the boy's
hands, while his heart gave grateful thanks to God.

"Poor Uncle Richard!" said the boy, at last.

Trafford's lips moved, and with an effort he said, "No, no,--not
_poor_! I'm rich, rich!--_so_ rich! O God, help me! I can't believe my
own happiness."

"But it's really I, Uncle Richard!" said Noll, assuringly; "you've
felt my hands, my face, my