ea and the white line
of foam curling upon the sand. The waves were but mere ripples this
calm afternoon, but from the shore there came up a ceaseless, steady
murmur that made itself heard in the quiet of the room; and by and by
Trafford's eyes turned from the calm face above him and looked out
seaward. White and shining lay the vast expanse, with here and there
the faint film of a sail upon the horizon. Nothing to be seen but
water and the great dome of sky and the little spit of yellow sand
where the tide was murmuring. How many sunny afternoons he had thus
looked out upon the sea, vast and gleaming! How many lonely afternoons
and long, weary nights he had listened to the slow chanting of the
tide, watched it creep up the sand with its puffs of thick foam,
watched it as it slowly receded and left its burden of weed and shell
behind! Flowing and ebbing forever, alway at its work, in and out, in
and out, through storm and shine, through night and day, it seemed to
mock his own idle, useless life, and reproach him with its never
silent voice. Of what use, he wondered as he sat there, was such a
life as his? To-morrow the tide would be at its work again, the ships
go on, the sun shine warm and bright over all,--and he? For him
to-morrow would be but the repetition of to-day; the same dragging
hours, the same apathetic poring over books, the same half-hours at
the organ with the music-books, playing sad melodies which accorded
well with his own sombre feelings. He looked up at the portrait and
sighed; remembered the dear one's dying words, and thought, "I might
have found Him once; but it's too late now. All that passed away a
long time ago, and now,--it's only to plod on and on, year in and year
out, till the end." And what then?

There came a soft rap at the door.

"Come in, Hagar," said he, heavily, without taking his eyes off the
sea; and then the door was pushed open, and a head, surmounted by a
great yellow turban, looked in.

"Somethin' fur you, Mas'r Dick," said the owner of the turban, without
coming in, however.

"What is it?" said Trafford, abstractedly.

The door opened wider, and the old housekeeper entered. She was bent
and thin, with great wrinkles in her forehead and face, and wherever a
tuft of wool peeped out from under the fanciful headgear, it showed
quite gray; but her step was quick and firm as she went across the
floor to the figure by the great window.

"A letter, Mas'r Dick," sa