id she, standing by Trafford's chair; "dat
yer old skipper brought it. Said he brung it straight from de city."

"Ben Tate?" asked the master.

Hagar nodded assent. "Said ye was to hev it dis yer afternoon, sure,"
said she; "'twa'n't no letter to be lyin' 'round in dem Culm huts, so
he cum up here wid it hisself. Be it frum Hastings, Mas'r Dick?"

Hagar had lived in the Trafford family from childhood, and Richard had
grown up to manhood under her eyes, had married, and she went to live
with the young people. She had seen the wife fade and die, and the
husband grow stern and gloomy, and out of solicitude and affection had
clung faithfully to him through all fortunes. It would seem, to hear
her talk, that she never had quite realized that Richard Trafford, the
man of forty, was any other than "Mas'r Dick," the boy whose smartness
at school, and whose popularity among his companions, had always been
her boast and pride. Gray and worn he was getting, gloomy, sad, even
harsh at times to her, yet he was only "Mas'r Dick," and her own
little boy, for whom she must watch and care to the best of her
ability. Now, as she queried where the letter might be from, she
dropped down in a chair a little way from him, and waited till he
should see fit to answer her question; for could there be a paradise
on earth, it would have been represented to Hagar by Hastings,--that
great city where their old home had been, where her own childhood had
been spent, and where all the friends of her kin and color dwelt. It
was a hard matter to tear herself away from them all and follow
Richard Trafford to dreary Culm Rock; but, with some tears and
sighing, she had said to her people, "Yer don't know nuffin about it.
Ye habn't got any 'Mas'r Dick;' so how ken ye? 'Tain't in dis yer old
heart to let de chile go off sufferin' all by hisself, now! Bress de
Lord, I'll stick to de poor boy, an' keep him frum jes' worryin' his
life out." So here she was in her old age, away from all her people,
yet happy because it was to serve "Mas'r Dick."

Trafford took up the letter,--a large, thick one, bearing the marks
of the skipper's great fingers on its envelope, and smelling of fish,
as if it had performed its journey in company with herring and
cod,--and said, "Yes, Hagar; it's from Hastings, of course."

The old housekeeper lingered, looked at the master in hopes that he
would bid her stay, and then, as he tore open the letter with a moody
face, we