en it is
past.

"I walked the shore for months after that," he said sadly, "looking to
find her dear, sweet little body, but the sea never gave her back to
me. But I'll find her sometime. I wisht I could tell you just how she
looked but I can't. I've seen a fine silvery mist hanging over the
Gate at sunrise that seemed like her--and then again I've seen a white
birch in the woods back yander that made me think of her. She had pale
brown hair and a little white face, and long slender fingers like
yours, Mary, only browner, for she was a shore girl. Sometimes I wake
up in the night and hear the sea calling to me in the old way and it
seems as if lost Margaret called in it. And when there's a storm and
the waves are sobbing and moaning I hear her lamenting among them. And
when they laugh on a gay day it's _her_ laugh--lost Margaret's sweet
little laugh. The sea took her from me but some day I'll find her,
Mary. It can't keep us apart forever."

I had not been long at Golden Gate before I saw Uncle Jesse's
"life-book," as he quaintly called it. He needed no coaxing to show it
and he proudly gave it to me to read. It was an old leather-bound book
filled with the record of his voyages and adventures. I thought what a
veritable treasure trove it would be to a writer. Every sentence was a
nugget. In itself the book had no literary merit; Uncle Jesse's charm
of story-telling failed him when he came to pen and ink; he could only
jot down roughly the outlines of his famous tales, and both spelling
and grammar were sadly askew. But I felt that if anyone possessing the
gift could take that simple record of a brave, adventurous life,
reading between the bald lines the tale of dangers staunchly faced and
duties manfully done, a wonderful story might be made from it. Pure
comedy and thrilling tragedy were both lying hidden in Uncle Jesse's
"life-book," waiting for the touch of the magician's hand to waken the
laughter and grief and horror of thousands. I thought of my cousin,
Robert Kennedy, who juggled with words in a masterly fashion, but
complained that he found it hard to create incidents or characters.
Here were both ready to his hand, but Robert was in Japan in the
interests of his paper.

In the fall, when the harbour lay black and sullen under November
skies, Mother and I went back to town, parting with Uncle Jesse
regretfully. We wanted him to visit us in town during the winter but
he shook his head.

"It's too far away,