r it. At last his
cherished dream was to be realized and his life-book given to the
world.

"We'll collaborate," said Robert. "You will give the soul and I the
body. Oh, we'll write a famous book between us, Uncle Jesse. And we'll
get right to work."

Uncle Jesse was a happy man that summer. He looked upon the little
back room we gave up to Robert for a study as a sacred shrine. Robert
talked everything over with Uncle Jesse but would not let him see the
manuscript. "You must wait till it is published," he said. "Then
you'll get it all at once in its best shape."

Robert delved into the treasures of the life-book and used them
freely. He dreamed and brooded over lost Margaret until she became a
vivid reality to him and lived in his pages. As the book progressed it
took possession of him and he worked at it with feverish eagerness. He
let me read the manuscript and criticize it; and the concluding
chapter of the book, which the critics later on were pleased to call
idyllic, was modelled after my suggestions, so that I felt as if I had
a share in it too.

It was autumn when the book was finished. Robert went back to town,
but Mother and I decided to stay at Golden Gate all winter. We loved
the spot and, besides, I wished to remain for Uncle Jesse's sake. He
was failing all the time, and after Robert went and the excitement of
the book-making was past, he failed still more rapidly. His tramping
expeditions were over and he seldom went out in his boat. Neither did
he talk a great deal. He liked to come over and sit silently for hours
at our seaward window, looking out wistfully toward the Gate with his
swiftly whitening head leaning on his hand. The only keen interest he
still had was in Robert's book. He waited and watched impatiently for
its publication.

"I want to live till I see it," he said, "just that long--then I'll be
ready to go. He said it would be out in the spring--I must hang on
till it comes, Mary."

There were times when I doubted sadly if he would "hang on." As the
winter wore away he grew frailer and frailer. But ever he looked
forward to the coming of spring and "the book," _his_ book,
transformed and glorified.

One day in young April the book came at last. Uncle Jesse had gone to
the post office faithfully every day for a month, expecting it, but
this day he was too feeble to go and I went for him. The book was
there. It was called simply, _The Life-Book of Jesse Boyd_, and on the
title page