pon me on the way to
bed--into the little room where I lay luxuriously, in the midst of
those extravagant comforts which so strangely came to me. And more
often than not he would haul this way and that upon the covers until,
as though by some unhappy accident, I was awakened.

"God bless you, Dannie," says he.

"Good-night, sir."

'Twas all he wanted--a good wish spoken in the night. To his own bare
room he would then be off, a bit uncertain (I recall) in the
management of his wooden leg.

* * * * *

Under my window, at the foot of a short cliff which fell roughly into
the open cove, as shall be told, the sea broke. While sleep waited
'twas my habit to listen to the waves upon the rocks: in that brief
and mystical interval when many truths take shape, definite and
lovely, as in a mist, but are forgot before dawn stirs us, nor can be
remembered. Of still moonlit nights; of windless dusks, with the swell
of past storms sullenly remaining; in clammy, breathless weather; with
fresh winds blowing our craft to and fro on their way in search of the
fish; in blackest gales, when the men of Twist Tickle kept watch for
wrecks upon the heads--forever I listened to the voice of the sea
before I fell asleep. But the sea has no voice, but may only play upon
the souls of men, which speak from the uttermost depths, each soul in
its own way: so that the sea has a thousand voices, and listening men
are tranquil or not, as may chance within them, without mystery. Never
since those far-off days, when the sea took my unspoiled soul as a
harp in its hands, have I been secure in the knowledge of truth,
untroubled by bewilderment and anxious questions. Untroubled by love,
by the fear of hell, 'twas good to be alive in a world where the sea
spoke tenderly below the window of the room where sleep came bearing
dreams.

And my uncle? God knows! The harp was warped, and the strings of the
harp were broken and out of tune....

[1] 'Twas really "damned t' port an' weather" my uncle would have me
say; but I hesitate to set it down, lest the more gentle readers
of my simple narrative think ill of the man's dealings with a
child, which I would not have them do.

[2] Of course, the frequent recurrence of this vulgarity in my
narrative is to be regretted. No one, indeed, is more sensible
of the circumstance than I. My uncle held the word in
affectionate regard, an