I've seen a fine, silvery mist hanging over the bar 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, sweet face, and long slender fingers like yours, Mistress Blythe, 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, roguish, little laugh.