. You are a sailor. You have lived your life on it. But do
you know how beautiful it is, how strong, how charming, how friendly, how
mighty . . . "
I listened amazed and touched. She was silent only a little while.
"It was too good to last. But nothing can rob me of it now . . . Don't
think that I repine. I am not even sad now. Yes, I have been happy. But
I remember also the time when I was unhappy beyond endurance, beyond
desperation. Yes. You remember that. And later on, too. There was a
time on board the _Ferndale_ when the only moments of relief I knew were
when I made Mr. Powell talk to me a little on the poop. You like
him?--Don't you?"
"Excellent fellow," I said warmly. "You see him often?"
"Of course. I hardly know another soul in the world. I am alone. And
he has plenty of time on his hands. His aunt died a few years ago. He's
doing nothing, I believe."
"He is fond of the sea," I remarked. "He loves it."
"He seems to have given it up," she murmured.
"I wonder why?"
She remained silent. "Perhaps it is because he loves something else
better," I went on.
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