Although there was disappointment in the heart of the girl because the letter had not been from Gene, she was indeed glad to hear that she was so soon to see her dear Uncle Lem, as it had been many months since his town house had been boarded up and he had departed for the big city.
“Lem’s to put into port next Tuesday,” the old man said. “I reckon he’s right about the iddication idee. I cal’late yo’d ought to be gittin’ some larnin’ into that purty head o’ yo’rn. Not but that yo’re suitin’ me to a ‘T’ jest as yo’ are, but Lem knows best, I reckon.”
There was a sad note in the voice of the old man and a suspicion of moisture in the grey eyes that looked so lovingly at his “gal.” Quickly he turned away to hide them. He had been selfish long enough and life was “tarnel unsartin” at best.
Then he recalled the long-delayed letter that he planned writing to Muriel’s own father. He had an address that his daughter had once sent to him, and in the accompanying note she had written: “Dad, a letter sent here will always reach my husband or me. Please write that you have forgiven me, for I do so love you.”
That note from Muriel’s girl-mother (with the address to which they were to write if they wished to reach her father) was in the iron box hidden in the tower near the great lamp, the very box of which Captain Ezra had told Captain Barney.
“If I should be tuk sudden-like,” the old man had said, “I want yo’ to go to the tower, get that box, Barney, an’ have some-un write to the father o’ my gal.”
Captain Ezra was thinking of these things as he sat smoking.
“I snum, I’ll get that thar letter written next Sunday as sure sartin as I’m keeper of the light,” he resolved as he rose to go to bed.
The next day the first intense heat wave of summer swept over Tunkett. The air was depressing. Muriel listlessly went about the tasks of the day. It seemed an effort even to sing, which she always tried to do to make the little home more cheerful. Never, never, should her dear old grand-dad know how lonely and disappointed she was because Gene had not even written to her. It was nearing July and as yet she had not heard of his safe arrival in Liverpool.
Boats did go down, now and then, the girl knew; and when she thought of this she asked anxiously: “Grand-dad, thar hasn’t been a wreck on the seas anywhar that you’ve heard of, has thar?”