The Pentle place had been closed up and the servants were gone; but Mrs. Pentle's car was still waiting at the gate, and Mrs. Pentle herself—old John Ferguson, on his way to the lookout, could see Mrs. Pentle perched up on her flat rock and looking out on Gloucester harbor and the sea.
There was a fishing-schooner sailing out. John put his glasses on her and was entering her in his book when he heard some one's step on the ladder leading to his tower, and then the hatch sliding back. It was Mrs. Pentle.
"I've heard of your book, John. May I look at it?"
"Surely, ma'am, surely." He passed it to her. "For seventeen years now I've been keeping it—the account o' the fishing-vessels sailin' out o' Gloucester, ma'am. A column for the day o' departure, one for the name o' the vessel, one for the master, and one for the day she comes back home."
She was turning the pages.
"So many never come back home, do they?"
"Nacherally—they bein' fishermen, ma'am."
"Ah-h, here's the year!" She ran her finger down the page. "And here!" and read: "'Valorous—sailed December seventeenth—and never returned.'"
"I mind her, ma'am, with the proud name—George's handlin'."
"I know. My father was one of her crew.... But here"—she stopped in her turning of the pages—"isn't this the entry of one they've just given up for lost?"