Henry takes great pride in all his grandchildren. They mind him not only of his own bairns, but of the children he did teach for so long at our school here in the town—so many he can barely cross the street these days but someone stops him for a conversation. Still, although he holds no favorites, he does play a little softer with his granddaughter, the only lass among so many lads. And I’d be lying if I said it did not soften my heart, too, the day I watched her climb into his lap, so he could sit awhile and read to her, and Henry laughed and asked, “What book this time?”

But there is only one book that she loves: The History of the Most Renowned Don Quixote of La Mancha: And His Trusty Squire Sancho Panza.

It is a family weakness.

Maggie read it to her, also, when she and Simon came to see us this past spring. It was their second visit to America. I hope it will not be their last.

She writes with regularity, as do Marion Bell and her husband, and if Maggie’s letters do not come as often as we’d like them to, we can rely upon those sent by Richard Gilroy, who has been a steadfast friend and from his rising vantage point has kept watch over both Maggie and Simon.

Maggie’s music, which she now performs as well as teaches, has indeed become her ship, as she predicted, and it carries her to great adventures. She was built to have adventures, I believe. It’s in her blood, says Lily, being she’s a Graeme.

But I’ve known that from the time she was a bairn.

When I first handed her the letters from her father that I’d taken out of Archie’s pocket on the night he died, Maggie took them with both hands and thanked me, and said, “Someday, I will go to France and look for him.”

She did. Although to tell the story truly, it was Colonel Graeme who did come to fetch her into France, but that’s a tale best told by Maggie, for she tells it well.

But wait…my critic wants to have a word.

She has come to read this over and correct what I have written. This is properly her room, not mine, lined with its shelves of all the books that she so loves, and the warm lamplight in the evenings, and the windows looking to the changing sea.

“You could have been more clear,” she says, “at the beginning.”

“I was clear enough.”

“You did not tell them all the truth.”

I’ve always liked the answer Robert Moray gave to me, and so I use it now: “All men leave pieces out when they tell tales,” I say. “It is no crime.”

She sighs, and picks a kitten up and puts it in the basket.

“They will get there in the end,” I promise. Readers always do.

“You’ve been too long indoors,” she tells me, “and the day is fine.”