There were times when I doubted sadly if he would `` hang on . '' As the winter wore away he grew frailer and frailer . But ever he looked forward to the coming of spring and `` the book , '' his book , transformed and glorified . One day in young April the book came at last . Uncle Jesse had gone to the post office faithfully every day for a month , expecting it , but this day he was too feeble to go and I went for him . The book was there . It was called simply , The Life-Book of Jesse Boyd , and on the title page the names of Robert Kennedy and Jesse Boyd were printed as collaborators . I shall never forget Uncle Jesse 's face as I handed it to him . I came away and left him reading it , oblivious to all else . All night the light burned in his window , and I looked out across the sands to it and pictured the delight of the old man poring over the printed pages whereon his own life was portrayed . I wondered how he would like the ending -- the ending I had suggested . I was never to know . After breakfast I went over to Uncle Jesse 's house , taking some little delicacy Mother had cooked for him . It was an exquisite morning , full of delicate spring tints and sounds . The harbour was sparkling and dimpling like a girl , the winds were playing hide and seek roguishly among the stunted firs , and the silver-flashing gulls were soaring over the bar . Beyond the Gate was a shining , wonderful sea . When I reached the little house on the point I saw the lamp still burning wanly in the window . A quick alarm struck at my heart . Without waiting to knock , I lifted the latch , and entered . Uncle Jesse was lying on the old sofa by the window , with the book clasped to his heart .
His eyes were closed and XXXXX his face was a look of the most perfect peace and happiness -- the look of one who has long sought and found at last .
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