She was an imaginative child , and in fancy she made the acquaintance of her father . She had never seen him , but he was more real to her than most of the people she had seen . He played and talked with her as her mother never did ; he walked with her in the orchard and field and garden ; he sat by her pillow in the twilight ; to him she whispered secrets she told to none other . Once her mother asked her impatiently why she talked so much to herself . `` I am not talking to myself . I am talking to a very dear friend of mine , '' Rachel answered gravely . `` Silly child , '' laughed her mother , half tolerantly , half disapprovingly . Two years later something wonderful had happened to Rachel . One summer afternoon she had gone to the harbor with several of her little playmates . Such a jaunt was a rare treat to the child , for Isabella Spencer seldom allowed her to go from home with anybody but herself . And Isabella was not an entertaining companion . Rachel never particularly enjoyed an outing with her mother . The children wandered far along the shore ; at last they came to a place that Rachel had never seen before . It was a shallow cove where the waters purred on the yellow sands . Beyond it , the sea was laughing and flashing and preening and alluring , like a beautiful , coquettish woman . Outside , the wind was boisterous and rollicking ; here , it was reverent and gentle . A white boat was hauled up on the skids , and there was a queer little house close down to the sands , like a big shell tossed up by the waves . Rachel looked on it all with secret delight ; she , too , loved the lonely places of sea and shore , as her father had done . She wanted to linger awhile in this dear spot and revel in it . `` I 'm tired , girls , '' she announced .
`` I 'm going XXXXX stay here and rest for a spell .
Beyond along as before by of on than to with