“Good-by, Moran!” shouted Wilbur as she passed. “Good-by, good-by, Moran! You were not for me--not for me! The ocean is calling for you, dear; don't you hear him? Don't you hear him? Good-by, good-by, good-by!” The schooner swept by, shot like an arrow through the swirling currents of the Golden Gate, and dipped and bowed and courtesied to the Pacific that reached toward her his myriad curling fingers. They infolded her, held her close, and drew her swiftly, swiftly out to the great heaving bosom, tumultuous and beating in its mighty joy, its savage exultation of possession. Wilbur stood watching. The little schooner lessened in the distance--became a shadow in mist and flying spray--a shadow moving upon the face of the great waste of water. Fainter and fainter she grew, vanished, reappeared, was heaved up again--a mere speck upon the western sky--a speck that dwindled and dwindled, then slowly melted away into the gray of the horizon. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Moran of the Lady Letty, by Frank Norris