The terrible storms on the Atlantic in my fifty-first year brought to her the death which she had longed for. The yacht on which she, together with several of society’s youthful favorites, had set out for a joyous cruise was not seen again, according to the stories. A wire came into the office, four months later, which said that the body of a young woman, resembling Celeste, had been found on a wild bit of the Maine coast. I was no longer a reporter, but sat at the main desk, where the older men are relegated. The news editor--a mere boy of thirty--barked at me above the hurried clack of typewriters, “You knew her, didn’t you? Suppose you get on the story. Give it a sob touch. Take a look at the woman.” A plane hurried me to the spot and I found the glorious Celeste lying still and cold on a cot in a fisherman’s shack. She was a little bruised, but still serene and beautiful. Yet her clothes were torn and stained with many months at sea. However, the story came to nothing, for eventually the yacht floated in on another bit of coast--a mangled thing--bearing within its ruins bodies made unrecognizable by time. The newspaper would have nothing of my finding of Celeste. Gray skies looked down upon a gray and rocky coast and the sea gull’s cry mingled with the singing of the little band of fisherfolk, when Celeste was laid at rest. Just recently the curator of the museum asked me again for my daisy. The price offered had substantially increased over that of former years. Transcriber’s note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories, March 1930 (vol. 04, no. 12.). Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.