The iron gates still stand upright, but the ancient wooden sign hangs crookedly from one massive concrete post. The fearsome winters have taken their toll on the weathered wood but the word Argyll House is still legible if peered at closely on the sand pitted plank. The long winding drive is not well kept as in the old days since the present owners visit rarely, but the ancient house, looming abruptly around the last curve, is still impressive. The house is like an old dowager, proud and unbowed despite a worn and ravaged outward appearance, secretive and full of memories. Waves crash over the rocky coastline below the cracked, lichen-covered veranda where gulls swoop and cry just as they did in times long ago when two lovers stood on that same veranda and laughed with sheer joy of being together. Tiny, neurotic sandpipers scurry over the little sand spit at the bottom of the rocky steps leading from the veranda and the wind sighs through the tall sea grass that obscures a narrow path leading to the top of a distant hill. Some of the locals say it's haunted on that hill. They say a woman stands near the edge of the cliff, her long hair blowing in the wind watching waiting. Those who venture closer to the old house on a night when a sliver of a moon shines dimly through the mist have their own story to add to the legend of Argyll House. The night is still with only the sound of tiny waves splashing up against the rocks. Suddenly there is a different sound. Peering through the swirling fog there appears the outline of a six-masted schooner rounding the headland, its sails gleaming ghostly white in the waning moonlight. There is silence for a long moment, and then the faint splash of oars is heard. Suddenly the veranda door flies open and the figure of a woman appears, long unbound hair streaming down her back. She pauses briefly, then lifts her long skirt and skims across the veranda, small feet barely touching the pavement. The watcher, mesmerized by the sight of the