This sort of life is decidedly dull . The program of every day is the same . I go to the sandshore with Aunt Martha and Mrs. Saxby in the morning , read to Aunt in the afternoons , and mope around by my disconsolate self in the evenings . Mrs. Blake has lent me , for shore use , a very fine spyglass which she owns . She says her `` man '' brought it home from `` furrin ' parts '' before he died . While Aunt and Mrs. Saxby meander up and down the shore , leaving me free to a certain extent , I amuse myself by examining distant seas and coasts through it , thus getting a few peeps into a forbidden world . We see few people , although there is a large summer hotel about a mile up the beach . Our shore haunts do not seem to be popular with its guests . They prefer the rocks . This suits Aunt Martha admirably . I may also add that it does n't suit her niece -- but that is a matter of small importance . The first morning I noticed a white object on the rocks , about half a mile away , and turned my glass on it . There -- apparently within a stone 's throw of me -- was a young man . He was lounging on a rock , looking dreamily out to sea . There was something about his face that reminded me of someone I know , but I can not remember whom . Every morning he has reappeared on the same spot . He seems to be a solitary individual , given to prowling by himself . I wonder what Aunt would say if she knew what I am so earnestly watching through my glass at times . July Eleventh . I shall have to cease looking at the Unknown , I am afraid .
This morning I turned my XXXXX , as usual , on his pet haunt .
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