Owen Ford came over to the little house the next morning in a state ofgreat excitement. "Mrs. Blythe, this is a wonderful book--absolutelywonderful. If I could take it and use the material for a book I feelcertain I could make the novel of the year out of it. Do you supposeCaptain Jim would let me do it?"
"Let you! I'm sure he would be delighted," cried Anne. "I admit thatit was what was in my head when I took you down last night. CaptainJim has always been wishing he could get somebody to write hislife-book properly for him."
"Will you go down to the Point with me this evening, Mrs. Blythe? I'llask him about that life-book myself, but I want you to tell him thatyou told me the story of lost Margaret and ask him if he will let meuse it as a thread of romance with which to weave the stories of thelife-book into a harmonious whole."
Captain Jim was more excited than ever when Owen Ford told him of hisplan. At last his cherished dream was to be realized and his"life-book" given to the world. He was also pleased that the story oflost Margaret should be woven into it.
"It will keep her name from being forgotten," he said wistfully.
"That's why I want it put in."
"We'll collaborate," cried Owen delightedly. "You will give the souland I the body. Oh, we'll write a famous book between us, Captain Jim.And we'll get right to work."
"And to think my book is to be writ by the schoolmaster's grandson!"exclaimed Captain Jim. "Lad, your grandfather was my dearest friend.I thought there was nobody like him. I see now why I had to wait solong. It couldn't be writ till the right man come. You BELONGhere--you've got the soul of this old north shore in you--you're theonly one who COULD write it."
It was arranged that the tiny room off the living room at thelighthouse should be given over to Owen for a workshop. It wasnecessary that Captain Jim should be near him as he wrote, forconsultation upon many matters of sea-faring and gulf lore of whichOwen was quite ignorant.
He began work on the book the very next morning, and flung himself intoit heart and soul. As for Captain Jim, he was a happy man that summer.He looked upon the little room where Owen worked as a sacred shrine.Owen talked everything over with Captain Jim, but he would not let himsee the manuscript.
"You must wait until it is published," he said. "Then you'll get itall at once in its best shape."
He delved into the treasures of the life-book and used them freely. Hedreamed and brooded over lost Margaret until she became a vivid realityto him and lived in his pages. As the book progressed it tookpossession of him and he worked at it with feverish eagerness. He letAnne and Leslie read the manuscript and criticise it; and theconcluding chapter of the book, which the critics, later on, werepleased to call idyllic, was modelled upon a suggestion of Leslie's.
Anne fairly hugged herself with delight over the success of her idea.
"I knew when I looked at Owen Ford that he was the very man for it,"she told Gilbert. "Both humor and passion were in his face, and that,together with the art of expression, was just what was necessary forthe writing of such a book. As Mrs. Rachel would say, he waspredestined for the part."
Owen Ford wrote in the mornings. The afternoons were generally spentin some merry outing with the Blythes. Leslie often went, too, forCaptain Jim took charge of Dick frequently, in order to set her free.They went boating on the harbor and up the three pretty rivers thatflowed into it; they had clambakes on the bar and mussel-bakes on therocks; they picked strawberries on the sand-dunes; they went outcod-fishing with Captain Jim; they shot plover in the shore fields andwild ducks in the cove--at least, the men did. In the evenings theyrambled in the low-lying, daisied, shore fields under a golden moon, orthey sat in the living room at the little house where often thecoolness of the sea breeze justified a driftwood fire, and talked ofthe thousand and one things which happy, eager, clever young people canfind to talk about.
Ever since the day on which she had made her confession to Anne Lesliehad been a changed creature. There was no trace of her old coldnessand reserve, no shadow of her old bitterness. The girlhood of whichshe had been cheated seemed to come back to her with the ripeness ofwomanhood; she expanded like a flower of flame and perfume; no laughwas readier than hers, no wit quicker, in the twilight circles of thatenchanted summer. When she could not be with them all felt that someexquisite savor was lacking in their intercourse. Her beauty wasillumined by the awakened soul within, as some rosy lamp might shinethrough a flawless vase of alabaster. There were hours when Anne'seyes seemed to ache with the splendor of her. As for Owen Ford, the"Margaret" of his book, although she had the soft brown hair and elfinface of the real girl who had vanished so long ago, "pillowed wherelost Atlantis sleeps," had the personality of Leslie Moore, as it wasrevealed to him in those halcyon days at Four Winds Harbor.
All in all, it was a never-to-be-forgotten summer--one of those summerswhich come seldom into any life, but leave a rich heritage of beautifulmemories in their going--one of those summers which, in a fortunatecombination of delightful weather, delightful friends and delightfuldoings, come as near to perfection as anything can come in this world.
"Too good to last," Anne told herself with a little sigh, on theSeptember day when a certain nip in the wind and a certain shade ofintense blue on the gulf water said that autumn was hard by.
That evening Owen Ford told them that he had finished his book and thathis vacation must come to an end.
"I have a good deal to do to it yet--revising and pruning and soforth," he said, "but in the main it's done. I wrote the last sentencethis morning. If I can find a publisher for it it will probably be outnext summer or fall."
Owen had not much doubt that he would find a publisher. He knew thathe had written a great book--a book that would score a wonderfulsuccess--a book that would LIVE. He knew that it would bring him bothfame and fortune; but when he had written the last line of it he hadbowed his head on the manuscript and so sat for a long time. And histhoughts were not of the good work he had done.