It was an old leather-bound book filled with the record of his voyages
and adventures. Anne thought what a treasure trove it would be to a
writer. Every sentence was a nugget. In itself the book had no
literary merit; Captain Jim's charm of storytelling failed him when he
came to pen and ink; he could only jot roughly down the outline of his
famous tales, and both spelling and grammar were sadly askew. But Anne
felt that if anyone possessed of the gift could take that simple record
of a brave, adventurous life, reading between the bald lines the tales
of dangers staunchly faced and duty manfully done, a wonderful story
might be made from it. Rich comedy and thrilling tragedy were both
lying hidden in Captain Jim's "life-book," waiting for the touch of the
master hand to waken the laughter and grief and horror of thousands.

Anne said something of this to Gilbert as they walked home.

"Why don't you try your hand at it yourself, Anne?"

Anne shook her head.

"No. I only wish I could. But it's not in the power of my gift. You
know what my forte is, Gilbert--the fanciful, the fairylike, the
pretty. To write Captain Jim's life-book as it should be written one
should be a master of vigorous yet subtle style, a keen psychologist, a
born humorist and a born tragedian. A rare combination of gifts is
needed. Paul might do it if he were older. Anyhow, I'm going to ask
him to come down next summer and meet Captain Jim."

"Come to this shore," wrote Anne to Paul. "I am afraid you cannot find
here Nora or the Golden Lady or the Twin Sailors; but you will find one
old sailor who can tell you wonderful stories."

Paul, however wrote back, saying regretfully that he could not come
that year. He was going abroad for two year's study.

"When I return I'll come to Four Winds, dear Teacher," he wrote.

"But meanwhile, Captain Jim is growing old," said Anne, sorrowfully,
"and there is nobody to write his life-book."

CHAPTER 18

SPRING DAYS

The ice in the harbor grew black and rotten in the March suns; in April
there were blue waters and a windy, white-capped gulf again; and again
the Four Winds light begemmed the twilights.

"I'm so glad to see it once more," said Anne, on the first evening of
its reappearance. "I've missed it so all winter. The northwestern sky
has seemed blank and lonely without it."

The land was tender with brand-new, golden-green, baby leaves. There
was an emerald mist on the wo