led 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 for
the writing of such a book. As Mrs. Rachel would say, he was
predestined for the part."

Owen Ford wrote in the mornings. The afternoons were generally spent
in some merry outing with the Blythes. Leslie often went, too, for
Captain Jim took charge of Dick frequently, in order to set her free.
They went boating on the harbor and up the three pretty rivers that
flowed into it; they had clambakes on the bar and mussel-bakes on the
rocks; they picked strawberries on the sand-dunes; they went out
cod-fishing with Captain Jim; they shot plover in the shore fields and
wild ducks in the cove--at least, the men did. In the evenings they
rambled in the low-lying, daisied, shore fields under a golden moon, or
they sat in the living room at the little house where often the
coolness of the sea breeze justified a driftwood fire, and talked of
the thousand and one things which happy, eager, clever young people can
find to talk about.

Ever since the day on which she had made her confession to Anne Leslie
had been a changed creature. There was no trace of her old coldness
and reserve, no shadow of her old bitterness. The girlhood of which
she had been cheated seemed to come back to her with the ripeness of
womanhood; she expanded like a flower of flame and perfume; no laugh
was readier than hers, no wit quicker, in the twilight circles of that
enchanted summer. When she could not be with them all felt that some
exquisite savor was lacking in their intercourse. Her beauty was
illumined by the awakened soul within, as some rosy lamp might shine
through a flawless vase of alabaster. There were hours when Anne's
eyes 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 elfin
face of the real girl who had vanished so long ago, "pillowed where
lost Atlantis sleeps," had the personality of Leslie Moore, as it was
revealed to him in those halcyon days at Four Winds Harbor.

All in all, it was a never-to-be-forgotten summer--one of those summers
which come seldom into any life, but leave a rich heritage of beautiful
memories in their going--one