ONE day in late September Owen Ford’s book came at last. Captain Jim had gone faithfully to the Glen post office every day for a month, expecting it. This day he had not gone, and Leslie brought his copy home with hers and Anne’s.
“We’ll take it down to him this evening,” said Anne, excited as a schoolgirl.
The long walk to the Point on that clear, beguiling evening along the red harbor road was very pleasant. Then the sun dropped down behind the western hills into some valley that must have been full of lost sunsets, and at the same instant the big light flashed out on the white tower of the point.
“Captain Jim is never late by the fraction of a second,” said Leslie.
Neither Anne nor Leslie ever forgot Captain Jim’s face when they gave him the book—his book, transfigured and glorified. The cheeks that had been blanched of late suddenly flamed with the color of boyhood; his eyes glowed with all the fire of youth; but his hands trembled as he opened it.
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