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 her mother’s face watching her—and it was near sixty years ago. Is she living yet?”

“No, she died when I was only a boy.”

“Oh, it doesn’t seem right that I should be living to hear that,” sighed Captain Jim. “But I’m heart-glad to see you. It’s brought back my youth for a little while. You don’t know yet what a boon that is. Mistress Blythe here has the trick—she does it quite often for me.”

Captain Jim was still more excited when he discovered that Owen Ford was what he called a “real writing man.” He gazed at him as at a superior being. Captain Jim knew that Anne wrote, but he had never taken that fact very seriously. Captain Jim thought women were delightful creatures, who ought to have the vote, and everything else they wanted, bless their hearts; but he did not believe they could write.

“Jest look at A Mad Love,” he would protest. “A woman wrote that and jest look at it—one hundred and three chapters when it could all have been told in ten. A writing woman never knows when to stop; that’s the trouble. The p’int of good writing is to know when to stop.”

“Mr. Ford wants to hear some of your stories, Captain Jim” said Anne. “Tell him the one about the captain who went crazy and imagined he was the Flying Dutchman.”

This was Captain Jim’s best story. It was a compound of horror and humor, and though Anne had