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 given to the world. He was also pleased that the story of lost 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 soul and 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 so long. It couldn’t be writ till the right man come. You belong here—you’ve got the soul of this old north shore in you—you’re the only one who could write it.”

It was arranged that the tiny room off the living room at the lighthouse should be given over to Owen for a workshop. It was necessary that Captain Jim should be near him as he wrote, for consultation upon many matters of sea-faring and gulf lore of which Owen was quite ignorant.

He began work on the book the very next morning, and flung himself into it 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 him see the manuscript.