of those summers which, in a fortunate
combination of delightful weather, delightful friends and delightful
doings, come as near to perfection as anything can come in this world.

"Too good to last," Anne told herself with a little sigh, on the
September day when a certain nip in the wind and a certain shade of
intense blue on the gulf water said that autumn was hard by.

That evening Owen Ford told them that he had finished his book and that
his vacation must come to an end.

"I have a good deal to do to it yet--revising and pruning and so
forth," he said, "but in the main it's done. I wrote the last sentence
this morning. If I can find a publisher for it it will probably be out
next summer or fall."

Owen had not much doubt that he would find a publisher. He knew that
he had written a great book--a book that would score a wonderful
success--a book that would LIVE. He knew that it would bring him both
fame and fortune; but when he had written the last line of it he had
bowed his head on the manuscript and so sat for a long time. And his
thoughts were not of the good work he had done.

CHAPTER 26

OWEN FORD'S CONFESSION

"I'm so sorry Gilbert is away," said Anne. "He had to go--Allan Lyons
at the Glen has met with a serious accident. He will not likely be
home till very late. But he told me to tell you he'd be up and over
early enough in the morning to see you before you left. It's too
provoking. Susan and I had planned such a nice little jamboree for
your last night here."

She was sitting beside the garden brook on the little rustic seat
Gilbert had built. Owen Ford stood before her, leaning against the
bronze column of a yellow birch. He was very pale and his face bore
the marks of the preceding sleepless night. Anne, glancing up at him,
wondered if, after all, his summer had brought him the strength it
should. Had he worked too hard over his book? She remembered that for
a week he had not been looking well.

"I'm rather glad the doctor is away," said Owen slowly. "I wanted to
see you alone, Mrs. Blythe. There is something I must tell somebody,
or I think it will drive me mad. I've been trying for a week to look
it in the face--and I can't. I know I can trust you--and, besides, you
will understand. A woman with eyes like yours always understands. You
are one of the folks people instinctively tell things to. Mrs. Blythe,
I love Leslie. LOVE her! That seems too weak a word!"

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