pages that would carry his message to the doubting, disconsolate, and
fearful world that he knew so well, he heard in his heart the voices of
the river. From the hillside where he worked in the timber he could see
the stream winding through the snowy hills like a dark line carelessly
drawn with many a crook and curve and break on the sheet of white. From
the porch he saw the quiet Bend a belt of shining ice and snow, save for
a narrow line in the centre, which marked the course of the strongest
currents; while the waters of the rapids crashed black and dreadful
against the Elbow Rock cliff, which stood gaunt and grim amid the
surrounding whiteness; and in the deathlike hush of the winter twilight,
the roar of the turmoil sounded with persistent menace. And all that the
river said to him he put down,--so far as it was given him to do.

And that which Brian Kent wrote was good. He knew it--in his deepest,
truest self he knew. And Auntie Sue knew it; for, of course, he read
to her from his manuscript as the book grew under his hand. Even Judy
caught much of his story's meaning, and marvelled at herself because
she, too, could understand.

So the spring came, and the first writing of the book was nearly
finished.

And now the question arose: What would they do about the final
preparation of the manuscript for the printers? Brian explained that he
should have a typewritten copy of his script, which he would work over,
correct, and revise, and from which perfected copy the final manuscript
would be typewritten. But neither Auntie Sue nor Brian would consider
his finishing the book anywhere but in the little log house by the
river; even if there had been no other reason why Brian should not go to
the city, if it could be avoided.