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.