WITS' END

BY AMY E. BLANCHARD

Author of "Two Girls," "Three Pretty Maids," "A Girl of 76,"
"Janet's College Career," "A Journey of Joy," etc.

Illustrated by
L. J. BRIDGMAN

BOSTON
DANA ESTES & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1909
By Dana Estes & Company

All rights reserved

Electrotyped and Printed by
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

WITS' END

CHAPTER I

THE ISLAND

The tide was half way out, and the rocks were already showing strange shaggy shapes as the water retreated from their weed-draped sides. A man, who had just beached his dory and had loaded his wheelbarrow with gaping cod and shining mackerel, stood looking off toward the cliffs for a moment before he should trundle his burden up the slanting path which led toward a group of white houses.

"Look like buffaloes," he said to himself. "That furthest one's most like a lion." He turned his gaze from the rocks to the pile of fish in his barrow. "You poor miserable wide-mouthed critturs," he said. "There's nothing I know of that can look so down-at-mouth as a fish out of water. Every day I think I'll give up, and I don't. What would I do if I did? I guess it's good for me to see something unhappy-looking: it makes me feel as if I weren't the sorriest wretch in the world. Maybe I'm not, either."

He took up the handles of his barrow and started along the path, which led past clumps of bayberry bushes and thickets of wild roses, into a grove of pines, and at last emerged before the door of one of the white houses which, at intervals, dotted the island. It was early morning and as Luther Williams came into the open, he met a party of workmen swinging along, dinner pails in hand. They hailed him cheerily. "Good catch, Mr. Williams?"

"Pretty fair," was the response. "What's going on to-day, boys?"

"We cal'late to start Miss Elliott's cawtage," said the foremost.

"Another cottage?" Luther Williams frowned. "Where is it going to be, Thad?"

"Oh, down along. Sot right on the rawks, she cal'lates to have it. What she wants to be down there where she'll hear all that bellerin', is more than I know, but women-folks are cranky."

They passed on, through the stile and over the hummocky ground toward the sea while Luther stood still. "Elliott," he said, "Elliott." He watched the men till they finally stopped on a knoll a few feet from the shore line, when he trundled his barrow around the corner of the house and was lost to view.

The men on the knoll stood for a few moments looking off at the blue waves which sparkled and danced in the morning light. White-sailed ships, like pale moths, poised on the water. A line of foam curled along the edge of the crags, and the murmuring ripples sang a gentle plaint as they stole in upon a small stretch of shelly beach.

"There ain't no bellerin' this morning," said one of the men. "She's only sloppin' in."

"She pounded pretty hard last night," responded another. "Kept me awake."

"Nawthin' keeps me awake," returned the first beginning to drive a stake into the ground.

"Where's this Miss Elliott from?" asked Mart Johnson. "She's noo, ain't she?"

"She was up here for a week last summer," Thad Eaton answered. "Liked the place and bought this lawt in Ben's pasture. She's from down around Baltimore or Washington, I hear."

"Single woman?"

"Yeah. Ben says he'd rather sell to them and widders, then he knows there'll be no men-folks trying to get the best of him. He's terrible afraid of city sharpers. Moreover, he says he don't care about a passel of children traipsing over his land."

The four men worked mightily to lift the great stones which they laid for the foundation of the cottage. There were many orders of "Shove her a little to the west'ard, Jim." "Jest a little wee mite to the north'ard," and the work went on so rapidly that in a short time the length and breadth of the foundation were evident.

Down by the cove, toward which the houses of the fishermen faced, a half busy, half idle life went on. At the fish house the morning's catch was being weighed. The lobstermen came in one after another from hauling their traps. Captain Purdy's vessel lay at anchor, her crew lounging about with tales of the last cruise. Luther Williams stood listening to the good-natured chaff. Big Mil Stevens was weighing the fish, once in a while putting in a humorous word as the others talked. A fat-faced, round-bodied man, ready with anecdotes, sat on an overturned keg.

"What ye think Hen Fosdick was telling me, yist'day?" he said. "Told me he didn't think nawthin' of eatin' a six pound cawd all by himself. Said he'd done it. Showed me one 'bout the size of what he'd eat the day before. 'Bout like this." He touched with the toe of his boot a slippery fish which lay on the floor. "Said it didn't bawther him a mite to eat it all."

"What do you think of that, Mil?" asked one of the men.

Mil slid a shining mass from the scales. "Wal," he drawled, "I think he was either a hawg or a liar." A shout of laughter went up at this in which Luther Williams joined. When he laughed the man's whole face changed, and one might have said that at one time he knew well how to be merry. He was a man above medium height, spare of flesh, with far-seeing eyes and a mouth whose melancholy droop seldom altered to a smile. He wore a close-cut beard and mustache, and his iron gray hair where it was not too short curled about his forehead. He was not much of a talker, but was evidently held in respect, for in that community, where even children called their elders by their first name, he was the only one dignified by the title of "Mister." Leaving the jolly crew, he trundled his barrow out of the fish house over the boards of the boat-landing, and on uphill to where the white cottages shone out in the brightness of the May morning. At the rear of one of the houses he stopped and went in. The room he entered was a cheerful sunshiny kitchen with painted floors of yellow, doors of blue, mouldings of pink. It was fresh and clean. Geraniums blossomed in the windows. The great stove sent out almost too intense a heat for the day, but the woman at the table making pies would have scorned to open a window. She was a small, neat-featured person, light-haired, blue-eyed, faded before her time. She wore a gray calico gown of indefinite pattern.

"Where's Miss Phenie?" asked Luther Williams, throwing himself down on the lounge in the corner.

"She's getting the room ready for the boarders," Miss Phosie answered. The Tibbett sisters rejoiced in the names of Tryphena and Tryphosa.

"Boarders? What boarders?" Mr. Williams raised himself on one elbow and looked alert.

"Ain't you heard, Mr. Williams? We're going to take Miss Elliott and her niece till their house is ready. She wants to be here where she can overlook it, and Almira Green says she can't take anybody till June. I don't blame Miss Elliott for wanting to be on hand, so sister and me talked it over, and as Almira said Miss Elliott was so persistent and we'd no excuse when we already had one boarder, we gave in. To be sure I said you wasn't like common boarders, seeing that you'd been here twenty years. But then it did seem churlish to refuse when we meant to take boarders anyhow this year, and what difference did a few weeks, sooner or later, make? So we said we'd try to accommodate 'em, and they're coming on the boat to-day."

"Humph!" ejaculated Luther from his corner.

"I told sister you'd be upsot," Miss Phosie went on as she rolled out her pie-crust, "but she said you'd have your breakfast before sun up anyway, and could have your other meals here in the kitchen, as you always do, so she guessed you wouldn't be bothered much by 'em. You never was much for seeing folks, Mr. Williams, and I guess we won't insist on your settin' up and makin' yourself agreeable if you don't want to."

Mr. Williams gave a short laugh and settled back while Miss Phosie went on with her pie-making. He drew a book from his pocket and lay back to read, but somehow he could not fix his mind on the pages. His thoughts would wander back to that time which had been newly brought to remembrance by the name of Elliott. He sat up, dropped his head between his hands and was lost in memories. Yes, it had been nearly twenty years since he came to Fielding's Island. He had come for a week's stay and had remained for a score of years. Old Captain Ben Tibbett had taken him in and he had stayed on and on. In these twenty years the Tibbett girls had grown to be middle-aged women, the island, then a lonely spot whose aloofness had been its chief charm, was growing to be popular. First one then another wandering visitor had discovered its beauties, had bought a plat of ground, and had built a cottage. The channel between the island and the mainland, once crossed only by sailing-vessels or row-boats, was now the highway for a steamboat which touched daily at the new wharf and brought the mail. In those early days the mail-bag was sent over from the Neck in a dory, and few were the letters it contained. Then the low-roofed houses all faced the cove, most of them nestling down in the more sheltered spots under the hill; now the summer residents had their cottages all looking seaward and the line of these was increasing year by year. "I shall have to go," said Luther Williams aloud.

Miss Phosie looked around in surprise. "Dear suz!" she exclaimed, "what do you mean, Mr. Williams?"

The man rose to his feet, picked up his hat and said, "I must be going down along, Phosie."

"It's most dinner time," she warned him.

"I'll be back in time," he assured her as he closed the door after him.

"He don't like it a mite," Miss Phosie soliloquized. "I never did see a man so sot against outsiders, unless it be Mil Stevens. Mil can't abide them, though I can't see that they do a namable thing to him. He maintains that they overrun the place and look down on us that belongs here, says they call us Islanders, and they're so high and mighty he calls 'em Highlanders. Well, I don't see that either name hurts much. One's about as good as the other and neither's bad. But Mr. Williams is different. He has a solitary kind of disposition like one of these hermits you read about. I wish I knew why. I wish I knew. There's one thing certain, he sha'n't be put to inconvenience. I'll stand between him and bother if I can."

She shoved her pies into the oven and added another pinch of tea to that already brewing on the stove. The teapot was never empty but stood all day where Cap'n Ben could get a cup of the hot black infusion whenever he came in. Miss Phenie, too, frequently liked to indulge in a draught from the brown teapot.

"They ought to be ready by this time," said Miss Phosie looking up at the clock which was set by sun time and was far ahead of Luther Williams' watch. "I wonder where father is and Ora."

She passed out of the kitchen and on through the pantry into the sitting-room. This was empty though showing the late presence of Cap'n Ben, for his pipe lay on the window-sill and his yesterday's paper was on a chair. Miss Phosie hearing voices in the room beyond, gathered that the family had congregated there. Beyond the sitting-room was the entry, oilcloth covered, chill and clean. From it a straight staircase led to the rooms above. On either side the entry were the best rooms, the parlor opened only on state occasions, and the spare chamber reserved for such particular company as the minister or some such dignitary. It was the spare chamber which Miss Phenie was preparing for the coming boarders, and it was here that Miss Phosie found her sister, her father and her niece Ora.

"Well, I swan, Phosie!" ejaculated Cap'n Ben as his daughter came in. "You ain't come to call us to dinner yet, hev ye?"

"Not yet," Miss Phosie told him. "I wondered where you all were, and I wanted to ask Phenie if I'd better bake two kinds of cake, or if one, with the gingerbread, would do."

"You'd better bake two," said Miss Phenie, putting an added touch to the mantel by setting an advertising calendar thereon. "They say Miss Elliott's quite particular. Father, you'll have to fix that door; it don't latch, and Miss Elliott won't feel safe."

"Wun't?" said Cap'n Ben pulling up his ponderous weight from the chair in which he sat. "I'd like to know who she thinks is going to carry her off. They'd drop her pretty quick if they did ketch her up by mistake, wouldn't they, Ora?"

Ora giggled and stood off to see the effect of the arrangement of the dressing-bureau on which she had placed a very hard, red velvet pincushion, a shell-covered box and an extremely ornate glass vase.

"It looks real nice," said Miss Phosie admiringly. "I'll go stir up the cake. I guess I can get one in before dinner."

"You go help her, Ora," commanded the girl's grandfather. "I guess Phenie can spare you now."

"I did want her to help me make the bed," said Miss Phenie, a round-faced, rather stout woman, who must have been good looking in her youth, but who, like most of the women on the island, had aged early. Those who had not faded had grown heavy and hard featured. Miss Phosie preserved her gentle expression, but exposure and hard work had seamed the delicate skin and turned the slimness of youth to angularity. Miss Phenie loved ease and was not inclined to do more than she must, therefore she had grown stout, but the sparkling prettiness of youth had given place to a certain coldness of eye and sensuousness of mouth which indicated the growth of selfishness. But for the authority of Cap'n Ben Miss Phosie would have been more put upon than she was.

"Go on, Ora," said her grandfather, as the girl hesitated. "If Phosie has two cakes to bake, she'll need two pairs of hands, and I cal'late one woman's enough to make one bed."

So Ora joined Miss Phosie in the kitchen. She, like her younger aunt, was fair-haired and blue-eyed, with the milk-white skin and delicately tinted cheeks of the northern girl. She was but sixteen and was already ambitious to have "a waist you could span." She therefore wore a belt several inches too small for beauty, unaware that such compression was out of fashion. Her hair was arranged in the extremest of pompadours, but, alas! among her possessions she did not count a toothbrush as her innocent mouth only too plainly evidenced. However since most of her companions were no more particular than herself, she did not realize how much her looks suffered because of her neglect.

Miss Phosie looked up with a smile as her niece came in. "Could Phenie spare you?" she asked.

"She had to. Grandpap said I was to help you."

"That's real nice," said Miss Phosie gratefully. "You just cream the butter and sugar together in this bowl and I'll get the eggs. I must get out my pies first. I hope the cake will turn out firstrate so's the boarders will be satisfied."

"I guess they'll have to be," returned Ora with a little toss of her head. "Nobody asked them to come."

"Now Ora, that ain't the right spirit," reproved Miss Phosie. "They'll pay for what they get, and we hadn't ought to take their money without making a proper return. That would be next door to stealing."

"That's not the way Aunt Phenie talks," answered Ora. "She says if we put ourselves out to accommodate them they'd ought to be satisfied with what they can get."

"We ain't putting ourselves out so very much, and if we are we're doing it in order to earn their money," replied Miss Phosie. "I guess they'll be satisfied, and I don't see the use of talking in that stiff-necked way. The niece will be nice company for you, Ora."

"She won't be then," returned Ora with a quick movement of her spoon. "I can get along without the Highlanders as well as they can without me."

"You hadn't ought to talk that way, Ora," Miss Phosie continued her reproof. "I realize that us natives haven't so much in common with city folks, and yet I'm perfectly willing to be polite to them when they are to me. I haven't a doubt but what they'd treat us well if we went to where they live. I don't believe in being so stand-offish as some are."

Ora made no reply but continued to stir the butter and sugar vigorously.

"We don't know their ways and they don't know ours," Miss Phosie went on, "and while maybe we can't be as intimate with them as we can be with those we've been brought up with, I don't see why we can't be polite and friendly like your grandpap is. Everybody likes and respects him."

"I don't want to be liked and respected except by them I like and respect," retorted Ora obstinately.

"There comes Zerviah Hackett," said Miss Phosie. "She'll want to know everything I suppose. Well, I can't stop to talk. She'll have to go to Phenie."

Miss Zerviah Hackett was the newsmonger of the place. Not an ill-natured gossip at all; quite the contrary, but nothing went on that her vigilant eye did not observe; nothing was planned about which she did not have an opinion. They were often good opinions too, just as her advice was good, and her views of life sound. But, as Miss Phosie often plaintively said: "Zerviah can't even see you darn a stocking without telling you how it ought to be done." Miss Hackett was not the sharp-eyed, angular woman her name would suggest, but was plump and fair, though possessed of a voice which shrilled out like a steamboat whistle, in striking contrast to the unusually pleasant tones of her neighbors. She was a small person, though one whose presence could not be ignored. She now entered the kitchen without knocking,—all had that privilege when they came to Cap'n Ben's,—and throwing off her shawl, she began: "Busy getting ready for your boarders, are you, Phosie? Well, I hear they're coming to-day. I hope Thad Eaton won't be sot by the ears when Miss Elliott gets here. He does hate to have women folks interfering while he's building. It's going to be a right sightly cottage, he says, but I could have told Miss Elliott she'd be kept awake nights by the noise, so near the water."

"She's been here before. She knows what it's like, Zerviah," said Miss Phosie.

"Yes, but she didn't realize it, like as not. She's going to have her front door facing east'ard, too, and she'll regret that, I know."

"I don't see why," returned Miss Phosie.

"Now, Tryphosy Tibbett, you know the storms come that way, and the rain'll beat in, and the wind."

"She won't be here in winter, and it won't matter much in summer."

"Of course it will matter. Well, it ain't my business, I suppose; but I do hate to see things going wrong when they could be bettered. What you making, Ora?"

"Cake," was the laconic reply.

"You've got gingerbread, too, I see. Going to give 'em both? What kind you making?"

Ora told her.

"Well, I s'pose you're bound to feed 'em good, but as long as they ain't going to stay any longer than they can get into their own house, I don't see the odds. Thad cal'lates they'll be in by the middle of June, but I s'pose you know that. He says they'd ought to have had their well dug first, and I say so, too. Ten to one they won't strike water."

"Asa Bates was up with his willow wand and he prophesies they'll get a plenty," Miss Phosie told her.

"Well, I don't gainsay it, but they'll have to board up their windows whilst the men are blowing the well."

"I hear they ain't going to begin the well till fall. They'll use Miss Grey's well this summer. She's given them leave."

"That so? Then maybe they can make out, but I'd have had my well before I did my house. Got the room ready for 'em?"

"Yes, Phenie is in there now."

"Then I'll go look at it. I won't get another chance, maybe." And Miss Zerviah went confidently through to the best room, leaving Miss Phosie and Ora with smiles on their faces and glad to be free of their inquisitive caller.

CHAPTER II

THE COTTAGE

The small steamer, after winding a tortuous way from island to island, at last turned into the little cove, which made a safe harbor for the fishermen of Fielding's Island. There were not many passengers at this time of year, and there were, in consequence, few lookers-on at the landing. Ira Baldwin, who combined the offices of shopkeeper and postmaster, was there to receive the mail-bag. Manny Green hung around ready for a jest with the purser. Cap'n Ben with his dog Tinker at his heels, loomed up a conspicuous figure to welcome the arriving guests. These stood on the deck waiting for the gang-plank to be thrown across to the wharf. As the tide was up it made a steep descent for Miss Elliott who crept down cautiously followed by her niece, Gwendolin Whitredge, coming at a more fearless pace. Cap'n Ben's big hand was there to give assistance at the last, and his cheery voice was the first to greet the two.

"Got here all right, didn't ye? Right hawndsome day, ain't it? Give me them traps. I'll lug 'em for ye."

"I can carry them," spoke up Gwen.

The captain turned his twinkling blue eyes upon her, and gave a quick sideway jerk of his head. "Ain't going to le' ye. Women-folks has petticoats to manage."

"Cap'n Ben, this is my niece, Gwendolin Whitredge," said Miss Elliott hastening to give the introduction which had been wanting before.

"That's what I cal'lated she was," came the reply. "Didn't guess you'd changed your mind and brought another gal along. Wal, Miss Elliott, your cawtage is gettin' on. They've begun to shingle. Guess you're glad of that."

"I am indeed. Will it be ready for us in time, do you think, Cap'n Ben?"

"Don't take long to run 'em up, and when they git her roofed in the weather don't make much difference. Pretty warm down your way?" He turned with a smile to Gwen.

"It's beginning to be," she answered, smiling back and thinking, "we shall be good friends, this old man and I. Ah, there is the ocean!" she exclaimed as they took the rise of the hill. "I was beginning to be disappointed, Aunt Cam."

"It does beat all how you city folks always want to get close to the water," said Cap'n Ben. "I like to keep as far away from all that bellerin' as I can, but here you go climbing over rawks, spending your time watching waves, dragging in all sorts of stuff and sticking it up in your houses. Why, last year somebody actually wanted one of my old fish nets to hang up inside. Looked crazy enough when she got it there, too, but I let her have it. I cal'lated it pleased her and didn't hurt me."

Gwen laughed. "I can fancy it was very artistic," she said.

"Artistic! That's what you call it. Wal, I dunno. There was a man up here last summer settin' round on the rawks making dauby looking things I wouldn't give a nickel for, but he called 'em pictures, and somebody said he got as much as a hundred dollars for one. That stumped me. All the fools ain't dead yet, thinks I."

"I know a man who gets five hundred dollars for the smallest of his pictures," said Gwen, "and for the big ones he gets several thousand."

The captain cast his shrewd eyes upon her, and gave a chuckle. "You think mine's too big a fish story, do ye? and you're going to get ahead of me. All right, I'll believe you when I see the checks."

They had reached the white house by this time. The vines climbing up the trellis at the side were putting forth young buds. Small green shoots were beginning to appear in the garden which covered the southern slope of the hill. Beyond the slope groups of fir trees stretched their pointed tips toward the sky. Upon the hummocky ground which undulated between the stile and the sea, the brown reaches of grass were giving place to a tender emerald-hued growth, violet-strewn in patches. Upon the gray lichen-covered rocks which had failed to gather sufficient soil for a holding of grass roots, a few fugitive strawberry plants had lodged, and were already combining their green of leaf and red of stem with the soft neutral tints surrounding them. Further away the line of cottages faced the sea which sparkled and danced in the afternoon light. The sound of hammers coming from the most distant of the cottages betokened the carpenters at work. Mingled with this staccato was the rush of waves beating against the rocky shore, but above all was the sweetly insistent note of a song-sparrow, "sitting alone on the housetop."

Gwen looked around and breathed a long sigh. "Now I know how beautiful it is," she said. "I'd like to explore it all at once. How can I wait?"

"There is plenty of time," returned her aunt, as they followed the captain into the house.

But it was only a few minutes that they spent inside, just long enough to speak to Miss Phenie and Miss Phosie, to rid themselves of superfluous wraps and to drop their hand luggage, then out they went into the fresh air, full of the tang of the sea, but sweet with the odors of the new spring. Through the stile to Cap'n Ben's pasture their way led over the hummocks to the point where a small cove made in, separating Simms' Point from that upon which the new cottage was going up.

"Before I give one look at the cottage," said Gwen taking her stand upon a flat rock just below the porch, "I want to observe a little of this outside world. What a view! You have seen it before, Aunt Cam, and you can watch them drive nails if you like. As for me I shall feast my eyes first."

"Very well," said her aunt, "I shall have plenty of time to do that after a while. What I am most concerned about now is the setting of those windows. I am almost sure they are too high, though I specially stipulated that they were to be but twenty-one inches from the floor. Come in when you are ready, Gwen."

She carefully picked her way across the floor beams of the porch and entered the cottage, leaving Gwen standing on the craggy point of rocks, gazing seaward. Directly ahead was the unbroken expanse of ocean, its far horizon dotted by a few white sails. To the right lay Simms' Point, a freshly green slope which further up ended in a growth of sombre firs. Beyond the point a lighthouse was visible, and a small island over which a solitary tree kept watch. To the left a misty line of shore curved tenderly to embrace the waters of the bay whose further islands melted into the mainland, but whose nearer ones gemmed the deep blue of the water.

"How beautiful it is! How beautiful!" breathed Gwen. "I never dreamed it would be so lovely. And to think I am to have a whole summer of it! That is almost too good to be true." She delicately made her way over the jutting ledges of rock and sought her aunt whom she found in lively debate with the builder.

"But I wanted this room a foot and a half wider, Mr. Eaton," Miss Elliott was saying. "It was marked so on the plan."

"I know it, Miss Elliott," the man answered pleasantly, "but I cal'lated you didn't realize just how small that would make the next room."

"But I did. I knew precisely," said Miss Elliott helplessly. "I don't see why you didn't follow the plan exactly."

"Well, the truth of the matter is, I wasn't here the day the men put up the partition," said Thad amiably. "I had to go to Portland that day to see about lumber."

"And the fireplace," went on Miss Elliott, hopeless to better things; "it was to be like the one in Miss Colby's house."

"That's what you said," returned Thad, "but I think this is a heap prettier, and I thought you'd be better pleased with it."

Miss Elliott turned desperately to her niece, raised her eyebrows, and shrugged her shoulders. "It's no use," she said.

"It's dear; it's perfectly dear," cried Gwen looking around admiringly. "The fireplace, made of the natural rocks, is perfectly fascinating. I love those diamond panes, and that row of low windows. We'll have a divan under them, won't we? Then I can lie there and look out. I gazed at the little balcony from the outside, and it is simply charming. Now I want to see everything, 'upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber.' Oh, Aunt Cam, I can't tell you how happy I am, nor how lovely I think it all. What fun we shall have getting everything in order. I can scarcely wait till the cottage is finished and the furniture here."

"Thank goodness, there is a place to put it," said Miss Elliott. "I have been at my wits' ends to know what to do with all my belongings. At last I have a safe place to store them. I can dump in here everything, over and above what we can make use of in the winter, turn the key and leave it when I please."

"I've thought of it," said Gwen suddenly bringing her hands together.

"Of what?"

"A name for the cottage. We'll call it Wits' End. It is the end, you see. The end of this part of the island, for we can't go any further without crossing this little cove, or going around it, and you were at your wits' end when you conceived the idea of building here. Don't you think it will be a nice odd sort of name?"

Miss Elliott nodded approval. "Yes, I like it. Wits' End it shall be. That much is settled. Now, we will explore."

As Gwen said, it was "upstairs, downstairs and in my lady's chamber" that they made their investigations, stepping cautiously along the timbers, picking their way over heaps of shavings, avoiding unprotected openings, swinging around corners while they held on to the studs, creeping up the unfinished stairs, commenting on this, criticizing that, admiring the views from each window and finally going away better satisfied than, at first, they had hoped to be.

"He is really doing beautifully," said Gwen. "Never mind if it isn't exactly as you planned in some ways; he has improved it in others, and he is such a perfect dear I shouldn't care what he did, so long as he made it comfortable. Oh, auntie dear, I am glad you and I are chums, for we are going to have such a good time in my summer's holiday."

Miss Elliott proceeded leisurely while she watched with loving eyes the slim graceful figure of the girl who ran on ahead. "It will do her a world of good," she said to herself. "It is just what she needs."

Gwen sprang from hummock to hummock, stopping to gather a violet, pausing to listen to a song-sparrow, turning her face seaward to take in the beauty of the eastern scene, and at last waiting at the stile for her aunt. She had just reached this point when a man came along a footpath leading from the little cove past Cap'n Ben's garden. He stopped short at sight of the girl, turned quite pale as he stood gazing at her, then with a lifting of the hat he passed on. Gwen watching, saw him enter the kitchen door of Cap'n Ben's house.

HE STOPPED SHORT AT SIGHT OF THE GIRL.

"I seem to have made an impression," she said as her aunt came up. "I didn't know strangers were such a rarity here that people stared at them the way that man did at me. I wonder who he is and what made him look so taken by surprise."

"Oh, I suppose he didn't know that any of the summer residents had arrived," returned Miss Elliott, "and he wondered who you were and where you came from. There aren't usually any summer visitors here before the middle of June."

"I suppose that must have been it," returned Gwen, at the same time feeling that it did not quite explain matters.

At the side door, by which it seemed they were expected to enter, they met Ora. She turned away her head and hurried around to the kitchen.

"What a pretty girl," said Gwen, looking after her. "Such a lovely complexion. But, oh dear, why does she lace so painfully? Doesn't she know wasp waists are all out of style? That they belong to the early Victorian age and passed out with ringlets and high foreheads?"

"She probably doesn't know," returned Miss Elliott. "I notice that many of the girls up here still cling to the traditions of their grandmothers in more than one direction. I have heard that one, at least, died from the effects of tight lacing."

"Then they need a missionary as much as the heathen Chinee does," observed Gwen as she entered the house.

She had gone out bareheaded but she tossed aside the golf-cape, which was none too warm for out-door wear, and sat down by the window. Miss Phenie, established in a comfortable rocking-chair, was quite ready for a chat while she knitted a "sweaterette" as she called it. Miss Phosie was in the kitchen getting supper, but Miss Phenie felt that it was due to her position as elder sister to entertain the guests rather than to give a hand to the evening's work. It was always her attitude and one of which no one had ever heard Miss Phosie complain. The most that she had ever done was to remark to Almira Green: "It's very easy to be hospitable when you do the entertaining and some one else does the work." But that was under great provocation when the minister, the surveyor, the doctor and the editor of The Zephyr had all arrived on the island in one day and all had been entertained at Cap'n Ben's house because there seemed nowhere else for them to go. On that occasion Miss Phenie, as usual, had asserted her right to the position of hostess, and had left Miss Phosie alone to wash the dishes as well as to get the dinner, Ora having gone to Portland for the day.

"Well," said Almira Green to whom Miss Phosie's remark was made, "there was Cap'n Ben to do the talking, and as they was all men I don't see why Phenie was called upon to set with them all the time."

"I guess she thought she had to," Miss Phosie had returned with the feeling that perhaps she had said too much.

To-day, however, there was not much reason for Miss Phenie's presence in the kitchen, for, while Miss Phosie made the soda biscuits Ora could be setting the table. The lobsters had been boiled that morning, so there were only the fish and potatoes to fry, and the preserves to be set on the table with the cake. Miss Phenie, in tight fitting black alpaca, rocked comfortably and asked questions till Gwen, by the window, saw Luther Williams pass. "Who is that, Miss Phenie?" she asked. "That tall man with the serious face and the kind eyes?"

"I guess you mean Mr. Williams. I presume he is taking his after supper smoke. He boards with us, you know."

"Oh!" Gwen wondered why he had not appeared at the table. "Is he a relative of yours?"

"None in the world, and we never heard that he had any. He gets a daily paper and advertising letters sometimes, but I never knew him to get any other mail. He's real well educated, and reads everything he can lay his hands on, but he is a very quiet man. He never talks much to anybody, but there ain't a kinder man living. If anybody's in trouble he's the first on hand, and the first to put his hand in his pocket."

"Is he a fisherman?"

"Yes. His pound is just off your point. He's been real lucky and it's said he's right well off."

"Has he boarded with you long?"

"Ever since he came to the island; that's about twenty years now. He came for a week's fishing, he said, and he's stayed ever since. I never heard a word against Mr. Williams. Everybody likes him, and if he is rather close-mouthed you don't hear him speak ill of anyone. He's no more trouble than a kitten. You would scarcely know he was in the house and his room's as neat as a pin. He's not much for meeting strangers, so it ain't likely you'll see much of him if you do live in the same house. He ain't as sociable as father."

Gwen was rather sorry to hear this, for she liked the looks of the man in spite of the long stare he had given her at the stile.

It was just after supper that she had her first word with him. She had gone out to see the young moon, poised in the clear sky. It hung directly over a shining strip of bay which was visible from where she stood. A dip between the ridges disclosed a sweep of gray-green marshland, a white house or two framed on either side by the pointed firs, and, beyond all, the shining water. She stood looking at it all with an expression of pure delight, and presently was aware that while she was gazing at the scene before her someone was looking at her. She turned with a smile. "Isn't it beautiful, Mr. Williams?" she said. "I never saw anything lovelier than just that." She made a sweep of her arm to indicate the breadth of view.

"It is very fine," he said. "I've always liked that, Miss Elliott. You see I know your name, too."

Gwen smiled. "Oh, but you don't, for I'm not Miss Elliott at all. That is my aunt's name. I am Gwendolin Whitridge. My friends call me Gwen."

The man shivered as if struck by a sudden chill, and backed away from her, but almost immediately he came nearer than before, and stood gazing at her with the intent look she had noticed at the stile. His eyes travelled from the curling tendrils of dark hair about her smooth brow to the tender blue eyes and sweet mouth, then down from the softly firm chin and round white throat to the graceful, slender figure. "I beg your pardon," he said presently, pulling himself up with an effort. "I didn't know. Yes, it is a lovely spot. I hope you will enjoy your summer here." He raised his hat and walked on, leaving the girl half amazed, half amused.

"Rather queer manners," she said to herself. "Yet he speaks like a gentleman, and would be rather nice looking if he had not such a serious face. I never saw such sad eyes, but they did change when I told him my name. I wonder why." However, she did not mention the little episode to her aunt who joined her a moment later.

"Let us walk up to the top of the ridge," Miss Elliott proposed. "We can see the White Mountains from there, and the sunset is glorious."

"There is an eastern sunset, too," said Gwen, looking toward the ocean, where purple, gold and rose were reflected in the water, and where wonderful opalescent clouds floated overhead. "It is a rare place that gives two sunset skies at once," she went on.

"It is like two rings at the circus," returned Miss Elliott. "You want to watch them both at the same time."

"Don't mention such artificial things as circuses when we have this. I want to forget spangles and clowns and sawdust."

"You'll forget soon enough. In a week the outside world will be of no account whatever, I promise you, for, to tell you the truth, we discovered last year that this island is the home of a wizard who gets you in his power, so that once in his clutches, you are bound to come back and while you are here to forget every other place."

"That's lovely," returned Gwen. "I wonder just where he lives."

"He has a cave which I will show you. He also frequents a cathedral in Sheldon woods, and one of his haunts is a pinnacle where he sits on moonlight nights and works his spells."

"Perfect!" cried Gwen. "I like him more and more, and I shall be willing to hug my chains if he binds me fast. Must we go in?" For Miss Elliott was turning her steps toward Cap'n Ben's.

"Mustn't we?"

"To sit in that stuffy room with a kerosene lamp? Do wait till it's too dark to see."

"You must go to bed early, for we have had a long journey, and I want to see some color in those pale cheeks."

"I'll go early. The earlier the better, but not before dark."

"And you needn't get up early in the morning."

"But I shall want to."

"You have no kindergartners waiting for you."

"No, but I have so many wonderful things."

"Which you will have all summer to enjoy."

"I am eager to make the acquaintance of the wizard, and I am sure he gets up very early, if he goes to bed at all. Very well, I'll go in. Good-night, Mr. Williams," she called to a tall figure lurking in the shadow of the big barn.

CHAPTER III

A HELPER

Although Miss Elliott fretted over the delay and was impatient to get into her cottage it was not ready until after the middle of June, and then it was a matter of hard work to make it habitable, for there were a thousand and one things to be done, for which no adequate help could be hired and which had to wait the convenience of some volunteer service. Fortunately aunt and niece were comfortably housed at Cap'n Ben's, and could bend all their energies to the business of getting their own dwelling in order. There were frequent trips to Portland shops for such odds and ends as had not been sent with the household goods, and there were many demands upon Ira Baldwin's stock of nails, tacks and such like things, so that his wares fell short of supplying the demand, and many times Miss Elliott was in despair at being unable to get the simple things she required.

She came in one day and threw herself into a rocking-chair, tired out by her struggles with the impossible. "Hereafter I am going to be a fool," she announced. "Fools get so much more done for them than smart people. There is that silly widow who has Hilltop; she can't do a blessed thing for herself, and is always appealing to this one and that in the most languishing way; the consequence is people are so sorry for her helplessness that they drop everything and run when she gets into difficulties. As for me, I might tramp the island over, and no one would budge to 'accommodate' me. I am sick of being 'accommodated.' I want to get hold of some one who wants to work for reasonable wages, and can honestly earn them."

"Poor auntie!" said Gwen sympathetically. "You're all tired out, and I don't wonder. What is the special grievance this time, or are you only growling on general principles?"

"I wanted some one to put up the window shades, and I have traipsed the place over. Each person I questioned told me he couldn't do it but maybe so-and-so would accommodate me, till finally I got desperate, went to the cottage and put up some of the shades myself. It was the most nerve-racking work to make them fit, for a sixteenth of an inch more or less makes such a difference. There are times," she added after a pause, "when I could almost declare profanity to be a necessity."

Gwen laughed. "Now, Aunt Cam, I know you have reached the limit of human endurance, and I shall appoint myself a committee of one to seek out a man-of-all-work."

"I wish you luck," returned Miss Elliott, resting her head against the back of the chair. "The trouble is," she went on after a moment, "that these blessed people spend their lives in waiting and they cannot understand why we should not be willing to do it, too. They wait for the weather, the winds, the tide. They wait for their fish, for nearly everything, and they are so in the habit of it that it bewilders them when they are hurried. They cannot comprehend a society which does not wait for anything."

"Shouldn't you like to see Manny Green, for instance, during the six o'clock rush hour in New York? Do you suppose he would understand the word hustle then?" said Gwen. "However, Aunt Cam, I am sure that there are great many who are not loafers. Look at Thad Eaton, and Miss Phosie, too. They work steadily from morning till night. Miss Phosie is such a dear. She certainly is a contrast to Miss Phenie."

"Yes," returned Miss Elliott, "the very way they cut their pies gives a clue to their characters. Miss Phenie always helps herself to the largest piece, Miss Phosie invariably takes the smallest. That tells the whole story."

"You have it in a nutshell," replied Gwen. "Now you stay here and rest, Aunt Cam, while I go on my voyage of discovery."

"Where are you going?"

"Not far."

"Whom shall you attack first?"

"That's tellings. I have an idea. If my quest fails I'll acknowledge my faith misplaced, and myself beaten, though I'm 'hop-sin',' as Asa Bates says. Lie down and rest. You have done enough for one day."

She picked up her hat and went out. Miss Elliott watched the erect figure pass the window, and turn toward the sea. "What's she going that way for?" soliloquized Miss Elliott. "Perhaps she thinks she can conjure up the wizard." But she ceased to speculate in a few minutes and dropped off into the sleep which follows great weariness.

Meanwhile Gwen went on toward the garden, following the foot path to where it dropped between the ridges, and entered a wooded way bordered by wild-rose bushes. These were not yet in bloom, but the hillside was white with daisies, and in the sheltered hollow where Cap'n Ben's apple trees struggled to resist the keen winds, a few faint pink blossoms were visible.

"Over the shoulders and slopes of the dunes

I saw the white daisies go down to the sea,"

murmured Gwen. "And it will be just as lovely when the roses come. They are budding now." In a few moments she emerged from the rose path into the open. Beyond the rocky ledges a little beach was visible at low tide. When the tide was up it was nearly covered, but now the pebbly sands were outlined by swathes of wet brown kelp. Mounting a rock Gwen stood looking out upon the waters of the small harbor, and presently made out the identity of a boat which was headed for the point near which she stood. "I thought I'd get here in time," she said to herself. She waited till the boat was beached and the man in it had stepped out, shouldering his oars, and turning toward the path by which she had come. Then she left her big rock and went to meet him. "I've been waiting for you, Mr. Williams," she said cheerily.

"For me," he said, pausing.

"Yes. I want your advice, and maybe your help. Can you put up window shades?"

He looked at her with a half-puzzled expression. "I have done it at Cap'n Ben's," he told her.

"Good!" cried Gwen. "I thought you weren't deficient in mechanical genius. We are at our wits' ends, or rather, I should say, we at Wits' End are at our wits' end. That isn't so idiotic a sentence as it sounds. You know we have named our cottage Wits' End, for my aunt was distracted to know where to stow her goods, and we continue to be at our wits' end to know how to get anything done in this perfectly fascinating, entirely maddening place. Poor Aunt Cam has worn herself out trying to get some one to put up shades. We could send to Portland for a man, but by the time we had paid his fare both ways, had paid for his time, his labor and his board, it would amount to more than the shades are worth. Now, I appeal to you, a maiden in distress. What do you advise us to do?"

"I'll put them up for you," returned he abruptly.

"Oh, Mr. Williams, how good of you. I'll confess that is what I hoped you would do. I have felt from the first that we should be friends. You have always looked at me as if you were rather interested in the new arrival, and haven't stalked by me with that defiant look some of your neighbors wear. That's why I thought I'd hunt you up and pour out my troubles to you."

"I'm glad you did," he returned. "Shall we go now?"

"To put up the shades? Can you?"

"If you have the screws and things. I can go."

"What fun to go back and tell Aunt Cam the work is all done. Have you been in our cottage? Don't you think it is perfectly charming?"

"It is a very nice little place. Will your parents be here, too?" he asked after a pause during which he strode by her side with eyes downcast.

"Oh, no. I have no parents."

A smothered exclamation caused her to turn to look at the man. His lips were compressed, his head bent.

"Oh, never mind," said Gwen, gently. "You didn't know of course. There are only Aunt Cam and myself left. I never had any brothers and sisters except one tiny baby brother who died before I was born. I always lived with my grandparents even during my mother's lifetime. Now they are all gone."

The man was silent for a little, then he asked in a queer strained voice, "How long since?"

"I was about six when my mother died. Grandfather did not live long after. Grandmother died about five years ago. Aunt Cam was a teacher in China, in one of the medical missions, but she came back after mother died. I don't know very much about my father's people. Grandmother seldom mentioned them or him. I don't remember him, for he died when I was a baby. I am a kindergarten teacher, but I wasn't well last year, and Aunt Cam insisted upon my giving up a month earlier to come up here to recruit, so I shall have a long rest. Now, Mr. Williams, you have my history." She looked at him expectantly as if inviting a like confidence.

"A man's life here can't be called exactly monotonous," he said after a pause, "for there is always incident enough if one cares for the quality of it, but there isn't much to make history of. I have lived at Cap'n Ben's for about twenty years, have fished every day when it was fit, have eaten, drunk, slept, read when I had a chance, and that is about all there is."

Gwen was silent, then she shot him a glance. "And before Cap'n Ben's?" she said.

A hot flush mounted to the man's face. "Before that there is nothing worth relating," he said. And Gwen felt herself properly rebuked for her curiosity. Why should she pry into a stranger's secrets? Yet she felt a sense of disappointment.

They presently came to the cottage perched upon the crags, yet clinging close to the rocks, showing long sloping lines, and simplicity of design. "When its newness wears off," said Gwen, "it will look just as we want it to. Come in, Mr. Williams, and I will get the shades. I can help you, if you want me to, but I am afraid I should never be able to put them up alone. I can't manage a saw, and some of the rollers are too long."

Her companion nodded. He was chary of speech, Gwen knew, but he took hold of the work as one having a personal interest in it, and before very long all the windows were furnished with shades.

Gwen surveyed them with a pleased look. "I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Williams," she said. "I am afraid I was very audacious to descend upon you as I did, but I was desperate. Shall I?" She fumbled at the little side bag she wore. "I believe the charge—some of them charge—"

Mr. Williams put up his hand peremptorily. "Stop!" he said. "I have done this only—"

"To accommodate me," exclaimed Gwen despairingly, then with a sudden smile, "Please don't say that. I am so tired of hearing it. Any other word, please."

"I have done this because it was a pleasure," he said gravely smiling. "And I will call it even if you will promise me one thing."

"And that is—"

"Whenever you get into difficulties that you will come to me, just as you did to-day, and ask me to help you. If I can do it I will."

Gwen seized his hand. "I told myself you were good and kind the very first time I saw you. Thank you so much. You make it all seem very easy when we know there is one friend we can depend upon. I am afraid I shall bother you a great deal," she continued. "You may be sorry you exacted such conditions."

He shook his head. "No, I know what I am saying, and I am quite willing to repeat the terms of our contract."

"Very well, then it's a bargain," Gwen answered.

That night, for the first time since their arrival, Luther Williams sat at the table with Gwen and her aunt, and the girl felt sure he had made the concession to emphasize his offer of friendship which she felt was sealed since he had elected to break bread with them.

It was after supper that Manny Green came around. He had been long casting sheep's eyes at Ora, but was not encouraged by Cap'n Ben nor his daughters. Manny was a tall, good-looking lad, but shiftless and uncertain. He had been brought up by a childless aunt who had lavished her best upon him, and had made such sacrifices as caused righteous indignation among the good woman's friends.

"He's a handsome boy, that Manny Green," remarked Miss Elliott as she watched the slim-waisted Ora walk off with her admirer.

Miss Zerviah Hackett, who had dropped in for her usual evening chat, gave a snort. "Handsome is as handsome does," she said. "He's not worth shucks, Miss Elliott. He goes lobstering when he feels like it, and when he don't he stays to home. When he wants to go off sky-larkin' he borrows money from his aunt."

"I'm afraid that's so," put in Miss Phosie, "and I wish he'd stay away from Ora."

"But they're so young it can't mean anything," remarked Gwen.

"Mean anything! Why! she's sixteen," said Miss Zerviah, "and lots of girls get married at that age."

"Oh, why do their mothers let them?" cried Gwen.

"'Cause they done the same thing themselves," Miss Zerviah informed her; "and it's all right when the young man's a sober, industrious fellow, but Manny's lazy. There's no use in trying to get around it."

"I'm afraid he is," said Miss Phosie wofully.

"His father was lost at sea," Miss Zerviah went on, "and he was Almira Green's only brother, so she thinks she can't deny Emmanuel anything."

"Oh, that's his name, is it?" said Gwen. "I wondered what it could be."

"He always gets Manny," returned Miss Zerviah. "As I was saying, he's lazy, and moreover, I maintain that the man that's willin' to borrow from a woman, even if she is a near relation, is pretty poor shucks, generally speaking. Nine times out of ten she never gets it back. It does seem to me that a woman who's been a-scrimpin' herself all her life as Almira's done, and hasn't allowed herself any pleasures, has a right to her little savin's when she gits to where there's no youth left her to make up for the goings without. I'd like to know who's to look out for her when she's past lookin' out for herself. Yet she'll up and give over and over again to ease Manny's way for him, and to allow him to go off sky-larkin'. If she'd done a little more sky-larkin' herself he wouldn't have a chance to git what's her due and not his. I'm just put out about Almira."

"I hear she's going to take boarders, after all," said Miss Phenie.

"So she is, and that's what I'm fussing about. She determined she'd take a rest this summer, but I went to her house to-day and there she was whitewashin' and paperin', same as usual. 'What are you up to, Almira Green?' s'I. 'Gettin' ready for my boarders,' s'she. 'Boarders,' s'I. 'I thought you wasn't going to take 'em.' 'They wrote and wanted to come,' s'she, 'and somehow I don't seem to be able to get along without.' I was that put out I walked off without a word, for I know just as true as I'm settin' here, that Manny's been borrowin' again. He can fling around his money pretty free when it comes out of her pocket-book."

Miss Phosie looked distressed. She knew that Ora would reap the benefit of Almira's hard earnings. The girl was very young, very fond of pleasure, of the foolish little trinkets and baubles which Manny bestowed upon her. She was, moreover, a vain little person, who followed the example of her elder, rather than her younger, aunt, and was given to considering herself first, though she really had more heart than Miss Phenie. "I wish Ora wouldn't run with him," murmured Miss Phosie as Gwen passed from the room.

"Now, there, Phosie, what's the use of croaking?" said her sister. "Ora's young, and young things like a good time. Like as not she'll take up with somebody else before she thinks of getting married." Then to change the subject she remarked: "What do you think, Zerviah? Mr. Williams was up to Miss Elliott's cawtage this afternoon putting up window shades."

"I want to know!" ejaculated Zerviah, this information driving all other gossip out of her head. "I never knew him to take up with the summer people before. Did you, Phenie?"

"No, I can't say that I did, but he certainly has taken a shine to Miss Whitridge."

Miss Zerviah chuckled. This was a new item to stow away among her stores of information. "Mr. Williams is always real pleasant," she said. "I never knew anybody to say a word against him, but I can't say I ever knew him to be more'n polite to the new people, or, as a matter of fact, to anybody here on this island. He's been here going on to twenty year, Phenie, and I'll venture to say you don't know much more about him than when he came. He ain't a Maine man, I'll warrant." There was a little eagerness in her manner as she turned her eyes questioningly upon Miss Phenie.

"Well, he ain't communicative," returned Miss Phenie, "but he does talk about his childhood sometimes, and about what his father and mother used to say and do. Yes, he does talk a little, but he's a reserved man, Zerviah. He's not much of a talker at the best, though he's a great reader."

"And he's kind-hearted as he can be," interposed Miss Phosie. "He never lets me bring a stick of wood, nor a drop of water when he's 'round, and when father was laid up with rheumatiz last winter there wasn't nothin' he wasn't willin' to do. There's no kinder-hearted man in the State of Maine than him, and he's always that quiet in his speech. I never heard him use a profane word, not but what he can get mad when there's occasion, but he's too much of a gentleman to use an oath."

"That's just it," remarked Miss Zerviah, a little spitefully and with suggestive accent, "he's too much of a gentleman."

"Now, Zerviah," protested Miss Phosie, "how can you say so?"

"Say what? That he's too much of a gentleman. You said so, didn't you?"

"Not in the way you did. I said he was too much of a gentleman to swear, but you meant different."

Miss Zerviah laughed. "Have it your own way," she said, rising to go. "I must be getting up along."

"Don't be in a hurry," said Miss Phosie politely.

But Miss Zerviah had gleaned all that she could, and so, picking up her milk bucket she went out. She passed by Ora and Manny walking slowly. Further on she met Luther Williams, who answered her "Good evening" with a slight bow, but who did not stop, although Zerviah slackened her pace. She stood still altogether when he had passed and looked after him as he took the path to the shore. "Now, ain't that like him?" she murmured. "I don't believe there's another man on the island that would go wandering off among the rawks after night. He's queer, there ain't a doubt of it." And she turned her face toward her own low brown house under the hill where she lived with her father old Cap'n Dave Hackett, now too feeble for a fisherman's life, but once a fearless battler with wind and waves.

Gwen, too, was out in the soft June night. She could not be content to remain in the stuffy house, and had followed Miss Zerviah's way as far as the road. One could feel perfectly safe anywhere on the island, she well knew, and she therefore wandered on till she had reached the lower path leading along the cove. There was still light in the sky which was reflected in the water, turning it to silver. The cove was quiet enough but along the reefs outside the water was beginning to dash noisily. Lights twinkled from several yachts which had put into harbor, and were rocking, amid a small company of dories, at anchor. A big fishing schooner, however, lay darkly silent, her crew ashore making merry.

Gwen paced slowly along, her thoughts on many things. She met few persons. A boy on a wheel sped swiftly by. Two lovers, lost to everything but themselves, wandered ahead hand in hand. The dark figure of a man, looking off across the water, was silhouetted against the faint primrose of the sky where an opening in the bordering pines gave a glimpse of the further side. Presently Gwen noticed the approaching figure of some one who stepped firmly and with the swing of a city-bred person, rather than of one used to country roads and unsteady decks.

Seeing her he drew up suddenly, and doffed his cap. "I beg pardon," he said, "but can you tell me the way to one Captain Ben Tibbett's?"

Gwen looked up with a smile. "All roads lead to Rome, Mr. Hilary," she answered. "Keep straight on and you'll get there."

He bent down to observe her more closely, for the dim twilight stealing over land and sea shadowed still more duskily the pathway already dimmed by the overhanging trees.

HE BENT DOWN TO OBSERVE HER MORE CLOSELY.

"Miss Whitridge!" he exclaimed. "I am glad to see you, but what on earth are you doing 'way up here in Maine?"

"I might ask you the same question, for I am wondering how you discovered this fairest island in Casco Bay. I have a perfectly legitimate right to all it offers, for my aunt and I have arrived at the distinction of being cottagers, while you, I suppose, are a mere ship that passes in the night, and are just stopping over at the Grange for a few days."

"You are wrong, quite wrong. I have as good a right here as you. My sister has also become a householder, and I am here to see her through the dangers and difficulties of a first season on the island. She has rented a cottage over yonder," he nodded in the direction from which he had come, "and I am out on a forage for milk. We haven't had supper yet and my sister pines for a cup of tea, but cannot drink it 'dry so,' as they say down in Georgia. Were you going to walk back, and may I walk with you? I shall get lost, I am certain, unless you pilot me."

"I was going as far as the open, but as it is so little further I can as well shorten my walk that much, and it is getting dark."

"Aren't you a little scared to be coming along this dim path by night?"

"Why should I be? There is nothing in the world to be afraid of. I could walk the length and breadth of the island at midnight, and be perfectly safe. That is one of the joys of being here, this feeling of absolute security." She turned about, and the two bent their steps to where Cap'n Ben's house showed whitely in the distance.

CHAPTER IV

A TEMPEST AND A TEAPOT

Kenneth Hilary was not an old friend, nor indeed was he more than a chance acquaintance, since he and Gwen had met but twice, once at a tea and again in a railway station when a like destination threw them together for an hour as travelling companions, and it is doubtful if their paths would have crossed again if chance had not cast them both upon Fielding's Island.

"Kenneth Hilary is here," Gwen told her aunt the next morning after the casual meeting.

"And who is he?"

"Oh, don't you know? He is Madge McAllister's friend. I met him at her tea last winter, and afterward we happened to take the same train from Washington. He was going to Annapolis, and I was going to Baltimore. Now I am sure you remember."

"Yes, I believe I do. What is he doing here?"

"Helping his sister get settled, at least that is what he was doing last evening. She is the wife of a naval officer and is here for the summer with her two little children. I fancy she is not rolling in wealth, though comfortably off maybe."

"And he?"

"Not wealthy either. In fact I believe he's a writer or a journalist, or perhaps it's an artist. Anyhow he spoke of doing some work up here, so I fancy he has time on his hands as he mentioned remaining the entire summer."

"Perhaps he is here for his health."

"You wouldn't say so if you could see him. He looks like a college athlete, and I cannot fancy him ill."

"Where did you run across him?"

"On the cove road. I was taking a walk and he was coming here for some milk. He asked me the way without knowing who I was. When we recognized each other we came back together."

Miss Elliott was thoughtful for a moment, then she smiled. "I suppose," she remarked, "that it would not be prudent to warn you not to fall in love with him. You know there is the possible millionaire who is to redeem the family fortunes."

"I am afraid this is an impossible place to meet him," returned Gwen. "Millionaires don't come to little isolated islands. They go where their splendor can shine like the sun at noon. You should have taken me to Newport or Bar Harbor, Aunt Cam, if you expected great things of me."

"Then there could have been no Wits' End."

"Oh, I am satisfied. I'd rather have Wits' End than all the millionaires going. It was you who began it, you know. I'm not sighing for point lace and diamonds at present whatever I may do later on. Just now my cravings are much better filled here than they could be anywhere else, so please don't mourn on my account because of unreachable glories. Let's talk about something else. To-day we come to our own. Think of it! We shall eat supper in that adorable cottage with our eyes turned toward the sea. We can have all the fresh air we want. We can sit out on the rocks all day if we like, and can go to bed with the noise of the waves in our ears."

But neither Gwen nor her aunt had bargained upon such an uproar of waters as they listened to that first night at Wits' End, for the wind blew up from the southeast, bringing a storm with it, and before morning the breakers were thundering against the rocks, fairly shaking the little cottage to its foundations. For three days the storm lasted, to the delight of the girl who revelled in the fierce tumult. At the end of the third day Gwen looked forth from the back door. "It's clearing," she said, "and I am going out to look at the surf. You'll come, too, Aunt Cam."

"Presently," promised Miss Elliott. "I must get up these draperies first."

"How can you stop when there are such wonders out of doors?"