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."