It was not long before she returned, with Miss Elliott, prepared for a sail. Gwen had exchanged her blue linen for a dark corduroy skirt and jacket, and had wound a yellow scarf around her neck. Kenneth looked at her admiringly, saying to himself, "She is always picturesque in whatever she wears."
They took their way over the uneven pasture to the road beyond, from which they turned aside to follow a straggling path leading through tall growths of clover, wild roses and big-eyed daisies, to the little landing where the boat lay moored. Luther Williams' illumining smile greeted them as they stepped down the gangway, and in a few minutes they were gliding out of the cove into the bay beyond. Leaving Eagle Island on their left they swung past the long narrow neck of land, which thrust itself out like a curving finger from the mainland, and were soon in the quieter waters of Middle Bay, with Goose and Goslings in sight and the ocean no longer visible. By wooded shores and green-clad islands they sailed till they reached a small point of land around which the vessel was steered to be moored at last in a placid harbor.
"Now we'll have supper," said Luther Williams, who had been talking little, but had given his attention to sails and soundings. He set ashore a large hamper, helped Miss Elliott and Gwen to land, and, leaving the vessel at anchor, they all went a little further inland to find a fairer camping ground than any they had yet discovered. So still it was that the fall of a leaf, the movement of a bird on a twig, the tap of a hammer on some distant building, the lapping of the water on the pebbles were the only sounds they heard.
"What a heavenly spot!" cried Gwen. "When I want to escape the terrible rush of civilization as found on Fielding's Island, I shall come here. How did you discover it, Mr. Williams?"
He smiled. "I found it years ago, and, as you say, when I want to escape from oppressive civilization I come here. There are times," he added, "when in spite of your ironical remark, even Fielding's Island is too much for me. I am treating you as trusty friends, you see, when I discover to you my retreat."
"Then when I can't find you in your usual haunts I shall know where you are," Gwen said, "but I shall not tell. There was a day, not very long ago, when no one knew your whereabouts, not even Miss Phosie; she can generally tell."
Mr. Williams made no answer, but began unpacking the basket, bringing to view several boiled lobsters, roast chicken, biscuits and butter, cakes, fruit, and, last of all, a can of coffee, a bottle of cream and a box of candies. "He never got all those things this side of Portland," whispered Miss Elliott. "I know those biscuits are not island-made, neither are the fruit and cake native productions. What are you doing now, Mr. Williams?" she called out, as she saw him piling up some stones.
"Building a fireplace," he said. "We must make our coffee, you know."
She watched him deftly build his fire, using some dry driftwood of which he had a store, then he set the water to boil in an old kettle he produced from a hiding place in the rocks. As he bent over the primitive fireplace, the smoke enveloping him in a blue atmosphere, she suddenly leaned forward and made a slight exclamation.
"What's the matter, Aunt Cam?" asked Gwen anxiously. "Do you feel ill? You looked so startled—or sort of queer."