The time-worn saw that two is company and three a crowd never struck Winn so forcibly as that evening when he called again on Mrs. Hutton. On the first occasion he had only felt interested to make the acquaintance of that excellent lady, who, in many ways, reminded him of his own departed mother; but now it was the daughter. But Mona was shy as before, perhaps more so, and hardly ventured a remark, while the mother was as cordial and chatty as ever. Once Winn came near speaking of the little episode that had occurred the day before, but some quick intuition prevented, and after an hour's visit he bade the two good night and left them.

It was evident Mona had not confided the incident to her mother, and until she had Winn thought it his place to keep silent. He did not know that the girl's secrecy was solely due to fear of a scolding, and that between her mother and herself existed that foolish, but often dangerous barrier. It was several days after before Winn obtained a suitable chance to speak with Mona alone, and then he met her just coming from the store of Jess Hutton.

"When am I to hear you play again?" he asked pleasantly, "I wanted to ask you the evening I called, but in view of what you said about your mother's dislike of it, decided not to."

"I am glad you did," she replied, coloring a little.

"I am going over to that gorge this afternoon," continued Winn boldly, "and I want you to promise to come and bring your violin. Will you?"

"I won't promise," she replied timidly, and all unconscious that his proposal was not in strict propriety, "I may come, but if I do I shall not dare play before you."

"Oh, I am harmless," he replied lightly, "and if you knew how anxious I am to hear you, you would favor me, I am sure."

And that afternoon Winn betook himself once more to what was now likely to be a trysting place, only instead of going directly, the way Mona would naturally, over Norse Hill, he walked a mile extra around through Worthaven. And this to protect the good name of a girl with a face like a marguerite and eyes like deep waters.

She was not there when he arrived, and in truth Mona was having a hard struggle to decide whether to go or not, for this man, with earnest brown eyes, blond mustache, stylish garb, ways and manners so utterly unlike any that had come under her ken, was one to awe her.

Then, would it be right, and what would her mother and Uncle Jess, and all the good people of Rockhaven, say if it were known she met him thus? For Mona, wise as only Rockhaven was, and pure as the flowers her face resembled, was yet conscious what evil tongues might say, and dreaded lest they be set wagging.

But a lurking impulse, first implanted in Mother Eve's heart, and budding in Mona's since the hour she saw Winn's kindly eyes looking down into her own, won the day, and taking her dearly-loved, old, brown fiddle and bow safe in their green bag, she walked rapidly to the edge of the gorge, with throbbing heart and flushed face.

Winn was there waiting, as full well she knew he would be, lazily puffing a cigar while he leaned against a sloping bank and watched the ocean below. When he saw Mona he threw the weed away and sprung to his feet.

"I'm very glad you came, Miss Hutton," he said, raising his hat, "yet I did not dare hope you would," and then extending one hand to take the bag and the other to assist her, he added, "It's a risky place to come down into, and you had best let me assist you."

"I'll go first," she replied quickly, "for I know the way and can go alone, and you can follow me."

And follow her he had to, but not easily, for with steps as fearless and leaps as graceful as an antelope, she led the way down into the chaos of boulders and then up through them, until she paused in a sheltering embrasure.

When Winn reached her side he was out of breath, and as he handed her the bag and looked about, he was almost speechless at the wild, rocky grandeur of the spot. And well he might be, for seldom had he seen one like it. He had looked down into the gorge from above, but now he was in a half-circular, wide-open cave the size of a small room, far below where he had stood, and looking out upon cliff-like walls down to where the ocean waves were beating.

"And so this is the Devil's Oven," he said when he had looked all about, and finally at Mona seated upon a jutting ledge and watching him. "I think it a shame to have given such a hideous name to a place so grand and picturesque. Rather should it have been called the Mermaid's Grotto. I dislike this idea of naming all the beautiful bits of natural scenery after his satanship. It's not fair." Then seating himself as far away from Mona as possible he added gently, "Now, Miss Hutton, I am ready for my treat. Please don't think or feel that I am here, but play to yourself and for yourself, just as you did the day I first heard you."

And Mona, charmed a little by his gentle, courteous ways and speech, and her sense of fear lulled by his entirely respectful manner, drew her violin from its case.

It may have been the spot that inspired her, or the tender admiration she saw in his eyes, or a little of both, but from the first moment she drew the bow across the strings of her violin, a wondrous sweetness and feeling graced her playing, and strange to say, all the melodies she rendered bore the Scotch flavor. Most of them had been heard by Winn at one time or another, but never played upon an instrument that seemed so sweet or with such an exquisite touch as now. When "Bonnie Dundee" came, he could almost see that gallant chieftain with waving plume and Tartan plaid, and hear him say:—

And when "The Campbells are Coming" echoed out of that rock-walled cave, Winn could hear the bagpipes in the distance and see the dauntless hosts of fair Scotland marching to battle.

When after an hour, during which Mona sat with lithe body swaying to the measure of her music, rounded cheek pressed tenderly to her instrument, and her eyes closed, as if lost to the world, she came to that old utterance of love, sweet "Annie Laurie," Winn was enthralled as never in his life before. And when the last exquisite note had floated out of the cave and into the sad monotone of the ocean, and Mona paused, his eyes were dimmed with tears.

"Miss Hutton," he said earnestly, brushing them away, "no words of mine can tell you how much I have enjoyed this treat or with what rare feeling you have played. If you could play as you have here before an audience they would bury you under flowers and lavish wealth upon you."

These were warm words, and without doubt at the moment Winn felt all they meant, but he little realized what an influence they would instil into the heart of Mona Hutton or what fruit they were destined to bear.

"Who was that wonderful woman you told me about the other day?" asked Mona, making no response to his flattering words. "I did not know women ever played in public."

"Oh, yes, they do," answered Winn, "and there are many like her who have gained fame and riches. You could if you would set about it and had the courage to do it. You would have to study, of course, under a teacher and learn to play classical music."

"And what is classical music?" asked Mona.

"It is what no one understands, though many claim to; or perhaps better described as soulless sound," answered Winn. "I do not care for it. There is no feeling, no pulse, no heart in it."

"Then why is the world willing to pay for it?" she asked.

"The world is ready to buy anything that comes high," he answered, "and the more in proportion to its value that is asked, the quicker they will buy it. But do not ask about the world, Miss Hutton. It is not in harmony with this spot. We are out of it here."

Mona looked at him curiously. "You are a queer man," she said suddenly, "and at first I was very much afraid of you."

Winn laughed. "You need not be," he replied, "I never harmed man, woman, or child." Then as a sudden thought came to him he added, "Did you tell your mother you met me here the other day?"

"No," she replied, looking confused and coloring. It was on her lips to say that she dreaded a scolding if she did, but she restrained herself.

"It is time you were starting home," he said suddenly, looking at his watch, "and I am so sorry," and rising he added, "you must pardon me for saying so, but I think you had best mention to your mother you met me here, by accident of course. If you do not, and if she hears of it, she will think it strange." When he had assisted her down the rocky pathway and up the steep sides, the while carrying her precious violin, and they reached the brink of the chasm, he paused.

The gorge was all in shadow, the wind fallen away, and only the long sweeping ground swells caught and mirrored the red glow of the sun now almost at the horizon line. For a moment Winn looked out over the broad ocean and then turned to the girl beside him.

"Little one," he said gently, "I thank you for the confidence you have placed in me by coming here and for the pleasure you have given me. I shall never forget it. There are two favors I want you to grant me, the first to let me call you Mona, the next to come here some day again and play for me. Will you?"

"I will unless mother forbids," she answered simply.

And then as they turned toward the village, he carrying the green bag and still retaining the hand he clasped to assist her out of the chasm, and guiding her footsteps along the way, a new and exalted sense of happiness came to her. But little was said by either, for she like a timid child waited for him to speak, and he was so hushed by the mood of the afternoon in the gorge, and the blessed unity of sea and sky and sunset here, he enjoyed silence best.

When they came in sight of the village he released her hand, and when her home was reached handed her the bag, and with a whispered "good night, Mona," passed on.