The next day seemed to Winn almost like preparing for a funeral.

"I wish you would go over to the gorge with me this afternoon," he said to Mona that morning, "I must leave here to-morrow, and I want to bid the spot good-by."

And she, busy among the sweet williams, pinks, and marigolds that were her daily care, felt her heart sink.

And Winn, believing it his last day on the island, went his way, first to the quarry that had been his everyday duty for almost three months. Only four men were retained, and those were to be kept at work until he returned, or until Jess ordered otherwise. To no one could he say his departure was final. Then he wandered about among the wharves that had so interested him the first day on the island, and spoke with the few fishermen busy there. All knew him, and each had a pleasant word and nod. He watched them at their work, salting the fish they had split and were packing, one upon another, in a large tank, or spreading cured ones on racks to dry, and packing up in bundles those that were dried. He sniffed the pungent odor and looked out seaward, where the fishing craft, with all sail set, were departing. Then he strolled inward to where the little steamer made landing. She had left for that day and her wharf was deserted. Winn thought that on her next trip he would be a passenger leaving the island for good. Strange to say, as he passed on he noticed with peculiar interest the sign, "Coffins and Caskets" on a small shop just back of a house. Then he followed the sandy shore of the inner harbor past an old, dismantled fishing smack, beached high and dry, on the stern of which the name "Nancy Jane" was still legible, and then on up to the tide mill. Here he paused again, looking into the dark interior where only the sills remained, and below them a space through which the tide ebbed. And he thought of the girl who had ended her life there.

Somehow, all that morning these sad reminders of life and death on the island seemed to thrust themselves before him. The mood they engendered was with him when that afternoon he, with Mona for companion, started for the gorge. And she was almost as silent as the old mill.

"I've been bidding good-by to the island all the morning," he said, when they reached the top of Norse Hill, "and I hate to go away."

"But you are coming back, aren't you?" she asked, with a note of pain.

"Oh, yes," he said cheerfully, "I hope so, but I can't tell. You know why I go, and my business here may be at its end. But if it is, I shall visit the island next summer, if I live.

The Devil's Oven.

"Come, dear," he added, when the gorge was reached and he had assisted her down, "let's leave the violin here and hunt for sea-shells. I want some to carry away." And like two children they clambered over the rocks the tide had left bare, picking up the starfish, chill to the touch, sea-urchins, snail shells, sailors' money purses, tossed above the tide level and dried black and hard, and watching the anemones and crabs left prisoners in pools between the rocks. Overhead the gulls circled and far to seaward the white sails of coasters and fishermen gleamed in the sunlight, and beside Winn, following wherever he went, Mona, with her appealing eyes. They talked of nothings, as usual, and he stole covert looks at her face, noting how the sea winds played havoc with her loosened hair.

Later they sought the cave where the ferns and flowers she had brought the day before lay withered.

"I am going to leave all but one each of the starfish and shells we have gathered," he said, "here in our little nook, and see if we will find them when I come back."

"We shall," she replied, "for no one ever comes here but me, and I will watch them."

It was a child's thought, but there are moments in our lives when to act like children is a relief.

"I hope you will come here often," he added, "and feel this is our playhouse, and when I think of you I shall always see you as you are now and in this cave. And you must keep up your practice and I shall send you some new music and write to you, and if you have a picture of yourself, I should like it."

"I have only one, taken when I was a little girl," she answered, "but you shall have it."

He could have had her heart, and soul even, had he asked it.

"Now play for me, dear," he said very gently, "some of the old songs you play best."

And once again, as many times before, Winn visited the banks of "Bonnie Doon" and the fields of heather over which the tartan-clad ranks marched to the tune of "The Blue Bells of Scotland" and "The Campbells are Coming." And he heard the pipes droning and saw "Bonnie Dundee" with waving plume and the sweet lassie "Comin' thro' the Rye," and heard the love plaint of "Robin Adair," "Auld Robin Grey," and the undying heart-cry of sweet "Annie Laurie."

And into these was blended the low lullaby of the ocean.

When it was all ended and the twilight had come, without a word he held out his hand, and slowly and in silence gently guided her footsteps out of the gorge. Along the devious way among the ledges he led her, a drooping flower, thirsting for one drop of the water of life, one word of love, ay, one word of pity!

The purple shade of coming night had crept in from the wide ocean ere they reached the old stone tower, and here he paused. Full well he knew what every impulse of his own heart called upon him to utter, and yet his lips were dumb. Full well he knew how the girl who stood beside him felt, and the heartache that was her portion.

And still he was silent!

The chill night breeze from the sea swept over the hill. Suddenly the girl shivered.

And then, as he looked out upon the darkening sea and heard the solemn requiem sounding below the cliff, the voice of eternity and life and death speaking there unsealed his lips.

The next moment Mona was clasped in his arms.

"God help me, little girl," he said, "I love you."

Later, the moon, smiling approval, rose out of the ocean, and when the two, now one, turned to go, once more he gathered her close to his heart.

"You will come back now, won't you?" she said.

And looking into the tear-wet eyes upraised to his, he kissed her once, twice, thrice.

"Surely," he answered, "my heart is here now."