When Winn bade good-by to Jess Hutton he realized for the first time how closely his life had become linked to Rockhaven. The old man, burdened with the responsibility of twenty thousand dollars safely tucked under his pillow the night before, had not closed his eyes in sleep. He seemed as much cast down as Winn. In truth, he was more so, for the hand of time had swept him beyond the influence of dollars, and human sympathy and his own feelings were of more account.

"We, all on us, owe ye more'n we kin ever pay back," he said when the moment of parting came, "an' if ye realize how ye stand with us on the island 'n' how glad we'll all be to hev ye back with us, ye won't be long in comin'. Ye had the chance to rob us, an' ye didn't. Instid ye did the best ye could to save our money 'thout thinkin' much about yer own, an' that, 'long o' what ye did for the men ez needed work 'n' wages, will give ye a warm welcome back. If we could know when ye was comin' (ez I hope ye will soon), thar ain't a man, woman, or child in Rockhaven ez wouldn't be on the dock to meet ye, 'n' the parson'd want 'em all to make for the church at onct and jine in singin' hymns."

"I am glad you will all think so kindly of me," answered Winn, his heart rising to his throat at this unexpected tribute, "and I hope soon to be with you. What I shall do now, I do not know. I have a good sum of money now that I can call my own, thanks to luck and Mr. Page, but as for future business or occupation, have no plans."

"Ye might come to Rockhaven an' start the quarry on yer own hook," responded Jess. "There's 'nuff on us ez'll be more'n glad to put money in, an' ye needn't be feared they won't hev confidence in ye. The hull island comes purty near bein' yourn now, fer the askin'."

And then the "all aboard," that ends so many partings, came.

"Don't forgit us, 'n' what I've told ye," said Jess, with a slight tremble in his voice, as he once more shook Winn's hand, while his eyes grew moist; "don't forgit—any on us."

Then the train bore him away.

And Winn, conscious now that a friend as good and true as his own father had once been, had opened his heart to him, turned away, his own eyes also misty. And for days, weeks, and months after, the last words of Jess Hutton were tender in his memory.

But the consciousness that he had now twenty thousand dollars safely on deposit, soon lifted him into a cheerful mood again, and when he reached his aunt's home, his spirits were at top notch.

The most surprised and elated person in the city was that same worthy and excellent aunt. Not a hint, even, had she received of Winn's arrival in the city, and the great fiasco "on 'change" the day before was also unknown to her. When Winn, using his own latch-key, walked into the sitting room, she sat by her little table reading the latest Zion's Herald, while near by her pet lap-dog slumbered in a rocking chair.

"Why, Winn," she exclaimed, springing to her feet and kissing him fondly, "what has brought you to the city, and why didn't you tell me you were coming? Or did you want to surprise the old lady?"

And Winn, a little proud of his financial success, answered: "I came here two days ago to surprise Weston & Hill, and succeeded. So much so that Weston has left for parts unknown, and I am twenty thousand dollars richer for the surprise. I had to keep in hiding two days to do it, however."

And then a greater surprise came to Winn.

"Mr. Weston run away," gasped his aunt, growing pale and oblivious to Winn's twenty-thousand-dollar assertion. "What do you mean, Winn?"

"I mean," he answered coolly, "just what I say. Weston has robbed his partner and left the town! The Rockhaven Granite Company gone to smash! Stock not worth a copper, and there you are! But I'm all right, auntie," he added cheerfully, "you can't lose me."

And then a scene came.

For a moment Winn's aunt looked at him, her eyes dilated, mouth open.

"The—company—gone—to—smash!" she exclaimed slowly, as the awful news forced its way into her brain. Then she seemed to reel a moment, and the next sank to her knees beside a chair, her face in the cushion.

"Oh, my God," she moaned, "I am ruined, ruined, ruined!"

And Winn, half guessing the cause of his aunt's despair, was beside her in an instant.

"What do you mean, auntie?" he begged. "What do you mean?"

"All my money," she sobbed, "all my money has gone! Twenty thousand, all I had, gone, gone, gone!" And she moaned again.

Winn, rising, glanced at the table where only magazines and religious papers lay, and at his aunt, still sobbing at his feet, and then a light came to him. And it must be recorded, a curse as hearty as it was profane rose to his lips, and the name of J. Malcolm Weston was linked with it.

For Winn had known how his aunt had trusted and believed in Weston, and now the outcome of it was plain.

A moment more only did he look at the woe-begone woman at his feet, and then he turned and left the room, and went to his own upstairs.

Many of us in this world do selfish things, a few of us do mean ones; but not to one in a thousand does the chance come to do a heroic one, and when it comes, not one in ten is equal to it. We think, we excuse, we evade, we haggle with our conscience and selfish impulses, and in the end self wins the day.

But Winn, fresh from the island, where simple good will to all men ruled supreme, and the heart-offering of Jess Hutton still warming his own, was in the spirit for heroism. As he sat down to think in his own room, all the years that this good aunt had been a mother to him came back. She was simple, she was over-pious, she believed all to be like herself,—good, kind, and true. And to Winn she had been all that a motherly woman could be.

Only for a moment did he hesitate, and then he wrote a check for the small fortune he owned for a day, and descending the stairs, handed it to his aunt.

"Come, auntie," he said cheerfully, "don't shed any more tears over that accursed Weston. You have been a good mother to me for many years, and here is your money back."

Then he swallowed a lump in his own throat and turned away.

Over the scene that followed a veil shall be drawn.

That evening at the tea-table, Winn, almost beyond praise now in his aunt's estimation, told the story of his summer on Rockhaven and what manner of people he found there, their ways of living, and all about them, even to their dress. The little church and its poorly paid minister, whose simple and touching prayers had reached Winn's heart as none had before, were also mentioned; even the two bells answering one another across the island at eventide, and the new influence upon his life and thoughts they had wrought, were spoken of. Quaint old Jess with his fiddle came in for a share, and the ancient tide mill and its history as well. The old tower, the bold, frowning cliffs, and the gorge with the Devil's Oven opening into it were described. All the island, in fact, and all it contained, except—Mona. And when, late that evening, Winn's aunt kissed him good night and retired to her room, she knelt down and thanked God, who had opened her heart to care for this son of her dead sister.

In a different mood when he reached his room, and conscious that his life's fortunes had yet to be wrought, Winn sat down and wrote to Mona. And so strange a love letter was it, and so misunderstood by her, that it must be given here.

"Dear little Sweetheart," he wrote, "my life and hopes seem to have come to a full stop and I do not know what to say to you. My summer's work, and all my ambitions, as I feared, have ended in one grand crash. Out of this I saved your uncle and those on the island who bought stock. I also saved myself, or, as it turned out, my aunt's fortune, for unbeknown to me she had been led to invest in Rockhaven stock and lost all. As she has given me all that I have known of home since boyhood, I should have been more than ungrateful had I not taken care of her.

"What my future plans are, I cannot say. The world is wide, and some place in it for me will be found. Where it is, or what doing, I know not.

"It is but a few days since I left the island, hoping soon to return, and now it seems months. I recall all the charming hours we have passed together with keen interest, and yet they seem to-night like an old, old memory, returning even as the scenes of my boyhood return when I am despondent."

More than this he wrote, but it need not be quoted, being merely tender phrases and without point.

Mona, trying to read between the lines, as well she might, imagined it to be a farewell message and a good-by to herself.

Reading thus, and a false reading at that, she betook herself to the old tower, and there, all alone with her heartache, while the stars looked down in pity and the ocean moaned close by, she cast herself upon the cold stones and cried her heart agony away.

And the letter was never answered.