"Ye mustn't mind my notions," Jess said at last, reading Winn's face; "I mean to help ye, 'n' I will, only as I said I'm a leetle skeery o' yer consarn. Ef things go on right fer a spell, I most likely'll feel different. I've got pinched in schemes afore, an' grown cautious. Faith, ez the parson says, is a mustard seed 'n' needs time to sprout. We'll watch thet air mustard seed o' yourn, 'n' gin it time ter sprout. Now, to sorter drive away your blues an' mine, I'm goin' to fiddle a spell; ye won't mind, will ye?" "I should be delighted," answered Winn, with sudden eagerness, "I have heard you were an expert with a violin. Mr. Weston said you were." He did not deem it wise just then to say who else had stated that fact. Without further comment, Jess brought out his violin. "Fiddlin's to me," he said, as he turned it up, "a good deal ez licker used to be to old Bill Atlas, a cure-all fer everything from death to the toothache. Bill was quite a case in his day, an' said licker was made fer the purpose o' drownin' sorrow. He drowned his purty stiddy in't anyhow, an' finally was driv' to his death by the tremens." Then he began and fiddled away for an hour, his eyes closed, his kindly face glowing with the pleasure of his own art, and one foot keeping time on the floor. And, to Winn's surprise, his selections were all of Scotch origin, and the liveliest of those best of all harmonies. From one to another he skipped, a medley of those old tunes that have lived as no other nation's music ever did or ever will live, because none other has quite the same life and soul. And Winn, listening as that quaint old man fiddled away, forgot his troubles, carried to fair Scotland's banks and braes, where Wallace bled, Prince Charlie fought, and Bonnie Dundee rallied his henchmen to give battle, and, too, Winn heard the love plaint of many a Scotch lad and lassie, centuries old, and yet reaching his heart as they always did and always will all human kind. And as, entranced, he lived once more in the olden days of chivalry and love faithful unto death, he thought of Mona and how she had touched the same chord in his heart only a few hours before. And when Jess had tired of his pastime, and Winn, on his way to his solitary room in Rock Lane, passed the white cottage next to it, he halted a moment, wondering if Mona was asleep, or if not, was she thinking of him. For such is man, and so do the rose petals of love first unclose. [Illustration: MONA.] CHAPTER X MONA HUTTON