"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. CHAPTER XII THE PARTING OF THE WAYS When Winn passed out of Rockhaven the next morning, Mona was in her dooryard kneeling beside a bed of flowers, her face shaded by a checked calico sunbonnet. At the gate he paused. "Good morning, little girl," he said pleasantly, "do I get a flower for my good looks this morning?" Had Mona been a cultured society girl she would have replied in the same coin, instead she merely answered his greeting and plucking one each of a half dozen kinds, still moist with the dew, handed them to him. And he looked into the wondrous eyes raised to his, saw a new light lingering in them, and smiling softly as he took the flowers he thanked her and went his way. And strange to say, when he reached the quarry, he hid that little nosegay in a shaded nook beside the ledge where a tiny spring dripped out, and when he returned that noon, carried them wrapped in a wet handkerchief to his room and left them in a glass of water. And that night when the vexation and cares of the day had passed, he, a little homesick and with the charm of Mona's playing still lingering in his mind, held communion with himself. And the cause was the following missive which had reached him:-- "DEAR MR. HARDY: