But Winn was the most worried person on the island, and his burden the heavier to bear since he dared not hint his suspicions to any one. To all who came and almost begged him to take their savings in exchange for stock he made only one reply, "We have no more to sell," and had there been a stock exchange on the island, Rockhaven would have soared to twenty dollars a share, so eager were those credulous people to invest. Then another incident of life began to interest them, and, though Winn knew it not, his attentions to Mona began to create gossip, more especially as he was the actual and present representative of a rich corporation. His walking to and from church with her, the hours he had spent in her home, and more than these, the summer evening strolls up to the old tide mill, to linger and watch the moonlight on the water, had all been noticed and commented upon. For these people, albeit they worked hard and lived poorly, intuitively knew where Cupid hid himself and how and when he shot his arrows. It was all right, of course, and though other less fortunate maids envied Mona, and many of the good mothers voiced their congratulations to Mrs. Hutton, there was no opposition to this summer idyl. One thing Winn noticed, however, and that was the pertinent fact that when he "dropped in" at Mona's home, as he so often did, her mother usually found some excuse to absent herself and leave the young couple alone. Had he been desirous of wooing this winsome maid nothing would have pleased him better, but he hardly felt that way. It was true she interested him, for what young man could resist her sweet and tender ways, her patience with her mother's implacable dislike of her violin playing and the beautiful soul her truthful eyes bespoke? Then the hours with her in the romantic spot in which she had chosen to seek the goddess of music were more than charming. In a way this trysting place began to seem sacred to him, and the secret hours he had passed with her there a tender bond between them. All these sweet motive forces that move man's nature, like so many little hands, began to entwine themselves in his. He had no thought of marrying. He realized that he had yet to carve his way upward to independence before thinking of a home and wife, and beyond that the lesson of distrust Ethel Sherman had taught him still held sway. He was not a model of discretion; he was an unthinking young man with the germs of fine honor and sturdy honesty latent within him, and in spite of the cynicism he had imbibed from Jack Nickerson he was sure in the end to commit no folly, nor wrong man, woman, or child. And yet, insensibly, he was doing Mona Hutton the greatest wrong in his power--almost. Some realizing sense of this came to him after that evening beside the old tide mill, when his words had caused a single tear to fall upon the hand that helped her to arise, and yet he could not tell what he had said that hurt her so.