Then Mona became a factor in his perplexity. He had tried to avoid her to a certain extent, but he could not avoid his thoughts, and deep in his heart he knew that whatever bond of sympathy had come between them was due to his own seeking. He had praised her playing, passed hours in delightful exchange of poetic thoughts and recital of old-time lore, pathetic, romantic, and altogether alluring, and this thrusting his personality, as it were, into the thoughts and life of this untutored island girl could have but one ending, and full well Winn knew what that was. The next Sunday chance threw them together, for Winn, to escape his mood, if possible, had taken a long stroll over the island and up to the north village. Returning late in the afternoon, he found her sitting by the old mill watching the tide slowly ebbing between its mussel-coated foundations. It was a spot romantic in its isolation, out of sight from any dwelling and, in addition, of somewhat ghostly interest. Winn had heard its history. It had been built a century ago and made useful for the island's needs, but finally it fell into disuse and decay, its roof gone, its timbers and floor removed, its windows but gaping openings in the stone walls and akin to the eyeless sockets and mouth of a skull. Then, too, the half-demented girl who years before had been found hanging lifeless from one of its cross beams added an uncanny touch. Winn had felt its grewsome interest and once or twice had visited it with Mona. And now, coming to it just as the lowering sun had reached the line of spruce trees fringing the western side of the harbor, he found Mona sitting where they had sat one moonlight evening, idly watching the motionless harbor stretching a mile away. She was not aware of his approach, but sat leaning against an abutting stone, looking at the setting sun's red glow on the harbor, a lonely, pathetic figure. For a moment Winn watched her, and watching there beside this uncanny old ruin, lived the past two months over again like a momentary dream, and then drew nearer. "Why, Mona," he said, "what are you doing here?" "Nothing," she answered, straightening up and turning to face him, "only I did not know what else to do, and so came here." She did not disclose the impulse which brought her to this spot, for of that no man, certainly not Winn, should be told. "Well," he continued, with assumed cheerfulness, "I'm glad to have come across you, for I too have been lonesome and trying to walk it off. I've had the blues for a week or more now," he added, feeling that some sort of apology was due her, "and am not myself." "And why?" she asked interestedly, turning her fathomless eyes upon him; "are you getting tired of us here, and wanting to go back to the city?" "No, little girl," he replied, assuming his usual big-brother's tone and address, "I hate the city, as I've told you many times; but business matters vex me, and as you may have heard, I've had to lay off some of my men."