Now you are here, let me see you give your
flowers to the fairy."

For answer he gallantly touched them with his lips and handed them to
her. "You are the fairy who lives here," he said, "for I shall never
think of this spot without seeing you in it."

Mona colored a little and then a shade crossed her face. "Isn't that
deception?" she said. "You do not mean it."

"I mean to say every nice thing I can think of to-day," he answered,
"and do all I can to make you enjoy it. A truly happy hour is a rare
experience in life, and I want to find one for you." Then, taking his
cigar case out and stretching himself on one side of the cave, he added:
"I wish we had brought some cushions. I will, the next time we come."

"I do not think how hard the rock is," she answered; "when I am playing
I forget where I am, even."

"Well, forget it quick," he said, "so I can. Only do not play 'Annie
Laurie' till the last thing. You brought a mist to my eyes with it the
other day. It's a sweet bit, full of tears."

And then, not heeding his pleasantries, many of which she did not
understand, Mona drew her dearly loved brown fiddle out of its case, and
once more that uncanny den in the rocks echoed to its magic. A medley of
old-time ballads, jigs, reels, and dance music came forth in succession,
while Winn, forgetting his cigar, yielded to her music and watched her
lissom body encased in blue flannel, open at the throat, swaying
slightly as she played, her winsome face turned from him in profile and
eyes closed at times. Once only, when a certain air recalled the past,
did he think of the woman who had scorned him, and whose letter was
still unanswered.

"Do not play any more now," he said finally, when Mona paused, "you must
be tired."

"I must have tired you of it," she answered bluntly, "and I am glad. I
want to hear you talk and tell me about fairies and the great city where
you lived, and about that woman who played before people. I wish I could
learn to play as you say she did."

"Oh, there's not much to tell about fairies," he answered, smiling at
her earnestness, "they are merely imaginary and used to amuse children.
Many years ago, when the world was young, people believed in and
worshipped them as gods and goddesses; now they are poetic fancies."

"What are poetic fancies?" she asked, understanding him only partially.

"Well, for instance," he answered, "a poet would describe this gorge as
a way through the cliff carved by