ancy Jane" was still legible, and
then on up to the tide mill. Here he paused again, looking into the dark
interior where only the sills remained, and below them a space through
which the tide ebbed. And he thought of the girl who had ended her life
there.

Somehow, all that morning these sad reminders of life and death on the
island seemed to thrust themselves before him. The mood they engendered
was with him when that afternoon he, with Mona for companion, started
for the gorge. And she was almost as silent as the old mill.

"I've been bidding good-by to the island all the morning," he said, when
they reached the top of Norse Hill, "and I hate to go away."

"But you are coming back, aren't you?" she asked, with a note of pain.

"Oh, yes," he said cheerfully, "I hope so, but I can't tell. You know
why I go, and my business here may be at its end. But if it is, I shall
visit the island next summer, if I live.

[Illustration: THE DEVIL'S OVEN.]

"Come, dear," he added, when the gorge was reached and he had assisted
her down, "let's leave the violin here and hunt for sea-shells. I want
some to carry away." And like two children they clambered over the rocks
the tide had left bare, picking up the starfish, chill to the touch,
sea-urchins, snail shells, sailors' money purses, tossed above the tide
level and dried black and hard, and watching the anemones and crabs left
prisoners in pools between the rocks. Overhead the gulls circled and far
to seaward the white sails of coasters and fishermen gleamed in the
sunlight, and beside Winn, following wherever he went, Mona, with her
appealing eyes. They talked of nothings, as usual, and he stole covert
looks at her face, noting how the sea winds played havoc with her
loosened hair.

Later they sought the cave where the ferns and flowers she had brought
the day before lay withered.

"I am going to leave all but one each of the starfish and shells we have
gathered," he said, "here in our little nook, and see if we will find
them when I come back."

"We shall," she replied, "for no one ever comes here but me, and I will
watch them."

It was a child's thought, but there are moments in our lives when to act
like children is a relief.

"I hope you will come here often," he added, "and feel this is our
playhouse, and when I think of you I shall always see you as you are now
and in this cave. And you must keep up your practice and I shall send
you some new music and write to