ittle church and its parson, the quarry and his men, of Mrs. Moore and
Captain Roby and the fishermen who each day sailed away to return at
night.

Only Mona was omitted.

And Ethel, listening, became entranced at his recital.

"Your stay there has done you good," she said, when it was ended, "and
made a broader man of you. You are not the callow boy you were, and the
heroism you have shown toward your poor aunt proves it. When she told
me, the tears almost came to my eyes; and while I bow to the noble
impulse you displayed, it was foolish after all. It would have been
wiser to have kept the money in your own hands and taken care of her.
She may be led again to make ducks and drakes of her money by another
Weston. The world is full of them."

"It didn't occur to me then," answered Winn. "I did it on a sudden
impulse, and now I think you are right."

And be it said parenthetically that this worldly yet sincere assertion
of Ethel Sherman elevated her greatly in Winn's estimation.

"Come, Ethel," he said after a pause, "I want to forget all this
business; now don't say any more about it. Most likely I acted
foolishly--it isn't the first time, and may not be the last. If you want
to cheer me up, play and sing for me. I've not heard a piano since I
left the city."

Ethel, glad of the chance so to entertain him, complied. Strange to say
the song she selected and rendered, as she well could, with exquisite
feeling, was "Robin Adair." Then followed another of the same
nationality.

"I've taken to the old Scotch songs lately," she said, when she turned
from the piano, "and they are quite a fad with me now. They have so much
more heart and soul in them than modern compositions."

"Give me 'Annie Laurie' now," suggested Winn, a shade on his face. And
listening well while the graceful, ring-glittering fingers of Ethel
Sherman leaped lightly over the ivory keys, her sweet voice gave new
power to the immortal ballad of olden time, while he thought only of one
summer day in the cave at Rockhaven and--Mona.

When he was taking his leave, and Ethel, unconscious of the mood she had
evoked, stood beside him in the dimly lighted hall, she held out her
hand. Her red, ripe lips were upraised, as if in temptation, and her
eyes were tender with the spirit of her songs.

"I hope you have had a pleasant evening, Winn," she said tenderly, "and
will call again soon. I'll promise not to mention the fisher maid any
more if you will."