And then as they turned toward the village, he carrying the green bag and still retaining the hand he clasped to assist her out of the chasm, and guiding her footsteps along the way, a new and exalted sense of happiness came to her. But little was said by either, for she like a timid child waited for him to speak, and he was so hushed by the mood of the afternoon in the gorge, and the blessed unity of sea and sky and sunset here, he enjoyed silence best.
When they came in sight of the village he released her hand, and when her home was reached handed her the bag, and with a whispered "good night, Mona," passed on.
CHAPTER XII
THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
When Winn passed out of Rockhaven the next morning, Mona was in her dooryard kneeling beside a bed of flowers, her face shaded by a checked calico sunbonnet. At the gate he paused.
"Good morning, little girl," he said pleasantly, "do I get a flower for my good looks this morning?" Had Mona been a cultured society girl she would have replied in the same coin, instead she merely answered his greeting and plucking one each of a half dozen kinds, still moist with the dew, handed them to him. And he looked into the wondrous eyes raised to his, saw a new light lingering in them, and smiling softly as he took the flowers he thanked her and went his way.
And strange to say, when he reached the quarry, he hid that little nosegay in a shaded nook beside the ledge where a tiny spring dripped out, and when he returned that noon, carried them wrapped in a wet handkerchief to his room and left them in a glass of water. And that night when the vexation and cares of the day had passed, he, a little homesick and with the charm of Mona's playing still lingering in his mind, held communion with himself. And the cause was the following missive which had reached him:—
"Dear Mr. Hardy:
"I was surprised a few days ago when your aunt told me you had left the city to be manager of the Rockhaven Granite Co., and had gone away to some unheard of island. I had missed seeing you for a week, and when you were not at church with your aunt, asked her what had become of you. When she told me where you were it seemed likely you would be glad to hear from home, and as I am aware your worthy aunt hates letter writing, I thought I would be good to you. There isn't a bit of news to write, and the city is getting positively unbearable.
"Mother and I are getting ready to go to the mountains; we shall start early in July and your aunt goes with us. I presume from what she said you will remain where you are this summer. I almost envy you, for it certainly must be cool there, and no doubt you have or will find some sweet fishermaid to flirt with. Grace is not going with us for she says a baby is a nuisance at a hotel and then 'hubby' can't afford it. I saw Jack (your chum) the other evening at the Bijou with a girl who was stunning, also Mabel Weston and her mother.
"I do not know of anything else that will interest you except my address for the summer, which I enclose, and the hope that you won't forget us all before your return.
"Yours sincerely,
"Ethel Sherman."
And this from the girl who two short years before had laughed his marriage proposal to scorn.