ROCKHAVEN

"It ain't more'n onct in a lifetime," said Jess Hutton to the crowd of friends in his store, "that luck comes thick 'n' fat to any on us 'n' so fer that reason I sent over to the mainland fer suthin' o' a liquid natur; 'n' now take hold, all hands, 'n' injie yerselves on Jess."

With that he began setting forth upon the counter, in battle array, dozens upon dozens of bottles filled with dark brown liquid and interspersed with boxes of cigars. For Jess Hutton, the oracle, principal storekeeper, first selectman, school committeeman, prize story teller, philosopher and friend to everybody on Rockhaven island, had sold a few acres of granite ledge he set no value upon, for two thousand dollars, half cash down; and being a man of generous impulses, had invited the circle of friends most congenial, to "drop round ternight 'n' I'll set 'em up."

It is true that the cigars he passed out so freely were not imported, still they were the best he kept, and not the cheap brand most in demand on Rockhaven, and the bottles contained the vintage of hops and malt instead of "extra dry," but both were urged upon all in a way that left refusal impossible.

And of that unique gathering of men, with sea-tanned faces, garbed mainly in shirt, trousers, and sailor caps, some wearing boots, some slippers, some barefoot, nearly all addressed one another as "Cap" or "Cap'n," for to own a fishing sloop or jigger on Rockhaven meant distinction.

"I dunno how it all come about," said Jess, when the popping of corks had ceased and the incense of cabbage leaves began to arise, "but I was sorter dozin' on the counter that day when this bloomin' freak, with white duck pants, 'n' cap, 'n' shirt, 'n' gray side whiskers, blew in, 'n' the fust I know'd, I heerd him say, 'Come, wake up, Rip Van Winkle! I want ter buy yer quarry!'

"Then I sot up 'n' rubbed my eyes 'n' looked at him, sure he must be one o' them make-believe sailors off a yacht I'd seen run in the night afore, 'n' had come ashore with skates on.

"'Want ter buy what?' I sez. 'Want ter buy yer quarry,' he sez again. 'I heerd ye owned the one t'other side o' the harbor, 'n' if ye want ter sell it cheap, I'll buy it.' Then I looked at him harder'n ever; sure he had a jag 'n' was makin' game o' me.

"'Yes,' I sez, 'I'll sell ye the quarry, or the hull island, if ye ain't sure ye own it already. Better go into the back o' the store 'n' lay down on a pile o' old sails ye'll find thar, 'n' sleep it off. Things'll look more nat'ral to ye by that time.' With that he laffed fit ter split. 'You're all right, old sport,' he sez, 'but I ain't drunk, 'n' if ye'll set the price low enough, I'll buy yer quarry and pay ye cash fer't.'

"'Wal,' I sez, thinkin' I'd set the price high 'nough ter knock him galley west, 'I'll take three thousand dollars fer't.'

"'I'll give ye two,' he said, ''n' pay yer half down.' 'Hev ye got it with ye?' I sed. 'I hev,' he said, 'aboord the boat, or I'll give ye a check.' 'Checks don't go here,' I said, 'but if ye've got real money, 'n' mean business, it's yourn at that figger.' Then he went off, 'n' I was so sure I'd never set eyes on him ag'in I went ter sleep. It didn't seem five minutes till he blew in ag'in. 'How many acres o' that ledge do ye own,' he said, 'an' how many goes with the quarry?' 'Wall,' I said, 'there's about a hundred, 'n' if that ain't nuff ter keep ye busy blastin' the rest o' yer nateral life, I'll throw in the hull o' Norse Hill jist ter bind the bargain,' fer I didn't no more s'pose he meant bizniss than I s'posed I'd got wings. 'Wal,' he says, pullin' out a roll o' bills bigger'n my arm. 'Here's the kale seed, an' when ye'll show me what I'm buyin' 'n' a deed on't, it's yourn.'

"Wal, I jist pinched myself, ter see if I was 'wake, an' jumpin' off the counter, fished a deed out o' my safe 'n' took it 'long, an' showed him round the ledge, believin' all the time when he'd seen it, he'd tell me ter go soak my head, er suthin' o' that sort. But he didn't, an' arter I got hold o' the money 'n' counted it, wonderin' if it wasn't all bogus, 'n' give him a receipt, 'n' he'd gone off, I went 'n' stuck a pin into my leg, jist ter be sure I was awake, after all. That was a week ago," continued Jess, lighting one of the cigars he had set forth, "but I didn't say nuthin' 'bout it till I'd gone ashore with the money an' the bank folks hed said it was all right, 'n' now I think I've lost jist a thousand dollars by not askin' four for't. Why, the loonytic acted as though he owned a printin' press that made money, an' was goin' all the time."

"Wish I'd been ashore," observed Captain Moore, who was one of the group, "I'd a tackled him ter buy the Nancy Jane. She's been lyin' inside o' the harbor, half full o' bilge water, fer more'n a year, an' ain't wuth scuttlin'. Ye'd orter 'a thought on't, Jess, an' persuaded him he could 'a used 'r to carry stun in."

"An' if I'd a-knowed it," put in Cap'n Jet Doty, another of the group, "I'd a tried him on 'bout a hundred kit o' mackerel we've got that's a trifful rusty. He cud a-used 'em somehow. Ye'd orter think o' yer neighbors, Jess, in such a case, an' let 'em in on't."

"I dunno but ye're right," responded Jess; "but I wus caught nappin', 'n' I cac'late that if any o' ye hed been woke up by sech a lubber with gray whiskers, like stun'sls, an' dude cloes like these jackdaw yachters wear, an offerin' ye two thousand dollars fer what ye'd sell fer fifty, an' no takers, ye'd a-bin sot back, so ter speak. If I'd a hed time ter think an' knowed what an easy mark the cuss was, I'd a-laid ter sell him the hull island 'n' divided it up all round."

And be it said that if all the landowners of Rockhaven had obtained even what they valued their holdings at, they would have sold cheerfully, for out of the eighty odd square miles of the island, not one quarter was of soil, and much of that so sandy that only bayberry bushes and wild roses grew on it, or else thickets of stunted spruce. The only means of livelihood to most was the sea, and if nature had not endowed the island with a capacious land-locked harbor and a few acres of productive soil beyond it, and shut in by wall-like shores, Rockhaven would have been left to the sea-gulls that infested its cliffs, or the fish-hawks that found its harbor good fishing ground.

"What'd ye s'pose he's goin' ter do with it, now he's got it?" put in Cap'n Doty, when Jess had finished his recital, and having in mind his stock of rusty mackerel. "Will he come down here 'n' go ter quarryin'?"

"Mebbe he wants it fer ballast fer a new boat," interposed young Dave Moore. "Or fer buildin' a house," put in Dave's brother, Sam. "Cheer up, uncle, we may sell him the Nancy Jane yit. He'll hev ter hire or buy suthin' ter carry stun 'way from the island. He can't make a raft on't."

"An' if he does," asserted Cap'n Moore, addressing Cap'n Doty, who sat opposite him on a cracker barrel, "ye'd git a chance to work off them mackerel."

"I dunno what he's goin' ter do with it," asserted Jess, when a pause came, "nor care, so long's I git t'other thousand as is comin' when deeds is passed. I ain't sure I'll git that, either," he added candidly, "but if I don't the quarry's still mine 'n' a cool thousand o' that freak's good money's gone out o' circulation anyhow, which is some comfort."

Then came a lull in conversation, and in place the popping of more corks and "Here's to yer good luck, Jess," as bottles were elevated and pointed downward.

"Come, Jess," said Dave Moore, when this second libation had been indulged in, and who was in a mood for hearing yarns, "tell 'em 'bout old Bill Atlas."

Now this tale, antedating the day and generation of most of Jess Hutton's auditors, was nevertheless a favorite with him and one he always enjoyed telling.

"Wal," he said, "if ye want ter hear 'bout old Bill, I'll tell ye, though some o' ye here hez heerd 'bout him afore, I reckon. It's been a good many years since Bill took to his wings, humsoever, 'n' so his hist'ry may be divartin'. Bill used ter live all 'lone in a little shack he'd built out o' drift, half way 'tween here and Northaven. That is, he slept thar nights when he was ashore, fer he was away fishin' most o' the time. He were the worst soaker on the island, an' from the time he sot foot ashore 'n' got his pay until every cent was spent, he didn't draw a sober breath. Thar wan't no use arguin' with Bill, or doin' anything to reform him. Jist the moment he got a dollar, jist that moment he started in ter git drunk 'n' allus succeeded. Even Parson Bush, who hed jist come here then 'n' anxious ter do good, failed on Bill. No 'mount o' argufyin' 'bout the worm that never dies or the fate o' sinners hed a mite o' influence on Bill.

"'Parson,' he'd say, 'thar ain't no use a-talkin' ter me. Licker was made ter be drunk, else why was it made at all, 'n' if the Lord Almighty didn't cac'late fer me ter drink it, why did he make me hanker for't? Ye jist preach ter them as is like ter mind it an'll foller it. I ain't, an' it'll do no good.' An' then Bill'd roll away an' fill up. He wa'n't a quarrelsome cuss, jist a good-natured soaker who meant ter git drunk, 'n' done it, an' never meant ter bother nobody when he was.

"But some on us young folks in them days sot out to hev fun with Bill once upon a time, an' we did, an' more'n that, we joggled him so he quit drinkin' fer most a year. He'd had one er two fits o' tremens afore that time, 'n' had sorter got skeery 'bout seein' things, so our trick worked fust rate. One o' the smacks hed jist brought in a hogfish that day, an' it was the worst lookin' critter that ever growed in the sea. It weighed 'bout fifty poun' 'n' was 'most all mouth 'n' teeth. Bill was up in the corner o' a fish house sleepin' off a jag when the critter was h'isted onto the dock, 'n' the moment we spied it we said we'd try it on Bill. We told everybody ter keep quiet 'n' then we went at it. Fust we lugged the hogfish over ter Bill's shack, which was out on the end o' a little pint 'n' sorter shut in 'tween the rocks, 'n' then we got an old bit o' sail and went ter work. We sot the critter up on stuns, right in front o' the shack, 'n' made a tail 'bout forty feet long out o' the sail, an' stuffed it nat'ral like, 'n' then rigged lines running over the shanty to work the critter's mouth 'n' tail up 'n' down when the time come. It was 'long in the arternoon when we sot about 'n' we cac'lated Bill 'd wake up sometime arter dark 'n' come to his shack in jist the mood ter 'preciate the good thing that we hed waitin' fer him. Then to sorter liven up matters, we took a handful o' matches, an' dampenin' 'em, rubbed the ends round the eyes an' mouth o' the critter, 'n' in spots 'long the tail, where we was to hist it a little. It was clear dark afore we got the trap all sot 'n' baited, 'n' then five on us took the lines and tried the joke. It worked pretty slick, 'n' ter see that critter's mouth, more'n a foot long 'n' full o' teeth, 'n' eyes with rings of phosphorus round 'em, a-workin' up an' down, to say nothin' 'bout the tail, would a-skeered a sober man into fits arter dark, let alone one who 'spected snakes. When Bill's welcome home was all ready, we sot a watch on Bill, who was still asleep, 'n' the rest on us went home ter supper. Then we got together, 'bout two dozen on us that knew Bill best, 'n' gittin' sheets ter wrap up in, to sorter stiffen the hogfish effect, all hands hid round his shanty an' inside on't. It was purty late 'fore Bill showed up, but he came 'long finally, kind o' wobblin' some and hummin':—

"'I'm a gallant lass as ever you see,
And the roving sailor winked at me.'

"Bill was allus feelin' that way when half full 'n' now jist happy 'n' comfortable like. There was a new moon that sorter lit up the path, 'n' jist as he got to where it made a turn, 'bout ten feet from the shanty, I made a signal by squeakin' like a gull, an' the boys begun workin' the lines, 'n' 'bout two dozen white figgers rose up from behind the rocks or stepped out o' the cabin. I never knew which skeered Bill the worst, the awful critter snappin' at him thar in the path, or the ghosts, for Bill gave one screech that could a' been heard five mile, 'n' ye never seen a man run the way he did. He didn't stop ter keep in the path either, but jist went right over the rocks anywhere. He tumbled two or three times 'fore he got out o' sight, 'n' you'd a-thought he was made o' rubber, the way he got up 'n' yelled, 'Help, help, O Lord,' all the time. I'll 'low it was the fust time he'd ever called on the Lord fer help, but it wa'n't the last, fer he made straight fer the parson's house 'n' begun pummellin' on the door.

"'O Lord, take me in,' he said when the parson opened it, 'I'm come fer at last 'n' the divil's arter me. Pray fer me, parson, an' for God's sake, do it quick!' An' then he went down on his knees, 'n' sayin', 'Lordy, Lordy, I'll never drink 'nother drop's long's I live!' Parson Bush was a good deal took back, fer he didn't know the joke, 'n' 'lowed Bill had the tremens. 'Better go back to yer shanty, ye sot,' he said, 'an' when you git sober come here 'n' I'll talk with ye,' an' with that he shet the door 'n' Bill jist laid down 'n' bellowed like a calf. 'N' he didn't go back to his shanty, either, that night, not by a jugful; he'd seen 'nough o' that spot ter last him quite a spell. 'N' when he did thar warn't nuthin' out o' ordinary, fer we'd chucked the hogfish off the rocks, 'n' 'twas more 'n a year 'fore Bill found out the trick we played, 'n' in all that time he kept sober. He did find out arter a spell, fer a joke like that can't be kept allus, 'n' when Bill did, he took ter drink agin, 'n' finally jumped off the dock one night in a fit o' the jims 'n' that was the last o' him. It's hard to larn an old dog new tricks."

For an hour the little crowd of Jess Hutton's friends lingered, wondering and speculating on what the outcome of this investment in a granite ledge would be. To most it seemed a piece of folly or the act of a madman. These worthless rocks had stared them in the face so many years, had so interfered with house building, or the convenient placing of fish racks, or road making, that they had one and all come to hate their very sight. In their estimation they were a nuisance and a curse, and for any sane man to buy twenty acres of ledge to quarry and transport five hundred miles, seemed worse than folly.

Then, having given due expression to this common sentiment, and congratulating Jess upon his good luck, they shook hands with him and went their way. And when the sound of their footsteps upon the one narrow plank walk of Rockhaven had ceased, and only the murmur of the near-by ocean was heard, Jess, as was his wont when lonesome, drew his old brown fiddle from its hiding place and sought consolation from its strings. And also, as usual, the melodies were the songs of Bonnie Scotland.

CHAPTER II

WINN HARDY

Winn Hardy, born and reared where the tinkle of the cow bells on the hillside pastures, or the call of the village church bell on Sunday was the most exciting incident, and a crossroads schoolhouse the only temple of learning, reached the age of fourteen as utterly untainted by knowledge of the world as the birds that annually visited the old farm orchards. And then came a catastrophe in his life which ended in two freshly made graves in the village cemetery, and he was thrust into the whirl of city life, to make his home with a widowed aunt, a Mrs. Converse, who felt it her duty to complete his education by a two years' course at a business college.

It was a scant educational outfit with which to carve his way to fame and fortune, but many a man succeeds who has less, and Winn might have been worse off.

He had one unfortunate and serious fact to contend with, however, and that was a mercurial disposition. When the world and his associates seemed to smile, he soared amid the rosy clouds of optimism, and when things went wrong, he lost his courage.

His first step in wage-earning (a menial position in a store, with scanty pay which scarce sufficed to clothe him) soon convinced him how hard a task earning a livelihood was, and that no one obtained a penny unless he fought for it. Then through the influence of his aunt, he obtained an easier berth as copy clerk in the office of Weston & Hill, whose business was the investing of other people's money, and while his hours of service were less, his pay was no better. Three years of this resulted in slow advancement to a junior bookkeeper's desk and better pay. It also broadened his list of acquaintances, for he joined a club, the membership of which was decidedly mixed, and not all of the best kind of associates for Winn.

His aunt, a shallow though well-meaning woman, devoted to church work, gossip, and her pet poodle, considering Winn an unfortunate addition to her cares, held but scant influence over him. She furnished him a home to sleep and eat in without cost, urged him to attend church with her, cautioned him against evil associates; but beyond that she could not and did not go. So Winn drifted. He saved a little money, realizing that he must, or be forever helpless and dependent; he learned the slang of the town and its ways, and forgot for a time the wholesome lessons of his early life. He also grew more mercurial, and, worse than that, he grew cynical.

On all sides, and go where he would, the arrogance of wealth seemed to hedge him about and force upon him the realization that he was but a poorly paid bookkeeper, and not likely to become aught else. And then a worse mishap befell him—he met and became attached to Jack Nickerson.

There is in every club, and in every walk in life, wherever a young man's feet may stray, some one it were better he never met—a Mephistopheles in male garb, whose wit and ways of pleasure-taking are alluring, whose manners are perfect, whose pockets are well filled; and alas, whose morals are a matter of convenience.

That Winn, honest and wholesome-minded country-born fellow that he was, should be attracted by this product of fast city life is not strange. It is the attraction that allures the moth toward the flame, the good toward evil. Follow Nickerson in that course, Winn would not and did not; he merely admired him for his wit, felt half tempted to emulate his vices, absorbed his scepticism—for Jack Nickerson in addition to his vices was a cynic of the most implacable sort. With him all religion was hypocrisy, all virtue a folly, and all truth a farce. He had income sufficient to live well upon, gambled for a pastime, was at the race tracks whenever chance offered, was cheek by jowl with the sporting fraternity, a man about town and hail fellow well met with all.

Per contra, he was generous to a fault, laughed most when he uttered his sharpest sneers, was polished and refined in his tastes and a gentleman always.

One distinguished novelist has deified such a man, and made him a hero of her numerous tales.

To Winn he appealed more as a fascinating, world-wise sceptic, whose shafts of satire were gospel truths, and whose Sybarite sort of existence was worthy of emulation, if one only had the money to follow it.

Then, as if to cap the climax and Winn's cynical education, he fell in love with Ethel Sherman, a beauty and a natural-born flirt, whose ideas of life and maternal training had convinced her that marriage was a matter of business, and a means by which to obtain position and wealth.

Her family were people of moderate means, living near neighbors to Winn's aunt and attending the same church. She had an elder sister, Grace, who had, in her estimation, wrecked her life by marrying a poor man. And when Winn Hardy, young, handsome and callow, first met her, she was just home from boarding-school, ready to spread her social wings, and ripe for conquest.

Winn's aunt was also somewhat to blame in the matter, for she, like many good women, loved to dabble in match-making, and in her simple mind fancied it a wise move to bring one about between Ethel and Winn.

Its results were disastrous to his peace of mind, for, after dancing attendance for a year and spending half he earned on flowers and theatre tickets, his suit was laughed at and he was assured that only a rich young man was eligible to her favor.

Then he went back to Jack Nickerson, and, though he outgrew his folly, his impulsive nature became more pronounced and he a more bitter cynic than ever. For two years he was but a cipher in business and social life, a poorly paid bookkeeper in the office of Weston & Hill, a drop in the rushing, pushing, strenuous life of the city; and then came a change.

CHAPTER III

THE ROCKHAVEN GRANITE COMPANY

"Please step into my private office, Mr. Hardy," said J. Malcolm Weston, head of Weston & Hill, bankers, brokers, and investment securities, as stated on the two massive nickel plates that flanked their doorway, "I have a matter of business to discuss with you."

Ordinarily Mr. J. Malcolm Weston would have said, "You may step into my private office, Mr. Hardy," when, as in this case, he addressed his bookkeeper, for Mr. Weston never forgot his dignity in the presence of a subordinate. It may be added that he never forgot to address a possible customer as though he owned millions, for J. Malcolm Weston was master of the fine art of obsequious deference, and his persuasive smile, cordial hand grasp, and copious use of flowery language had cost many a cautious man hundreds of dollars. Mr. Weston can best be described as unctuous, and belonged to that class of men who part their names and hair in the middle, but make no division in money matters, merely taking it all.

When Winn Hardy had obeyed his employer's suave invitation and was seated in his presence, he was made to feel that he had suddenly stepped into a sunnier clime.

"It gives me great pleasure, Mr. Hardy," continued Weston, "to inform you that we have decided to enlarge your sphere of duty with us, and I may say, responsibilities. Mr. Hill and myself have considered the matter carefully, and, in view of your faithful and efficient services, we shall from now on confide to you the management of an outside matter of great importance. Please examine this prospectus, which will appear to-morrow in all the papers of this city."

Winn took the typewritten document tendered him and carefully scanned its contents. To show its importance it is given in full, though with reduced headlines:—

THE ROCKHAVEN GRANITE COMPANY.

CAPITAL, $1,000,000.00.
Stock non-assessable. Shares $1.00 each.
Par Value, $10.00.

President, J. Malcolm Weston.

Board of Directors:
J. Malcolm Weston of Weston & Hill.
William M. Simmons, Member of Stock Exchange.
William B. Codman, President National Bank of Discount.
Samuel H. Wiseman, Real Estate Broker.
L. Orton Brown, Secretary Board of Trade.

Office of Company: Weston & Hill, Bankers, Brokers, and Investments.

PROSPECTUS

This Company has purchased and now owns the finest granite quarries in the world, over one mile in length and half that in width, fronting upon the land-locked harbor on the island of Rockhaven. It has a full and perfect equipment of steam drills, engines, derricks, an excellent wharf, vessels for transporting freight, and all modern appliances for carrying on the business of quarrying.

It is well known that the rapid growth of architectural taste produces an ever increasing demand for this, the best of all building stone, and as we furnish the finest quality of granite, having that beautiful pink tint so much admired by architects, you can readily see that our advantages and prospects are limitless. This is no delusive scheme for gold mining or oil boring, but a solid and practical business that guarantees sure returns and certain dividends.

Our supply of granite is exhaustless, the market limitless, and all that we need to develop this quarry and obtain lucrative returns is a little additional capital. For this purpose fifty thousand shares of the capital stock are now offered for sale at one dollar per share, so that the investor may receive the benefit of the advance to par which will follow, as well as the liberal dividends which will surely accrue.

The price of stock will be advanced from time to time, as it is taken up.

Subscription books now open at the office of

Weston & Hill, Financiers.

"It reads well," observed Winn, after he had perused this alluring advertisement, "and I should imagine an investment in a granite quarry might seem a safe one."

"Yes, decidedly safe as well as secure," replied J. Malcolm Weston, with a twinkle in his steely blue eyes not observed by Winn. "I wrote that ad with the intention of attracting investors who desire a solid investment for their money, and fancy I have succeeded. You noticed, perhaps, my allusion to gold mines and oil wells that have recently proved so elusive." Then taking a box of cigars, and passing them to Winn, and elevating his feet to a desk, as if to enjoy the telling of a pleasant episode, Mr. Weston continued: "That prospectus (which I pride myself is an artistic piece of work) will attract just the class of men who have grown suspicious of all sorts of schemes. It is this element of solidity and certainty that we shall elaborate upon. Now I will tell you about our plan and how you are to assist us in carrying it out. As you may recall, I was away last summer with Simmons on his yacht, and while on our trip we landed upon an island called Rockhaven, up the north coast. It is sort of a double island, half cut in two by a safe harbor, and populated by a few hundred simple fisher-folk. We remained there a few days looking over the island, and I noticed that some one had started quarrying the granite of which the island is composed. That, and the location of the quarry, which faced this harbor, set me thinking. It ended in my inquiring out the owner, an eccentric old fellow who kept a small store and fiddled when he hadn't any customers, and finally buying the quarry. I paid him one thousand down, and we are to pay him one thousand more when deeds are passed. We are now going to send you up there to complete the purchase, paying him the balance, if you can, in stock; then hire men, improve the dock, set up the machinery we shall send you, and begin quarrying operations. That will be one of your duties. The other, and principal, one will be to get the natives interested in this home industry, and sell stock to them. To this end it may be necessary for you to give a little away to those whose influence may be of value. We have already booked several orders for building stone, which you will get out as per specifications and shipments. It will be necessary for you to hire one or two vessels for this purpose, or else contract for delivery of stone to us at so much per cargo. There is a small steamer which makes regular trips to this island, so we can reach you by mail.

"Now there is another matter, also of great importance. In order to stimulate your interest in the success of this enterprise, we shall make you a present of five hundred shares of this stock provided you can raise the money to purchase, at one dollar per share, another block of five hundred, or, what would answer as well, induce your aunt to do so."

It was the glittering bait, intended by the wily Weston to catch and hold his dupe, Winn Hardy.

"I have some money laid away," answered Winn, his sense of caution obscured by this alluring offer, "and with a little help from my aunt, I feel sure I can manage it; at least, I will try."

"We do not need this investment of five hundred dollars on your part, Mr. Hardy," continued Weston, in a grandiloquent tone; "as you must be aware, it is but a drop in the bucket, and we only wish it to induce your more hearty coöperation in pushing this enterprise to a successful ending. If we make money, as we are sure to do, you will also share in it. It is needless for me to tell you that this is the golden opportunity of your life, and if you take hold with a will, and not only manage this quarry with good business discretion, but, what is of more importance, sell all the stock you can, you will reap a small fortune. This enterprise is sure to be a money-maker and we expect inside of a year to see Rockhaven go to ten, twenty, or possibly thirty dollars per share."

And Winn Hardy, though sophisticated in a minor degree, believed it, and true to his nature, leaped at once into the clouds, where sudden riches and all that follows seemed within his grasp. Not only did he easily persuade his excellent, though credulous, aunt, to lend him the money he needed, but when he left for his new field of labor, he had so impressed her with his newly acquired delusion that she made haste to call upon Weston & Hill and invest a few thousand herself.

How disastrous that venture proved and how much woe and sorrow followed need not be specified at present. True to her feminine nature, she told no one, not even Winn, of her investment; and until the meteoric career of Rockhaven had become ancient history on the street, only the books of those shrewd schemers and her own safe deposit box knew her secret.

CHAPTER IV

WHERE THE SEA-GULLS COME

Like a pair of Titanic spectacles joined with a bridge of granite, the two halves of Rockhaven faced the Atlantic billows, as grim and defiant as when Leif Ericson's crew of fearless Norsemen sailed into its beautiful harbor. With a coast line of bold cliffs, indented by occasional fissures and crested with stunted spruce, the interior, sloping toward the centre, hears only the whisper of the ocean winds.

Rockhaven has a history, and it is one filled with the pathos of poverty, from that day, long ago, when Captain Carver first sailed into its land-locked harbor to split, salt, and dry his sloop load of cod on the sunny slope of a granite ledge, until now, when two straggling villages of tiny houses, interspersed with racks for drying cod, a few untidy fishing smacks tied up at its small wharves, and a little steamboat that daily journeys back and forth to the main land, thirty miles distant, entitles it to be called inhabited. In that history also is incorporated many ghastly tales of shipwreck on its forbidding and wave-beaten shores, of long winters when its ledges and ravines were buried beneath a pall of snow, its little fleet of fishermen storm-stayed in the harbor, and food and fuel scarce. It also has its romantic tales of love and waiting to end in despair, when some fisher boy sailed away and never came back; and one that had a tragic ending, when a fond and foolish maiden ended years of waiting by hanging herself in the old tide mill.

And, too, it has had its religious revival, when a wave of Bible reading and conversion swept over its poorly fed people, to be followed by a split in its one Baptist church on the merits and truths of close communion or its opposite, to end in the formation of another.

It also had its moods, fair and charming when the warm south wind barely ripples the blue sea about, the wild roses smile between its granite ledges, and the sea-gulls sail leisurely over them; or else gloomy and solemn when it lies hid under a pall of fog while the ocean surges boom and bellow along its rock-ribbed shore.

On the inner and right-hand shore of the secure harbor, a small fishing village fringes both sides of a long street, and at the head of the harbor, one mile away, stands another hamlet. The first and larger village is called Rockhaven, the other Northaven. Each has its little church and schoolhouse, also used for town meetings, its one or two general stores, and a post-office. Those in Rockhaven, where fishing is the sole industry, are permeated with that salty odor of cured fish, combined with tar, coffee, and kerosene; and scattered over the interior are a score of modest farmhouses.

At one end of the harbor, and where the village of Northaven stands, a natural gateway of rock almost cuts off a portion of the harbor, and here was an old tide mill, built of unhewn stone, but now unused, its roof fallen in, its gates rotted away, and the abutments that once held it in place now used to support a bridge.

On one of the headlands just north of Rockhaven village, and known as Norse Hill, stands a peculiar structure, a circular stone tower open at the top and with an entrance on the inner or landward side. Tradition says this was built by the Norsemen as a place of worship. Beyond this hill, at the highest point of the island, is a deep fissure in the coast, ending in a small open cave above tidewater and facing the south. This is known as the Devil's Oven. On either side of this gorge, and extending back from it, is a thicket of stunted spruce. The bottom and sides of this inlet, semicircular in shape, are coated thick with rockweed and bare at low tide. On the side of the harbor opposite Rockhaven, and facing it, is a small granite quarry owned and occasionally operated by one of the natives, a quaint old bachelor named Jesse Hutton. In summer, and until late in the fall, each morning a small fleet of fishing craft spread their wings and sail away, to return each night. On the wharves and between most of the small brown houses back of them, are fish racks of various sizes, interspersed with tiny sheds built beside rocks, old battered boats, piles of rotting nets, broken lobster pots, and a medley of wrack of all sorts and kinds, beaten and bleached by the salty sea.

In summer, too, a white-winged yacht, trim and trig, with her brass rails, tiny cannon, and duck-clad crew, occasionally sails into the harbor and anchors, to send her complement of fashionable pleasure-seekers ashore. Here they ramble along the one main street, with its plank walk, peeping curiously into the open doors and windows of the shops, at the simply clad women and barefooted children who eye them with awe. Each are as wide apart from the other as the poles in their dress, manners, and ways of living, and each as much a curiosity to the other.

Of the social life of the island there is little to be said, for it is as simple as the garb of its plain people, who never grow rich and are seldom very poor. Each of the two villages is blessed with a diminutive church, Baptist in denomination, the one at Rockhaven the oldest and known as Hard-Shell; that at Northaven as Free-Will. Each calls together most of the womenkind and grown-up children, as well as a few of the men, every Sunday, while the rest of the men, if in summer, lounge around the wharves smoking and swapping yarns. There is no great interest in religion among either sex, and church attendance seems more a social pleasure than a duty.

Occasionally a few of the young people will get together, as young folks always do, to play games; and though it is in the creed of both churches that dancing is to be abjured, nevertheless old Jess Hutton, whose fiddle was his wife, child, and sole companion in his solitude, was occasionally induced to play and call off for the lads and lasses of the town, with a fringe of old folks around the walls as spectators.

"I like to see 'em dance," he always said, "fer they look so happy when at it; 'sides, when they get old they won't want to. Dancin's as nat'ral to young folks as grass growin' in spring."

Every small village has its oracle, whose opinion on all matters passes current as law and gospel, whose stories and jokes are repeated by all, and who is by tacit consent chosen moderator at town meetings, holds the office of selectman and chairman of the school committee for life, is accepted as referee in all disputes, and the friend, counsellor, and adviser of all. Such a man in Rockhaven was Jesse Hutton. Though he argued with the Rev. Jason Bush, who officiated at Rockhaven on Sundays, about the unsocial nature of close communion, and occasionally met and had a tilt with the Northaven minister, he was a friend to both.

"Goin' to church and believin' in a futur'," he would say, "is jest as necessary to livin' and happiness as sparkin' on the part of young folks is necessary to the makin' o' homes."

For Jesse Hutton, or simply Jess, as old and young called him, was in his way a bit of a philosopher, and his philosophy may be summed up by saying that he had the happy faculty of looking upon the dark side of life cheerfully. It also may be said that he looked upon the cheerful side of life temperately.

And here it may be prudent to insert a little of Jess Hutton's history. He was the elder of two brothers, schoolboys on the island when its population numbered less than one hundred, and one small brown schoolhouse served as a place of worship on Sundays as well as a temple of learning on week-days. Here the two boys Jesse and Jethro, received scant education, and at the age of fourteen and sixteen, respectively, knew more about the sailing of fishing smacks and the catching and curing of cod and mackerel than of decimal fractions and the rule of three.

And then the Civil War came on, and when its wave of patriotism reached far-off Rockhaven, Jess Hutton, then a sturdy young man, enlisting in the navy under Farragut, served his country bravely and well. Then Jess came back, a limping hero, to find his brother Jethro deeply in love with pretty Letty Carver, for whom Jess had cherished a boyish admiration, and in a fair way to secure a home, with her as a chief incentive. Jess made no comment when he saw which way the wind blew in that quarter, but, philosopher that he was, even then, quietly but promptly turned his face away from the island and for a score of years Rockhaven knew not of his whereabouts. Gossips, recalling how he and Letty, as grown-up school children, had played together along the sandy beach of the little harbor or by the old tide mill, then grinding its grist, asserted that Jess had been driven away by disappointment; but beyond surmise they could not go, for to no one did he impart one word of his reasons for leaving the island and the scenes of his boyhood.

Twenty years later, Letty Carver, who had become Mrs. Jethro Hutton, was left a widow with one child, a little girl named Mona, a small white cottage on Rock Lane, and, so far as any one knew, not much else.

And then Jess Hutton returned.

Once more the gossips became busy with what Jess would or should do, especially as he seemed to have brought back sufficient means to at once build a respectable dwelling place, the upper half fitted for a domicile and the lower for a store.

But all surmise came to naught, together with all the well-meant and excellent domestic paths mapped out by the busybodies for Jess and the widow to follow, for when the combination house was done and the store stocked, Jess Hutton attended regularly to the latter and kept bachelor's hall in the former; and though he was an occasional caller at the cottage in Rock Lane and usually walked to church with the widow and little Mona on Sundays, the store and its customers by day or night were his chief care, and his solitary home merely a place to sleep in. And yet not; for beyond that, during his many years of wandering on the mainland, he had contracted the habit of amusing himself with the violin when lonesome, and Jess, the eccentric old bachelor, as some termed him, and his fiddle became a curiosity among the odd and yet simple people of Rockhaven. Then, too, the little girl, Mona, his niece, became, as she grew up, his protégée and care, and he her one inseparable friend and adviser.

CHAPTER V

JESS HUTTON

Like one of the spruces that towered high above others on Rockhaven, like one of the granite cliffs bidding defiance to storm and wave, so did Jess Hutton tower above his fellow-men. Not from stature, though he stood full six feet, or that he was impressive in other ways—far from it. He was like a child among men in simplicity, in tenderness, in truth and kindly nature—a man among children in strict adherence to his conscience, to justice and right living. And all on Rockhaven knew it, and all had the same unvarying confidence in his good sense and justice, his truth and honor, conscience and kindness. What he predicted nearly always came true; what he promised he always fulfilled, and no one ever asked his aid in vain. Others quarrelled, made mistakes, repented of errors, lost time in fruitless ventures; but Jess—never. He was like a great ship moving majestically among boats, a lighthouse pointing to safe harbor, a walking conscience like a compass, a giant among pigmies in scope of mind, keenness of insight, and accurate reading of others' moods and impulses.

And so he towered above all on Rockhaven.

Beyond that he was a philosopher who saw a silver lining behind all clouds, laughed at all vanities, and made a jest of all follies. To him men were grown-up children who needed to be amused and directed; and women the custodians of life and morals, home, and happiness. They deserved the mantle of charity and patience, love, and tenderness.

He was not religious. He had never felt a so-called change of heart, and yet he was a walking example of the best that religion encourages, for he governed himself, set the pace of right living, and illustrated the golden rule.

He believed in that first and foremost, and in setting a good example as far as lay in his power, but not in any professions.

"Ye mustn't feel I ain't on yer side," he said once to Parson Bush, who had urged him to join the church, "for I am, only it's agin my natur ter 'low I've had a special dispensation o' the Lord's grace in my behalf. I'm a weak vessel, like all on us, an' my impulses need caulkin'. I do the best I kin, 'cordin' to my light, 'n' that's all any man kin. The Lord won't go back on us fer not gittin' dipped, an' if there's a heaven beyond, our only chance o' a seat is by startin' an annex right here on airth. Sayin' you've joined the Lord's army's well enough, but doin' what ye feel the Lord's tryin' to, is better.

"Ez Sally Harper used ter say in meetin', 'We're all on us poor critters, an' if we jine, there's no tellin' when we'll backslide.'"

It was perhaps the consciousness of inherent human weakness that kept Jess out of the fold.

"A man may do right 'n' keep on doin' right 'most all his life long," he said, "an' some day up pops a temptation, when he's least prepared for't, and over he goes like a sailboat 'thout ballast in a gale o' wind. An' then what becomes o' all yer 'lowin' the Lord's opened yer eyes 'n' gin ye extra grace? Ye only get laughed at by the scoffers 'n' yer influence gone fer good. Human nature's brittle stuff, an' them as does right 'thout any change o' heart, come purty near bein' leaders in the percession toward the Throne."

His philosophy, broad as infinite mercy and humble as a child's happiness, permeated all his thoughts and tinged all his speeches.

"No joy's quite so comfortin' as we cac'late," he would say, "an' no sorrer quite so worryin'. We go through life anticipatin' happy termorrers and glorious next days, and when we git to 'em, somehow they've sorter faded away, and it's to be the next day and the next as is ter be the bright uns. Then, we are all on us like boys, chasing jack o' lanterns over a swamp medder, an' if we 'low they're clus to an' jest ready to grab, the next we know we've stumbled inter a ditch.

"And then we borrer trouble, heaps on't, all through life. From the day we git scared at thought o' speakin' pieces at school, till the doctor shakes his head an' asks us if we've got our will made, we are dreadin' suthin'. If 'taint sickness or bein' robbed, it's worryin' 'bout our nabors havin' more'n we do. The feller courtin' worries for fear the gal won't say 'yes,' an' when she does he is likely to see the time he wishes she hadn't, an' worries 'cause he's got her. We worry ourselves old 'n' wrinkled 'n' gray, an' then, more'n all this world, worry 'bout the next. An' thar's whar the parson 'n' I allus split tacks. He says the Lord made the brimstone lake fer sinners, 'n' I say the Lord made conscience as a means o' torture, an' here or hereafter it's hot 'nuff."

And here it must be inserted that Jess was to a certain extent a thorn in the parson's side, from the fact that his influence and following were stronger than that worthy man's. It was what Jess believed and said that was quoted rather than the parson's assertions; and although Jess seldom failed to be one of his listeners, and contributed more than any five or ten others toward his scant salary, there were times when he was made to feel that if Jess occupied the pulpit the church would be packed. And so it would, humiliating as that fact was to him.

And here also may be related an incident in Rockhaven history which illustrates how slim a hold the parson and his preaching had upon those islanders. As it happened that year, mackerel were late in reaching the coast. The price was correspondingly high, and Rockhaven's band of fishermen eager to make the first haul. Most of them attended church, but now, while the suspense was on, when Sunday came, two or three watchers were stationed on convenient cliffs with orders to report to the church if a school was sighted.

This was kept up for three weeks, and then, one Sunday, just as the first morning hymn in long metre had been sung, and the parson, with closed eyes, had got well started in his prayer, down through the village street bounded one of those sentinels, yelling, "Mack'rel, mack'rel, millions on 'em!"

And in less than five minutes there wasn't a man, woman, or child left in the church except Jess Hutton and the parson. And when that good man had said "Amen," Jess arose and suggested they too follow the crowd.

"Ye might's well," said Jess, with a twinkle in his eye, "the model o' all Christianity sot the example, 'cordin' to Scriptur', an' ye might do good by follerin' it."

But the worthy leader of that flock who had thus deserted him failed to see the humor of the situation and sadly shook his head. He remained in the sanctuary and Jess joined the fishermen.

It was such a peculiar, sympathetic, and broad understanding of these fisher-folk's carnal as well as spiritual needs that made Jess the oracle and leader of the island.

"Thar wa'n't no need o' gettin' fussy over it," he said later to the good dominie, with a laugh, "religion's good 'nuff when mack'rel's fetchin only a dollar a kit; but when three's offered 'n' scace at that, prayers hain't got their usual grip. And ye oughtn't ter 'spect it, parson. The way to reach 'em's to be one with 'em and sorter feel thar needs, and make em feel they're yer own. If ye'd gone with 'em that day and helped 'em make a haul, an' then invited 'em to join ye in a prayer o' thankfulness, thar want one but 'ud a-kneeled down at yer bidding and said 'Amen.'"

And that was Jess Hutton and partially the secret of his supremacy on Rockhaven.

Another point—he had always believed and practised the sterling rule of "paying scot and lot as you go." While Jess forgot injuries, he always remembered favors. If an unwashed, uncombed, and even unnamed child brought him but a sea-shell, Jess never failed to reward the act. And so on, upward, to each and all he returned all favors, paid all debts, and rewarded all kindnesses. And how they trusted him! A fisher lad, saving up for a new suit of clothes or a boat of his own, would, before starting on a trip, leave his money with Jess for safe keeping. The owner of a smack or schooner, ready for another cruise, would ask Jess to take charge of the quintals and kits of fish just landed, sell them to best advantage, and hold the proceeds till he returned, or longer. Not only was Jess selling agent for most of them, but the safe in his store was a bank of deposit for them also. What he did not keep to supply their needs, they told him to get without bargaining, sure it would be what they wanted, and at right, or lowest price.

And this trust was mutual.

"If I ain't here, help yourselves," while not a sign over his door, was understood by all to be the rule; and every one in the island, from a child wanting a stick of candy to the skipper needing a dozen suits of oilers, followed it.

Jess had habits, and one was to devote all the time his dearly loved niece, Mona Hutton, claimed to her amusement; and when she asked that he accompany her flower or shell hunting of a summer afternoon, the store could run itself for all that he cared.

It may be surmised that children exposed to the temptation of candy, oranges, and nuts in his store, would pilfer, and some did; but that did not annoy him.

"Hookin' things allus carries its own whip," he would say, "an' if they wanter try it, let 'em. It's bound to be found out, one way or 'nother, and when I've shamed 'em once or twice, they'll larn it's cheaper to ask for 'em."

Children were seldom refused in his store, for he was like a boy baiting squirrels with nuts in his desire to lure children there.

They were his chief solace and companions by day, for he kept bachelor's hall over his store, and to have a crowd of them around was the company he best enjoyed.

And what a godsend and wellspring of delight Jess and his store were to all Rockhaven's progeny. In summer they came in barefooted bunches, even to the toddlers who could scarce lisp their own names. They played hide and seek behind his barrels and beneath his counter; they hid in empty boxes and under piles of old sails in his back room. They littered his piazza with crabs, starfish, long strips of kelpie and shells, they had gathered among the rocks and on the beach, and left the few poor toys and rag babies they possessed there. They ran riot over him and his store; and as a climax to the happy after-school hour, Jess would produce his old fiddle, and if there is any music that will reach a child's heart, it is that.

And while Jess played they leaped, danced, crowed, and shouted as insanely happy children will.

To him it was also supreme delight.

To them he was a perpetual Santa Claus, a wonder among men, a father bountiful, whose welcome never failed, whose smile was always cordial, and whose love seemed limitless. And they would obey a shake of his head even. And when the frolic had lasted long enough and he said, "Run home now," off they scampered. It is small wonder Jess Hutton was chief man of Rockhaven.

But Jess had a vein of satire as well as philosophy.

"It's human natur," he would say, "for all of us to think our own children's brighter'n our neighbor's, an' our own joys and sorrers o' more account, and 'specially our aches and pains, 'n' them we never get tired o' tellin' 'bout.

"There was the Widder Bunker, fer instance; she had a heap o' trouble and the only comfort she got was tellin' on't. She had rumatiz 'n' biles 'n' janders 'n' liver complaint, ever since she was left a widder, an' all she could talk 'bout was what ailed her an' how long it had lasted an' what the symptoms were an' what she was doin' fer 'em. She'd run on fer hours 'bout all her ailin's till folks 'ud go off 'n' leave her. She got so daft on this subject, finally, everybody'd run fer safety and hide when they saw her comin'. She used ter talk in meetin' onct in a while, 'n' arter a spell her aches got sorter mixed up with her religion, an' as nobody else 'ud listen to her 'bout 'em, the first we knowed, she 'gan tellin' the Lord how her asmer bothered her and how her rumatiz acted. She enjied it so much, an' the Lord seemed to listen so well, she kept at it over an hour, until the parson had to ask her to quit.

"It was sorter rough on the widder, an' as I told the parson arterward, it really wa'n't any wuss fer the Lord to hev to listen to her bodily aches and pains than the spiritual ones the rest allus told him 'bout; 'sides it gin a spice o' variety ter the meetin'.

"But he said her tellin' the Lord how she'd hump herself to get breath, and how the rumatiz had started in her big toe and skipped from one jint to 'tother, 'ud set the boys in the back seats to titterin' 'n' break up the meetin'.

"I allus felt sorry for the Widder Bunker, fer she had considerable hair on her upper lip an' a hair mole on her chin, 'sides bein' poorer'n a church mouse, an' sich unfortunate critters hez to take back seats at the Lord's table."

CHAPTER VI

THE BUD OF A ROMANCE

The little steamer Rockhaven was but a speck on the southern horizon, the fishermen that had earlier spread their wings were still in sight that June morning, and Jess Hutton, having swept his store, sat tilted back in an arm-chair on his piazza, smoking while he watched the white sails to the eastward, when a tall, well-formed, and city-garbed young man approached.

"My name's Hardy," he said, smiling as his brown eyes took in Jess and his surroundings at a glance, "and I represent Weston & Hill and have come to open and manage the quarry they own here. You are Mr. Hutton, I believe?"

Jess rose and extended a brown and wrinkled hand. "That's my name," he said, "'n' I'm glad ter see ye. But ter tell ye the truth, I never 'spected ter. It's been most a year now since yer boss landed here and bought my ledge o' stun, and I've made up my mind he did it jist fer fun, 'n' havin' money ter throw 'way. Hev a cheer, won't ye?" And stepping inside he brought one out.

Winn seated himself, and glancing down at the row of small, brown houses and sheds that fringed the harbor shore below them, and then across to where the ledge of granite faced them, replied, "Oh, Mr. Weston is not the man to throw away money, but it takes time to organize a company and get ready to operate a quarry;" and pausing to draw from an inside pocket a red pocketbook, and extracting a crisp bit of paper, he added, "the first duty, Mr. Hutton, is to pay the balance due you, and here is a check to cover it."

Jess eyed it curiously.

"It's good, I guess," he said as he looked it over, "but out here we don't use checks; it's money down or no trade."

Then without more words he arose, and limping a little as he entered the store, handed Winn a long, yellow envelope. "Here's the deed; an' the quarry's yourn, an' ye kin begin blasting soon's ye like."

"I cannot do anything for a few days," replied Winn, "for the tools and machinery have not yet arrived, and in the meantime I must look about and hire some men. In this matter I must ask you to aid me, and in fact, I must ask your help in many ways."

"I'll do what I kin," answered Jess, "an' it won't be hard ter git men. Most on 'em here ain't doin' more'n keepin' soul an' body together fishin' an'll jump at the chance o' airnin' fair wages quarryin'.

"Where did yer put up, if I may ask? I heerd last night a stranger had fetched in on the steamer."

"I found lodging with a Mrs. Moore," answered Winn; "the boat's skipper showed me where she lived; and now, if you will be good enough, I would like to have you show me the quarry and then I will look around for men to work it."

"Ye don't come here cac'latin' to waste much time," observed Jess, smiling, "but as fer hirin' men, ye best let me do it."

"I should be grateful if you will," answered Winn, "I feel I must ask you to aid me in many ways. What we want," he continued, having in mind his instructions, "is to establish a permanent and paying industry here, and enlist the interest of those who have means to invest. We want to make it a sort of coöperative business, as it were."

"I don't quite ketch yer drift," replied Jess.

"I mean," responded Winn, "that we want to make this a home industry, and to get all those here who have means to take stock in it and share in the profits."

Jess made no immediate answer, evidently thinking. "Wal, we'll see 'bout that bimeby," he said finally. "It's a matter as won't do ter hurry. Folks here are mighty keerful, 'n' none on 'em's likely ter do much bakin' till their oven's hot. 'Sides, there ain't many as own more'n the roof that shelters 'em, and not over well shingled, at that. Money's skeercer'n hen's teeth here, Mr. Hardy."

"I shall be guided by your opinion," answered Winn, realizing the truth of what Jess had said, "and we will let that matter rest for the present. Now if you will show me the quarry, I will look it over and let you see what can be done in the way of getting men to work it. Whatever you do for us we shall insist on paying you for."

"Queer old fellow," mused Winn to himself two hours later, after he had parted from Jess, "but I doubt if he buys much of this quarry stock." It is likely that surmise would have been a positive certainty if Jess Hutton, with horse sense as hard as this granite ledge and wits as keen as the briars that grew on top of it, had known that the quarry he had sold for two thousand dollars and considered it well paid for, was the sole basis for a stock company capitalized at one million dollars. But he did not, and neither does many another blind fool who buys "gilt-edged" stock in gold mines, oil wells, and schemes of all sorts, know that his investment rests on as insecure and trifling a basis; for the world is full of sharpers who continually set traps for the unwary and always catch them, and, although their name is legion, their dupes are as the sands of the sea.

But of Winn Hardy, who had come to Rockhaven, as he honestly believed and felt, to carry out a legitimate business enterprise, it must not be thought that he for one moment understood the deep-laid schemes of J. Malcolm Weston, for he did not. While the ratio of value between the capitalization of the Rockhaven Granite Company and the original cost of the quarry seemed absurd, it did not follow but that Weston & Hill might not intend actually to put capital into it sufficient to warrant such an issue of stock. All of which would go to show that Winn Hardy had not as yet entirely escaped the trammels of his inherited honesty and bringing up, which insensibly led him to judge others by himself.

And that afternoon, having nothing to do, and curious to explore this rock-ribbed island that was like to be his home for some months, he started out on a tour of exploration. First he followed the seldom-used road that connects the two villages, up to Northaven, and looked that over. There was a little green in the centre where stood the small church, and grouped about, a dozen or two houses and two or three stores, while back of this, and below an arm of the harbor, it narrowed down to where the roadway crossed it. Beside this stood an old stone mill, or what was once the walls of one, for the roof was gone. He examined it carefully, peering into its ghostly interior and down to where the ebb tide had left its base walls bare. To this, and to the piles that had once held the tide gates, were clinging masses of black mussels, with here and there a pink starfish nestled among them. Then, following this arm of the sea until it ended, he crossed a half mile of billowing ledges of rock between which were grass-grown and bush-choked dingles, and came to the ocean. Then, following the coast line as well as possible, owing to the jutting cliffs, he reached a deep inlet with almost precipitous sides, and, turning inland, found its banks ended in a dense thicket of spruce.

Through this wound a well-defined path, shadowy beneath the canopy of evergreen boughs, and velvety with fallen needles. Following this a little way, he came to an opening view of the ocean once more. The day was wondrously fair, the blue water all about barely rippled by a gentle breeze, while here and there and far to seaward gleamed the white sails of coasters. Below him, where the rock-walled gorge broadened to meet the ocean, the undulating ground swells leisurely tossed the rockweed and brown kelpie upward, as they swept over the sloping rocks. For a few moments he stood spellbound by the silent and solemn grandeur of the limitless ocean view and the colossal pathway to the water's edge below him, and then suddenly there came to his ears the faint sound of a violin. Now low and soft, hardly above the rhythmic pulse of the sea, and again clear and distinct, it seemed to come up out of the rocks ahead, a strange, weird, ghostly harmony that, mingling with the whisper of the distant wave-wash, sounded exquisitely sweet.

Breathless with astonishment now, he crept forward slowly, step by step, until at the head of this deep chasm, and down beneath him, he heard the well-recognized strains of "Annie Laurie" played by invisible hands.

The sun was low in the west, the sea an unruffled mirror, the coast line a fretwork of foam fringe where the ground swells met it, and above its murmur, trilling and quivering in the still air, came that old, old strain:—

"And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doon and dee,"

repeated again and again, until Winn, enraptured, spellbound, moving not a finger but listening ever, heard it no more. Then presently, as watching and wondering still whence and from whose hand had come this almost uncanny music, he saw, deep down amid the tangle of rocks below him, a slight, girlish figure emerge, with a dark green bag clasped tenderly under one arm, and slowly pick her way up the sides of the defile and disappear toward the village.

CHAPTER VII

SUNDAY ON ROCKHAVEN

For a few days Winn Hardy was so occupied with the cares of his new position that he thought of little else. It was a pleasing freedom, for never before had he known what it was to be his own master; but now the hiring of men and directing operations gave him a sense of power and responsibility that was exhilarating.

Jess Hutton aided him in many ways and, in fact, seemed anxious to assist in this new enterprise that was likely to be of material benefit to Rockhaven. Winn wisely let the stock matter rest, feeling that a practical demonstration of the Rockhaven Granite Company's enterprise and intentions would in due time establish confidence.

He wondered many times who the girl was that had hid herself in that weird cluster of rocks to play the violin, and marvelled that any maid, born and reared amid the half-starved residents of Rockhaven, should even have that laudable ambition; but he asked no questions. In a way, the romance of it also kept him from inquiries. "I will bide my time," he thought, "and some day I will go over and surprise this maid of the gorge."

He had noticed a rather immaturely formed girl with dark, lustrous eyes once or twice in the dooryard of a little white house in the same lane where he had found lodgment, and had met her once on the village street and half surmised she might be this mysterious violinist. He gave little thought to it, however, for his new position and the open path to success and possible riches that seemed before him was enough to put cave-seeking maids, however charming, out of his mind. Then, too, he had not quite recovered from Ethel Sherman.

When Sunday came, a new, and in a way pleasurable, experience came with it. His landlady, Mrs. Moore, a widow whose two sons were away on a long fishing voyage, and who seemed so afraid of her solitary boarder as to no more than ask if he wanted this or that during his lonely meals, now appeared to gain courage with the advent of the Lord's day.

"I'd be pleased, sir," she said humbly, "if ye'd attend sarvice with me at the meetin'-house this morning."

And though Winn had planned to turn his back on the coop-like houses that composed the town, and take a long stroll over the island, there was such an appealing hope in this good woman's invitation that he could not resist it, and at once consented to attend "sarvice" with her. And he was not sorry he did, for when the little bell began calling the piously inclined together, and he issued forth with Mrs. Moore, who was dressed in a shiny black silk and a "bunnit" the like of which his grandmother used to wear, and looking both proud and pleased, he felt it a pleasant duty. On the way to the small brown church which stood just beyond the steamer landing and at the foot of a sloping hill dotted thick with tombstones, he felt that he was the observed of all observers, and when seated in Mrs. Moore's pew, cushioned with faded green rep, whichever way he looked some one was peeping curiously at him. In a way it made him feel unpleasant, and he wondered if his necktie was awry; then as he looked around at the worn and out-of-date garb of the few men and almost grotesque raiment of the women and girls, what Jess had said of the people recurred to him in a forcible way. The usual service that followed, similar in kind to any country church, was interesting to Winn mainly because it recalled his boyhood days. When the minister, a thin, gray-haired man, began his sermon, Winn grew curious. He was accustomed to pulpit oratory of a high class, and wondered now what manner of discourse was like to emanate from this humble desk. The text was the old and time-worn "The Lord will provide," that has instilled courage and hope into millions of despondent hearts, and now used once more to encourage this little band of simple worshippers. The preacher made no new deductions, in fact, seemed to, as usual, lay stress upon the need of faith that the Lord would provide, come what might. To this end he quoted freely from Scripture, and Winn was beginning to lose interest and look around the bare and smoky walls and out of one window that commanded a view of the rippled harbor, when suddenly his attention was arrested by a direct reference to himself, or rather, his errand to Rockhaven. "We have," asserted the minister, in slow and solemn voice, "a certain and sure proof that the Lord watches over and cares for us, and that we on this lonely island, striving to live righteously, are not forgotten by Him. Our acres fit to till are few and lack fertility; our winters dreary and full of the menace of storm and shipwreck to those who must pursue their calling abroad; and yet it seems that He who holds the waters in the hollow of His hand, realizing our needs, has turned the minds of moneyed men toward our barren home, and through them blessed us with a new source of livelihood. Through them heretofore worthless ledges of granite are to be reared into dwellings, or perhaps churches in the great city. It is to me a certain and signal proof that the good Lord watches over us here, as well as over others who dwell in more favored spots, and that we have a new and greater cause for thankfulness. Many times we have repined at our hard lot, at our scanty stores of sustenance and the bitterness of poverty; many times, too, some of us have felt the burden of our lives hard to bear, and almost doubted the good Lord's watchfulness and care over all who believe in His word. It is this lack of faith, and this lesson of His goodness, even unto us, that I wish to impress upon your minds to-day, for, although we are but poor and humble, illy fed and thinly clad, yet we are not forgotten by Him, the Great Ruler of the Universe."

This peculiar and unusual reference to a mere matter of business and Winn's mission to Rockhaven did not end his discourse, but it kept that young man's attention away from all else until the minister closed and bowed his head in prayer, and, when the inevitable and long-handled collection box was passed, Winn felt he must, perforce, contribute liberally, which he did.

When the congregation was dismissed and he and Mrs. Moore reached the porch, there was Jess with two ladies, one elderly, and the girl Winn had noticed in Rock Lane, seemingly awaiting him. An introduction to Mrs. and Miss Hutton followed, and then all five walked homeward together.

It is said that trifles determine our course in life, that, like chips floating down the stream, we are moved hither and yon by imperceptible forces. If it is so with one, it is with all, and was so with the people of Rockhaven, and their estimate and subsequent opinion of Winn Hardy. He attended that poor little church that day out of kindly regard for Mrs. Moore's wishes, he listened patiently to services and the sermon, only a few sentences of which interested him, and, of course, conducted himself as any well-behaved and well-bred young man would. And yet that trivial act was the starting-point in the good will and confidence of those people, the worth of which he realized not at all then and never fully until long afterward.

Neither was he entitled to special credit for his self-sacrifice, except it be that his desire to please that worthy matron, Mrs. Moore, overcame his selfishness. But whether or not, it led to immediate, though minor reward, for late that afternoon, and upon his return from a short stroll over Norse Hill, he found her on the porch of the white cottage next to her home, chatting with the two ladies he met at church, and he was invited to join them. How cordially the two elderly ladies endeavored to interest him and what a soft witchery the dark eyes of the younger one held for him need not be enlarged upon. It mattered not that Mrs. Moore and Mrs. Hutton were neither cultured nor fashionable; they were at least sincere in their enjoyment of his society and meant what they uttered, which is more than can be said of many women of position. He learned that the girl's name was Mona, that she had never been away from the island, and, as might be expected, was somewhat bashful and a little afraid of him. He had a mind to ask her if she played the violin, but a romantic desire to surprise her, or whoever the mysterious violinist was, restrained him.

The stars were out, a perfect quietude had fallen upon the little village, and only the ceaseless murmur of the near-by ocean whispered in the still air, when Mrs. Moore arose to go, and, much against his will, Winn felt compelled to follow.

In his room he smoked for an hour in solitude, buoyant with hope for his own future, amply satisfied with the business and social progress he had so far made, and mentally contrasting the life he had left behind him with the new one he had entered upon; and into these meditations, it must be stated, came the faces of Ethel Sherman and Mona Hutton.

And so ended Winn's first Sunday on Rockhaven.

CHAPTER VIII

THE HAND OF FATE

For a few days Winn Hardy was the busiest man on Rockhaven. What with setting up the steam drill that had been sent him, finding a man to work it, adjusting the derricks, and laying out work for the dozen men Jess had secured, he had no more time than occasionally to think of who the mysterious violin-playing maid might be. He arose early, worked late, and evenings wrote his firm a detailed statement of his progress, or discussed matters with Jess at the store. By tacit consent that had become a sort of office for the Rockhaven Granite Company, and evening lounging place for not only the men who were at work for Winn, but others interested in the new enterprise, and, in fact, all who were not away on fishing trips.

Here, also, Winn met the Rev. Jason Bush, a worthy, if attenuated, parson and pedagogue, who had so astonished Winn that first Sunday and who seemed more interested than any one else in the quarry. It was all the more pleasant experience to Winn, thus to feel that he was bringing a business blessing to these hard-working and needy people, and the barometer of his hopes and spirits was at top notch when Friday came and with it funds from the firm to pay the men. He felt, indeed, that his mission was bearing excellent fruit.

Then, too, he received a letter of praise from his employers, congratulating him on the progress he was making, and reminding him that, as soon as advisable, he should endeavor to interest those who had means and induce them to invest in Rockhaven stock. It was all right, of course, and a part of his mission there; and Winn, guileless of the cloven hoof hidden beneath it, assured himself that he must carry out their wishes as soon as possible.

It was while speculating on this part of his duty the next afternoon, and wondering who except Jess was likely to have money to invest in this stock, that he felt an unaccountable impulse to visit the gorge again and at once. It was as if some invisible voice was calling him and must be answered, and yet he could not explain what it was and how his thought, at that particular moment, had turned to this spot. He was not a believer in fate; he was just an ambitious and practical young man, with good common sense and wholesome ideas, and though a little embittered by the treatment he had received at the hands of Ethel Sherman and not likely to fall in love easily with another girl, yet he was the last person who would admit that fate was playing, or would play, any part in his movements, as it did; and more than that, it led him that balmy June afternoon, when the sea and sky were in perfect accord, to the gorge and to the very spot where, ten days before, he had been mystified. And now he was more so, for not only did he hear the same low, sweet strains mingling with the ocean's murmur, but he began to realize that some invisible influence, quite beyond his understanding, had brought him hither. What it was he could not tell, or where, or from whence it came, only that he felt it and obeyed.

And so forcibly did this uncanny sense of helplessness oppress him, that the weird strains of music, issuing from the rocks below, seemed ten times more so. For one instant he could not help feeling almost scared, and thought it well to pinch himself to see if he were awake, and the music and his presence there not a dream. Then he sat down. Surely, if it were a dream, it was a most exquisite one, for away to the eastward and all around, a half-circle, the boundless ocean, with here and there a white-winged vessel, and white-crested waves flashing in the sunlight, lay before; while beneath him and sloping V-shaped a hundred feet below, and to where the billows leaped over the weed-clad rocks, lay this chasm. Back of him, and casting their conical shadows over the chaos of boulders in the gorge, was a thicket of spruce, and to add a touch of heaven to this desolate but grand vision, the faint whisper of music mingling with the monotone of the waves and the sighing of winds in the spruces.

And then the wonder of it all, and what a romantic and singular fancy of this fisher maid to thus hide herself where only the mermaids of old might have come to sing sad ditties while they combed their sea-green tresses. That it was Mona Hutton he felt almost certain, and his first impulse was to descend into the chasm at once and surprise her. Then he thought, if perchance it were not, would that be the act of a gentleman? Doubtless whoever it was had come there to find seclusion, and for him to thus intrude would certainly be rude. The next thought, and the one he acted upon, was to go back a little of the way he came, hide himself, and, when she appeared, advance to meet her. The way to the village was over a rounded hill a full mile in length, with scattered clusters of bayberry bushes between. Back over this a hundred rods Winn retreated, and not thinking how his presence there would affect this unknown girl, hid himself behind a rock. He had not long to wait, and soon saw the same lithe figure, and under her arm the same bundle, emerge from the gorge, and, as she advanced rapidly, saw that it was Mona. Still unthinking, he stepped out into view and forward to meet her. In one instant he saw her halt, turn back a step, then around, facing him, and stand still; and as he neared her and she saw who it was, she sank to the earth. Then, as he reached her side and saw her, half reclining against a small ledge, and looking up at him, her face and lips ashen white, he realized for the first time what a foolish thing he had done.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Hutton," he said earnestly, and removing his hat on the instant, "I see that I have scared you half to death and I am sorry; I didn't mean to."

And as she sat up, still looking at him with pitiful eyes, a realizing sense of his own idiotic action came to him, and he told her, a little incoherently, perhaps, but truthfully how he had come there both days, and for what reason.

Frankness is said to be a virtue, and in this case it was more, for it saved the reputation of Winn Hardy as a man of honor and a gentleman, in the eyes of Mona Hutton.

"Yes, I was frightened," she said at last, in response to his repeated plea for forgiveness, after he had told her his story, "and I almost fainted. It is foolish of me to go there, I know, for mother has told me it is not safe."

Then as she picked up the green bag that had fallen at her feet and started to rise once more, Winn's wits came to his rescue, and in an instant he grasped her hand and arm and almost lifted her to her feet.

"I shall never forgive myself for this day's stupidity," he said, "but I have wondered a hundred times since that day who on earth it could be that hid herself in that forbidding spot. I heard you play only one air then, and that the sweetest ever composed by mortal man. I have heard it many, many times, but never once when it reached my heart as it did that day. What blind intuition brought me here I cannot say; but some impulse did, and if you will believe what I say and that your playing has wrought a spell over me, I shall be grateful."

To simple and utterly unsophisticated Mona Hutton words like these were as new as life to a babe, and while she could not and did not believe he meant them all, as uttered, nevertheless they were sweet to her. It is likely, also, they were colored by the plight Winn found himself in and his desire to set himself right in the eyes of Mona.

"I do not know why it is," she responded, "but when I go there I seem to enjoy my practice better, and then I feel that no one can hear me. Mother says that no one will ever want to," she added naïvely.

Winn smiled.

"But I want to," he said, "I want to go there with you some day and hear you play 'Annie Laurie' again; will you let me?"

"I won't promise," she replied, and perhaps mindful of her mother's opinion added: "Mother doesn't approve of my playing a fiddle. She says it's not graceful."

This time Winn laughed. "I don't believe you could do anything and not be graceful," he said. "As for that, I have seen Camilla Urso playing one before an audience of thousands, and no one thought her ungraceful."

"Who is Camilla Urso?" asked Mona.

"She was a wonderful violinist," answered Winn, "and charmed the whole world, years ago. If you will let me come to this spot with you, I will tell you all about her."

Mona turned her face away.

"I don't go there very often," she replied evasively; "and if you have heard such wonderful playing, I wouldn't dare let you hear me. I don't know anything except what Uncle Jess has taught me." Then as she started onward she added, "You must ask him to play for you some time; he knows how."

"But it is you I want to hear," Winn asserted, and then, as an intuition came to him, he added: "I think it best you go on home alone, Miss Hutton; it might cause comment if we go on together. I passed a most delightful hour with you and your mother last Sunday evening, and, with your permission, I shall repeat it."

And then, having delivered this polite speech, so utterly unlike what Mona was accustomed to hear, he raised his hat and turned away.

On the brink of the gorge he halted, and, turning again, watched her rapidly nearing the top of the hill. Reaching its crest, she faced about and looked back.

CHAPTER IX

A FRIENDLY HAND

The suggestion Jess had made regarding the scarcity of money on Rockhaven was plainly evident to Winn, now that he had become acquainted. It made him feel that his firm's enterprise was almost a godsend to the island, and that first Saturday night when his men gathered, as requested, at Jess Hutton's store, and secured their pay, Winn, who in his time had also felt the need of more money, found it a keen pleasure to pay these needy men their earnings. When they had departed and he and Jess were alone, the worthy man who seemed to feel a share of the general satisfaction, beamed with good nature.

"Money makes the mar' go," he said, "an', as the Irishman said, 'it's swate Saturday night and sour Monday morning.' Ye've made a fine start, Mr. Hardy, an' if things go well an' this 'ere company o' yourn don't bust up, ye'll cum pretty near bein' the hull thing here. There's an old saying here that 'It's time to dry fish when the sun shines,' an' now with your sun shinin' it's purty good wisdom for ye to dry all the fish ye kin. Things are onsartin in this world, an' there's no tellin' when a sunny day's comin'. I'm goin' ter help yer all I kin, an' out o' good will toward ye, 'n' hope things'll turn out all right. I'm sartin it won't be yer fault if they don't."

"I'm glad to feel I've won your confidence, Mr. Hutton," answered Winn, "and I feel sure there is no need of fearing any collapse of this company. They are reputable business men, and have ample means; granite is in good demand in the city, and certainly they would not have invested in the quarry and set out to develop it, unless it was to make money."

"Wal, mebbe," answered Jess, after a long pause, "an' I'm goin' to think so. Distrustin' don't help matters, an' for the sake o' those men who hev gone home happy to-night, I hope things'll turn out as ye 'spect."

Winn looked depressed, and for reason. To have the one man in Rockhaven whose confidence he valued most express a word of distrust hurt.

"Oh, I ain't doubtin' you a mite," continued Jess, "an' no reason to mistrust yer consarn, only I've had squalls hit me when least 'spectin' 'em, 'n' so got into the habit o' watchin' out fer 'em. It's jist as well in this world, 'n' then ye ain't quite so likely to be caught nappin'. Now t'other day ye mentioned the matter o' sellin' stock to us folks here, an' that is all right, only it sorter 'curred to me if this consarn o' yourn 'spected to make money quarryin' here, thar wa'n't no real reason why they should want ter divide it with us folks, which is what sellin' us stock 'mounts to in the end, an' as old Cap'n Doty would say, 'hence my 'spicions.' I've hed a good many ups 'n' downs in this world," he continued, in a philosophic tone, "an' while I allus try to look on the bright side o' trouble, an' when it comes am glad 'tain't any wuss, I've larned to be keerful—mighty keerful. Human natur's slippery stuff, an' money a dum sight more so, an' every storeman allus puts the best apples on top o' the basket. I've bought and paid for a mighty lot o' 'sperience 'bout mankind, an' all I've got to show for most on't is the 'sperience. I've picked up a little money, too, 'tween times, but the only reason I hev, was 'cause I got sight on't 'fore the other feller did. I like you, Mr. Hardy, fust-rate, on so short acquaintance, an' know yer honest 'n' all right, but the side-whiskered feller who blew in here last summer 'n' bought this yer quarry offhand—wal, I mean no disrespect to yer firm, but in my humble 'pinion he'd bear watchin'. Now I'm goin' ter stand by ye in this matter 'n' do all I ken to help you make a go on't, an' if ye'll trust me all the time, ye won't regret it."

It was a pleasant assurance, but the cloud on Winn's face remained. He had from the outset hoped to interest this old man, who he realized held the key of Rockhaven, as it were, and whose opinion of his mission there, and the merits of Rockhaven stock as an investment, would without doubt be accepted by others as final. His own belief in it was optimistic, and beyond that it meant to him a success in business and an avenue to prosperity that included all wealth meant to any one. So far in life he had been but a mere menial, a poorly paid drudge, a slave to so many hours a day. Now he was at once elevated to the management of men and money, and assumed that it would be to his credit and necessary that he interest the people and induce them to invest their money. For these reasons the lack of confidence on Jess Hutton's part meant discouragement.

"Ye mustn't mind my notions," Jess said at last, reading Winn's face; "I mean to help ye, 'n' I will, only as I said I'm a leetle skeery o' yer consarn. Ef things go on right fer a spell, I most likely'll feel different. I've got pinched in schemes afore, an' grown cautious. Faith, ez the parson says, is a mustard seed 'n' needs time to sprout. We'll watch thet air mustard seed o' yourn, 'n' gin it time ter sprout. Now, to sorter drive away your blues an' mine, I'm goin' to fiddle a spell; ye won't mind, will ye?"

"I should be delighted," answered Winn, with sudden eagerness, "I have heard you were an expert with a violin. Mr. Weston said you were." He did not deem it wise just then to say who else had stated that fact.

Without further comment, Jess brought out his violin.

"Fiddlin's to me," he said, as he turned it up, "a good deal ez licker used to be to old Bill Atlas, a cure-all fer everything from death to the toothache. Bill was quite a case in his day, an' said licker was made fer the purpose o' drownin' sorrow. He drowned his purty stiddy in't anyhow, an' finally was driv' to his death by the tremens."

Then he began and fiddled away for an hour, his eyes closed, his kindly face glowing with the pleasure of his own art, and one foot keeping time on the floor. And, to Winn's surprise, his selections were all of Scotch origin, and the liveliest of those best of all harmonies. From one to another he skipped, a medley of those old tunes that have lived as no other nation's music ever did or ever will live, because none other has quite the same life and soul.

And Winn, listening as that quaint old man fiddled away, forgot his troubles, carried to fair Scotland's banks and braes, where Wallace bled, Prince Charlie fought, and Bonnie Dundee rallied his henchmen to give battle, and, too, Winn heard the love plaint of many a Scotch lad and lassie, centuries old, and yet reaching his heart as they always did and always will all human kind. And as, entranced, he lived once more in the olden days of chivalry and love faithful unto death, he thought of Mona and how she had touched the same chord in his heart only a few hours before.

And when Jess had tired of his pastime, and Winn, on his way to his solitary room in Rock Lane, passed the white cottage next to it, he halted a moment, wondering if Mona was asleep, or if not, was she thinking of him.

For such is man, and so do the rose petals of love first unclose.

Mona.

CHAPTER X

MONA HUTTON

Mona Hutton was, as Winn instinctively felt that Sunday when he first glanced into her well-like eyes, a girl but little akin to her surroundings—a child of the island, full of strange moods and fancies, sombre as the thickets of spruce that grew dense and dark between the ledges of granite, and solemn as the unceasing boom of ocean billows below its cliffs. Even as a barefoot schoolgirl she had found the sea an enticing playmate, and to watch its white-crested waves lifting the rockweed and brown kelpie, as they swept over the rocks and into the gorges and fissures, was of more interest than her schoolmates. She would hide between the ledges and watch the sea-gulls sailing over them for hours, build playhouses in out-of-the-way spots with lone contentment, filling them with shells, starfish, and crabs, dig wells in the sandy margin of the harbor, and catch minnows to put in them. She loved to watch the fishing boats sailing away, the coasters pass the island, the current sweeping in and out beneath the old tide mill, and as she grew up and gained in courage roamed over the entire island at will. The Devil's Oven, out of sight and sound of everybody, became a charming spot for her; and here she would sit for hours watching the waves leap into the gorge and wondering why they never sounded twice alike. And so on, as she developed, she absorbed the mood of the ocean, its grandeur shaped her thoughts, its mystery tinged her emotion, and its solemnity, like the voice of eternity, gave expression to her eyes.

Companions of her own age she had none, leaving them to play as they chose while she sought solitude, and found contentment on the lonely shores. Uncle Jess only was akin to her, and if she could lead him away as playmate, then was she happy.

And so she grew up.

With only a limited education, such as the island schools afforded, a scant knowledge of books, since but few ever reached Rockhaven, a love of music that amounted to a passion, no knowledge of the world except that gleaned from Uncle Jess, a deep religious feeling, partially shaped by the "Hardshell" Baptist teachings of the Rev. Jason Bush, and more by the ocean billows that forever thundered against the island shores, she was at twenty a girl to be pitied by those capable of understanding her nature or realizing how incompatible to it was her environment. Of music she knew but little, and that taught her by the genial old soul who, since her babyhood, had been father, uncle, and companion. His constant assistance had been hers through her pinafore days at school; his genial philosophy and keen insight into human impulse had done more to develop her mind afterward than the three R's she mastered there. His gentle hand had taught her the scales on his old brown fiddle, and now that she had reached that mystic line where girlhood ends and womanhood begins, her future was of more concern to him than all else in his life. That she must and would, in the course of human nature, love and marry, he fully expected; that it was like to be a mateship with some of the simple and hard-working fishermen's sons, he expected; and yet, with dread for her far more than any one else, even her mother, he realized that such an alliance would be but a lifelong slavery for Mona. To mate a poetic soul like hers, that heard the voice of eternity in the white-crested billows, the footsteps of angels in the music he drew from his violin, and the whisper of God in the sea winds that murmured through the spruce thickets they visited, as he knew she did, seemed as unnatural as confining one of the white gulls that circled about the island in a coop with the barnyard fowls.

To Mona herself no thought of this had come. Though the young men with whom as schoolmates she had studied, and who now as fishermen, with ill-smelling garb and sea-tanned hands and faces, often sought her, to none did she give encouragement, and with none found agreeable companionship. What her future might be, and with whom spent, gave her no concern. Each day she lived as it came, helping her mother in the simple home life and the making of their raiment, stealing away occasionally to spend a few hours with Uncle Jess, or in summer to hide herself in the Devil's Oven, and play on the violin he had given her, or practise with him as a teacher. This violin and its playing, it must be stated, had been and was the only bone of contention between Mona and her mother, and just why that mother found it hard to explain, except that it was a man's instrument and not a woman's. Their humble parlor boasted a small cottage organ. "Let Mona learn to play on that," she had said when Jess first began to teach Mona the art of the bowstrings, "it's more graceful for a girl to do that than sawing across a fiddle stuck under her chin." And this matter of grace, so vital to that mother's peace of mind, was the only point of dispute between them. But Uncle Jess sided with Mona, and the mother gave in, for with her, for many potent reasons, the will and wishes of Uncle Jess must not be thwarted, even if wrong. However, the dispute drove Mona and the fiddle out of the house, and when she had finally mastered it (at least in a measure), it stayed out.

In this connection, it may be said, there was also a difference in opinion between Mrs. Hutton and Jess regarding the future of Mona, and though never discussed before her, for obvious reasons, it existed. With Mrs. Hutton the measure of her own life, or what it had been, as well as that of her neighbors, was broad enough for Mona.

"It's going to spoil her," she asserted on one of these occasions, "this getting the idea into her head that those she has been brought up with are not good enough for her. They may not be, but we are here and likely to stay here, and once a girl gets her head full o' high notions and that she's better than the rest, it's all day with her."

"Thar ain't no use interferin'," Jess responded, "whatever notions Mona's got, she's got, an' ye can't change 'em. If she likes the smell o' wild roses better'n fishin' togs, she does; and if she turns up her nose at them as don't think 'nough o' pleasin' her ter change togs when they come round, I 'gree with her. Wimmin, an' young wimmin 'specially, air notional, an' though most on 'em 'round here has ter work purty hard, it ain't no sign their notions shouldn't be considered. I've stayed in houses whar wimmin wa'n't 'lowed to lift a finger an' had sarvants ter fan 'em when 'twas hot, an' though that ain't no sign Mona'll git it done for her, I hope I'll never live ter see her drudgin' like some on 'em here."

"If you'd had the bringing o' Mona up," Mrs. Hutton had responded rather sharply, "you would a-made a doll baby out o' her, an' only fit to have servants to fan her." At which parting shot, Jess had usually taken to his heels, muttering, "It's a waste o' time argufyin' with a woman."

But Mrs. Hutton was far from being as "sot" in her way as might be inferred, as she always had, and still desired, to rear her only child in the way she considered best, and in accordance with her surroundings. To be a fine lady on Rockhaven, as Mrs. Hutton would put it, was impossible; and unless Mona was likely to be transplanted to another world, as it were, it seemed wisest to keep her from exalted ideas and high-bred tastes. But back of that, and deep in the mother's love, lay the hope of better things for her child than she had known, though how they were to come, and in what way, she could not see.

Mere pebbles of chance shape our destiny, and so it was in the life of Winn Hardy, and the trifle, light as air, that turned his footsteps, was the sound of church bells that Sunday morning in Rockhaven.

Had they not recalled his boyhood, he would have spent the day in roaming over the island as he had planned, instead of accepting Mrs. Moore's invitation to accompany her to church, with the sequence of events that followed. And the one most potent was the accent of cordiality in Mrs. Hutton's neighborly invitation to call. It may be supposed, and naturally, that the expressive eyes of her daughter were the real magnets; but in this case they were not. Instead it was the mother with whom he desired to visit, and when he called that first evening it was with her he held most converse. Out of the medley of subjects they chatted about, and what was said by either, so little is pertinent to this narrative, it need not be quoted. Winn gave a brief account of his early life and more of the latter part, since he had been a resident of the city, together with a full explanation of how the Rockhaven Granite Company was likely to affect the island, and his mission there. This latter recital, he felt, would be a wise stroke of policy, as apt to be repeated by Mrs. Hutton, as in truth it was, later on. While she was not inquisitive, he found she was keenly interested in the new industry he had established there, and discerning enough to see that, if successful, it would be a great benefit to the island. Winn discovered also that in addition to being a most excellent and devoted mother, she was fairly well posted in current events, had visited relatives on the mainland many times, and in the city once, and was far from being narrow-minded. With Mona, who sat a quiet listener, he exchanged but a few words, and those in connection with the church and social life of the village. In truth, he found her disinclined to say much and apparently afraid of him. His call was brief and not particularly interesting, except that it made him feel a little more at home on the island, and when he rose to go, he received the expected invitation to call again; and when he had reached his room, the only features of the call that remained in his mind were that Mrs. Hutton seemed interested in his mission there, and her daughter had eyes that haunted him.

CHAPTER XI

THE DEVIL'S OVEN

The time-worn saw that two is company and three a crowd never struck Winn so forcibly as that evening when he called again on Mrs. Hutton. On the first occasion he had only felt interested to make the acquaintance of that excellent lady, who, in many ways, reminded him of his own departed mother; but now it was the daughter. But Mona was shy as before, perhaps more so, and hardly ventured a remark, while the mother was as cordial and chatty as ever. Once Winn came near speaking of the little episode that had occurred the day before, but some quick intuition prevented, and after an hour's visit he bade the two good night and left them.

It was evident Mona had not confided the incident to her mother, and until she had Winn thought it his place to keep silent. He did not know that the girl's secrecy was solely due to fear of a scolding, and that between her mother and herself existed that foolish, but often dangerous barrier. It was several days after before Winn obtained a suitable chance to speak with Mona alone, and then he met her just coming from the store of Jess Hutton.

"When am I to hear you play again?" he asked pleasantly, "I wanted to ask you the evening I called, but in view of what you said about your mother's dislike of it, decided not to."

"I am glad you did," she replied, coloring a little.

"I am going over to that gorge this afternoon," continued Winn boldly, "and I want you to promise to come and bring your violin. Will you?"

"I won't promise," she replied timidly, and all unconscious that his proposal was not in strict propriety, "I may come, but if I do I shall not dare play before you."

"Oh, I am harmless," he replied lightly, "and if you knew how anxious I am to hear you, you would favor me, I am sure."

And that afternoon Winn betook himself once more to what was now likely to be a trysting place, only instead of going directly, the way Mona would naturally, over Norse Hill, he walked a mile extra around through Worthaven. And this to protect the good name of a girl with a face like a marguerite and eyes like deep waters.

She was not there when he arrived, and in truth Mona was having a hard struggle to decide whether to go or not, for this man, with earnest brown eyes, blond mustache, stylish garb, ways and manners so utterly unlike any that had come under her ken, was one to awe her.

Then, would it be right, and what would her mother and Uncle Jess, and all the good people of Rockhaven, say if it were known she met him thus? For Mona, wise as only Rockhaven was, and pure as the flowers her face resembled, was yet conscious what evil tongues might say, and dreaded lest they be set wagging.

But a lurking impulse, first implanted in Mother Eve's heart, and budding in Mona's since the hour she saw Winn's kindly eyes looking down into her own, won the day, and taking her dearly-loved, old, brown fiddle and bow safe in their green bag, she walked rapidly to the edge of the gorge, with throbbing heart and flushed face.

Winn was there waiting, as full well she knew he would be, lazily puffing a cigar while he leaned against a sloping bank and watched the ocean below. When he saw Mona he threw the weed away and sprung to his feet.

"I'm very glad you came, Miss Hutton," he said, raising his hat, "yet I did not dare hope you would," and then extending one hand to take the bag and the other to assist her, he added, "It's a risky place to come down into, and you had best let me assist you."

"I'll go first," she replied quickly, "for I know the way and can go alone, and you can follow me."

And follow her he had to, but not easily, for with steps as fearless and leaps as graceful as an antelope, she led the way down into the chaos of boulders and then up through them, until she paused in a sheltering embrasure.

When Winn reached her side he was out of breath, and as he handed her the bag and looked about, he was almost speechless at the wild, rocky grandeur of the spot. And well he might be, for seldom had he seen one like it. He had looked down into the gorge from above, but now he was in a half-circular, wide-open cave the size of a small room, far below where he had stood, and looking out upon cliff-like walls down to where the ocean waves were beating.

"And so this is the Devil's Oven," he said when he had looked all about, and finally at Mona seated upon a jutting ledge and watching him. "I think it a shame to have given such a hideous name to a place so grand and picturesque. Rather should it have been called the Mermaid's Grotto. I dislike this idea of naming all the beautiful bits of natural scenery after his satanship. It's not fair." Then seating himself as far away from Mona as possible he added gently, "Now, Miss Hutton, I am ready for my treat. Please don't think or feel that I am here, but play to yourself and for yourself, just as you did the day I first heard you."

Rockhaven

ROCKHAVEN

BY CHARLES CLARK MUNN

AUTHOR OF "POCKET ISLAND" AND "UNCLE TERRY"

ILLUSTRATED BYFRANK T. MERRILL

BOSTONLEE AND SHEPARDMCMII

Published March, 1902.

Copyright, 1902, by Lee and Shepard.

All Rights Reserved.

Rockhaven.

Norwood PressJ. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & SmithNorwood Mass. U.S.A.

To AllWHO DESPISE HYPOCRISY AND DECEPTIONWHO ADMIRE MANLY COURAGE AND WOMANLY DEVOTIONWHOSE HEARTS YET VIBRATE TO THECHORDS OF ROMANCEAND WHO RESPECT SIMPLE FAITH IN ANDGRATITUDE TO GODThis Book is Respectfully DedicatedBY THE AUTHOR

The Old Tide-mill.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

ROCKHAVEN

CHAPTER I

ON ROCKHAVEN

CHAPTER II

WINN HARDY

CHAPTER III

THE ROCKHAVEN GRANITE COMPANY

THE ROCKHAVEN GRANITE COMPANY.

PROSPECTUS

CHAPTER IV

WHERE THE SEA-GULLS COME

CHAPTER V

JESS HUTTON

CHAPTER VI

THE BUD OF A ROMANCE

CHAPTER VII

SUNDAY ON ROCKHAVEN

CHAPTER VIII

THE HAND OF FATE

CHAPTER IX

A FRIENDLY HAND

Mona.

CHAPTER X

MONA HUTTON

CHAPTER XI

THE DEVIL'S OVEN

ILLUSTRATED BY
FRANK T. MERRILL

BOSTON
LEE AND SHEPARD
MCMII

Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.

To All
WHO DESPISE HYPOCRISY AND DECEPTION
WHO ADMIRE MANLY COURAGE AND WOMANLY DEVOTION
WHOSE HEARTS YET VIBRATE TO THE
CHORDS OF ROMANCE
AND WHO RESPECT SIMPLE FAITH IN AND
GRATITUDE TO GOD
This Book is Respectfully Dedicated
BY THE AUTHOR