Each day she went to the tower to live over that parting in tears and heartache, and then to the cave, striving to recall every word, and look, and smile of his.
A pilgrimage to the shrine of love! A journey to the grave of hope!
Sometimes she carried her violin, but its strings remained mute.
Sometimes she fondled and kissed the sea-shells and starfish, now dry and hard, which his hand had carried to this trysting-place.
Sometimes--yea, often, had tears fallen upon the cold stone floor of that nook, even as our tears fall upon the grass-grown graves of those we have lost.
And then, one day, just as the twilight had darkened the gorge, and she, hopeless and heart-broken, leaned against the cave's cold wall, she saw him enter the ravine.
Step by step he climbed upward until the cave was reached, and then he knelt before her.
"Forgive me, Mona," he said gently, extending his hands, "I have loved you always," and as he gathered her close in his arms, God's whisper of life and love eternal spoke from those granite walls.
The ocean billows still beat unceasingly against Rockhaven's granite cliffs and toss the rockweed and kelpie aloft. The tide still ebbs and flows beneath the old mill, and the fishermen still mend their nets and sail away. Parson Bush is getting old and feeble, and his hair white as snow. He still utters fervent thanks, however, for the many blessings that have come to this far-off island, including the new church Jess and Winn were instrumental in building. The same old bell still hangs in its tower, and Sunday evenings always answers the one in Northaven. Its sound is sweet to Winn, for it always recalls his boyhood days and marks a turning-point in his life-history. He is president of the new Rockhaven Granite Company now, and prosperous. A beautiful residence of granite stands back of the old tower on Norse Hill, and there Winn and Mona abide in summer, though the city claims them winters. Mona often entertains her friends with her violin, but no money would tempt her again to play in public. Jess still fiddles when he is "lunsum," which is not often, for a little girl with eyes like Mona's thinks "Gampa" the most wonderful man who ever lived. A boy, two years older, would cut that fiddle open to find what made the noise, if he got the chance. They both pursue him from morn till eve and, in spite of their mother's protest, give him no rest.