"Fascinating old place," observed Blair gazing, his eyes aglow with
interest, around the mediaeval cabin. "Don't doubt a dozen murders at
least were pulled off in this one room!"

"Oh yes, of course," eagerly echoed his assistant. "It's absolutely
unique!"

Her gaze, as bright with interest as his own, rested upon Blair himself.
She was considering, absent-mindedly, how becoming white trousers can be
to most men, especially when they are reasonably dark themselves. But, -
her glance travelled upward, - how unusually dark he was, and his hair,
- yes, without question, the straightest and blackest she had ever seen.
Yet it seemed in some indefinable way to become him, - to belong, as it
were, to his type. Leaning her elbows meditatively upon the rusty
anchor, her chin in her hands, she silently appraised him. He really was
a handsome man, she decided, and clever, too, of the sort who does
things in the world! A dreamy light grew within her eyes.

It was only two or three evenings later when, on their way back from the
site of an historic Indian village on the other side of the island, they
walked their horses slowly around the Wishbone Loop, the ostensible
reason being that, as Blair had already discovered, it commanded the
widest view of the ocean at sunset.

He was the first to speak when they struck again into the main trail.

"I wished for something about a rose, a wild rose, - want to guess?" He
eyed her mischievously.