"Oh, that's the cornerstone of the first course of masonry above ground, of the first wing of the old house, built by the first Norquay," Rod told her with a trace of pride that he covered by assumed casualness. "Those are his initials. R.S.N. for Roderick Sylvester Norquay. And the year." "1809," the girl murmured. "A hundred years exactly. You know I have always thought of this country as a semi-wilderness--the last American frontier. How many generations, Rod?" "We're the fifth from his time," he indicated the chiseled stone. "Grove and Phil and myself and Dorothy. I don't know if you've met Dorothy. She's married to a chap named Hale. Lives in Victoria." "A century since that stone was laid by a man's hands," Laska continued musingly. "Five generations. No, certainly I did not imagine one would find any such well-established ancestral heritage on this wild coast." "What's a century?" Rod commented. "Greece and Egypt had philosophers and poets and noble ruins when our ancestors were wearing skins and killing their meat with clumsy spears." The girl paid no heed to this. "I knew this place was old the moment I stepped ashore," she continued. "I knew it must have a history. Who was this first enterprising Norquay, Rod? Where did he come from and how did he pitch on this spot so long ago as the place for his baronial hall? I wonder if you realize what a--an air of distinction this place has? As if it were so well established that all the crudities had been ironed out--an atmosphere like--well, of permanency and power." "Well, it's home, and that's a good deal," Rod answered, a little doubtful of too eager response. "I don't know about the power, but it's permanent enough." "You can hardly imagine other people dispossessing you and making it _their_ home, eh?" Laska asked mischievously. "No chance," Rod grinned at the suggestion. "I should say not." "Tell me about the first Norquay," she wheedled. "I am sure it's vivid history. What was he--great--great--" "Great-great-grandfather," Rod supplied. "Have you seen the family boneyard?" She shook her head. "I have seen most of the interior of the house. I have sat on the porch and drank tea and stared at these wonderful mountains that stick up everywhere, I have walked about on this lovely turf, in these grounds that are like an English park--and marveled how it had been made so beautiful. But I haven't seen the family boneyard. Is that literal?" The boy nodded. "There have been quite a few of us born here at one time and another," he said in his pleasant low-toned voice, "and buried here finally. Come and I'll show you, Miss Wall." "My name's Laska," she smiled at him. "All right then, Laska," he agreed. "Odd name. I like the sound." "R.S.N. Eighteen hundred and nine. _Hoc saxum posuit_. I've forgotten all my Latin, Rod."