“People have been here before,” he said; “here are some initials cut into this stone. What are they? I can't see.”
Ruth stooped to look at the granite boulder he indicated. “J. H.,” she answered, “and J. B.”
“It's incomplete,” he objected; “there should be a heart with an arrow run through it.”
“You can fix it to suit yourself,” Ruth returned, coolly, “I don't think anybody will mind.” She did not hear his reply, for it suddenly dawned upon her that “J. H.” meant Jane Hathaway.
They stood there in the twilight for some little time, watching the changing colours on the horizon and then there was a faint glow on the water from the cliff above. Ruth went out far enough to see that Hepsey had placed the lamp in the attic window.
“It's time to go,” she said, “inasmuch as we have to go back the way we came.”
They crossed to the other side and went back through the woods. It was dusk, and they walked rapidly until they came to the log across the path.
“So your friend isn't crazy,” he said tentatively, as he tried to assist her over it.
“That depends,” she replied, drawing away from him; “you're indefinite.”
“Forgot to wet the rag, didn't we?” he asked. “I will gladly assume the implication, however, if I may be your friend.”