Mr. Fisk drove up the ramp from the ferry deck onto the road. They pulled into the parking lot alongside the ferry terminal building. A heavy-set man was waiting for them outside the building. He had loose-fitting jeans on and a t-shirt in the colors of a pro football team. Maybe in his early thirties he already had fleshy jowls that made his eyes look small.

"I think those are what they call 'relaxed fit' jeans," whispered George. "It only goes to show that too much relaxation can be a dangerous thing."

"You're so cruel," said Bess.

"Hello, welcome to Broad Harbour, Catriola Island. I'm Horace Eberhart." He shook Mr. Fisk's hand. "You said you were planning to stay three weeks."

Mr. Fisk nodded. "That should give me time to decide how I like the place. And, of course, how Ivy likes it."

"It's too bad your wife didn't have time to join you."

"She has an important project and it's entered a critical period." Mr. Fisk did not sound entirely convincing.

"I'm glad your daughter brought friends with her. There aren't many teenagers on the island. People think it's a great place to raise kids, but there's no high school and it's inconvenient to put the kids on a boat every day. So they move off." He added with a chuckle, "Then they move here again when they retire."

The narrow country road ran from the ferry terminal at Broad Harbour through a tiny village of shops. "This road goes nearly around the coastline of the island," pointed out Horace. Spaced along the road were mailboxes. Some were decorated with painted flower designs or wooden carvings. The houses themselves were scarcely visible behind the trees.

"The island only has a population of fifteen hundred. Along most of the roads the houses are sparser and some owners have acreage, like you. There are big expanses of land that are still forest. They've never been developed, for houses or for farms. And there's a big park on the island. You might like to try camping there some time."

In only a few minutes the road went past the front of the Fisks' house. Ivy's eyes brightened at the sight of the tidy house covered in green wooden siding. If they were expecting a distinctive island house they would have been disappointed. It would not have looked out of place in any suburban subdivision of the 1930's, the decade in which it was built.

The interior was comfortably furnished, but the girls guessed that like some old people, Cyrus Fisk had not see much need for change. Very little had changed about the house in recent decades. They were quick about bringing in their suitcases and settling in.

"We're going to have to update some things around here," Mr. Fisk concluded. "Call me spoiled but I want a bigger bathtub and a better shower enclosure."

"And they're all this icky shade of green," complained Ivy.

Mr. Fisk laughed. "I think they called the color 'avocado' back in the '70's. But we can only change so much during this stay. I'll talk to Horace about it."

Later, Horace gave them a brief tour of the spacious grounds. Broad green lawns sloped down from the house. On the right side of the house, as seen from the road, surrounded by a low picket fence, was a garden. Nothing was growing there now except weeds but the raised rows of dirt were still clear. There was a shed in the garden, painted the same green as the house, with three small high windows. Beyond the garden was a field overgrown with wild grass. On the other side of the house the lawn was bordered by rows of fruit trees and beyond that was forest.

"I just wanted to show you the prospector's cabin," said their guide. They followed him out onto the road and walked past the lawn and the fruit trees. There was a modest rectangular cabin in a space where the trees had been cleared. Now this space was overgrown with young saplings, some as tall as a man. The building looked like it would soon be swallowed up by the woods again. Its exterior was of wood weathered and faded to a pale gray.

"I thought it might be a log cabin," said Bess.

"No, it was never a log cabin. Your grandfather, or great-grandfather, Cyrus renovated it. The interior is all from his time. There was still furniture in it when he died. I moved all of the smaller pieces back into the house."

"Prospector? What did he prospect?" asked Ivy.

"He went to the Klondike during the famous gold rush there. It's said he made quite a fortune. He certainly bought a lot of the land around here."

"It doesn't look like the house of a man who made a fortune," Ivy pointed out. Ivy spoke with a small voice and she was not nearly as exuberant as Nancy's other two friends but they had gotten used to hearing sharp and pertinent observations from her when she did speak.

"No, I guess not. He lived a frugal life. That's why they say…" But their narrator cut himself off at that point and they didn't learn what people said.

"So all our property used to belong to the prospector?"

Horace nodded. "The land on the other side of the road is also your property, right down to the water."

"Your great-grandfather didn't remarry then? It's strange to think that he lived so much of his life alone in this house after his wife left him," Nancy reflected.

The girls left Horace to discuss the house with Mr. Fisk and crossed the road in search of the waterfront. The steep path picked its way past the dark evergreen trees. Glimpses of blue ocean broadened as they descended until they were clambering over rocks fully exposed to the sun and salt sea air. The land was rocky where it met the ocean except for a short strip of pebbly beach at one spot.

"Too bad there isn't a real beach," said Bess.

"I think it's lovely," replied Nancy. She turned to look at another island on the horizon, where its distant blue hills melted into the sky.