“Yes, I do,” replied Mac.  “This is Tea Hill.  You know I think if I were in Africa but wanted to write something about home, I could close my eyes, think of red and green slopes and blue waters and the smell of haymaking, and have the atmosphere in an instant.  Just look at that,” he pointed toward the water.  “We call it Pownal Bay.  Do you see how it winds in and out everywhere among the spruce and the fields.  Then look off in the distance.  That is Hillsboro Bay.  You passed through it this morning.  Do you see the little islands out there?  One is called St. Peter’s and the other is called Governor’s.  It is a funny thing, but every man, woman and child on the Island knows them by name, yet I could wager a farm that not one in a thousand has ever set foot upon them.  But it is a grand scene, isn’t it, Bruce?”

“Yes, yes,” I replied.  “It is a grand scene, Mac, and—­” But Mac turned to salute a gentleman wearing a silk hat who was passing in a buggy.

“Good morning, Doctor,” he called.  The doctor bowed with what looked like gracious condescension.

Mac turned to me again.  “What were you saying, Bruce?  Oh, yes, that I must love it.  Why, of course I do.  Wasn’t I born here?  By the way, that chap who passed us is Franklin, Doctor Franklin.  He is head of a college in Charlottetown.  Prince of Wales they call it.  It is a very important part of Island life.”

“But I do not think, Mac,” I suggested, “that he was quite as fraternal in his greeting as I might have expected him to be.”

“Oh, he does not know me, except as a farmer,” said Mac quickly.  “In fact, nobody around here does.  You see, Bruce, I am just plain Alec McKinney, who went to Boston when a young fellow—­you know that Boston, Bruce, is another name for the whole United States, on this Island—­and who came back a fizzle and a failure to work his father’s farm.  But say, Bruce,” and Mac turned to me very quickly, “what brought you here, anyhow?  I wager there is a reason for the visit.  Now, own up.”  He stopped the buggy right in the middle of the road and looked me in the face.  “Surely,” he went on, “you would not have thought of coming to the Island just to gossip about old times.”

“Well, perhaps I would, Mac.  In fact, I am glad I came,” I answered, “but you guess well, for this time I was sent.”

Mac interrupted me with a ring of joy in his voice:  “You were sent?  Good!  I am glad.  Now, out with it.”

“Well, I am glad if it pleases you, Mac, for it looks as if I had a chance to get you.”

“Get me?” Mac grew grave again.

“Yes, the old place wants you—­for Greek, Mac.  We need you badly.  Old Chalmers is dead.  His place is vacant.  No one can fill it better than the best Greek scholar the college ever produced.  Mac, you must come, and I must bring you home.  You know the old college is home for you.  You can’t fool me, Mac.  You love it better even than this.”  And I waved my hand toward the bay.