One of the boys by the Rocking-stone was Tony Deering, coatless, hatless, his hair glowing in the sunlight, half-hidden by the tall sweet grass in which he lay at full length. The other was Reginald Carroll, now nearly at the end of his Freshman year at Kingsbridge College, back at the School for a week-end as he had so often been since his graduation the previous June. Much of his time on these occasions, though we have not chanced to note it, was spent with Deering, much too with Mr. Morris between whom and himself the old feeling of distrust had altogether dropped away. For during his last term at school Reggie had won his house-master’s confidence as well as his regard. [Illustration: “YOU WILL CERTAINLY BE COMING UP TO COLLEGE NEXT YEAR?”] The boys were sprawled flat on their stomachs in the warm sweet grass, heads on hands, at the very edge of the ridge, peering off across the tops of the pine trees and cedars that rose from the ravine between the ridges almost to a level with their heads. They looked eastward and their position commanded a view of the Strathsey river, the harbor in the bend of the Neck, the broad beach and bay, and the open ocean beyond. They could see the House crews out beyond Deigr Light; they were turning the noses of their boats toward the harbor again in the hope of getting back for supper. A dozen or more sailboats were in the river. Tony and Reggie had been sailing, and had stopped at the Rocking-stone on their way back to the School. “Peachy day, Reg, isn’t it?” said Tony, for the thousandth time sniffing of the good sea breeze. “Well, rather,” drawled Reggie for reply. He was still languid, individual, different, but distinctly more purposeful, less afflicted with the air of being perpetually bored than when we first observed him some four or five years ago. “Doesn’t it make you sort of sicky to feel you can’t have it all the time?” “It does, boy; as you yourself before long will be finding out.” “Ah—I know.” “But, I tell you what, Tony; it makes it almost worth while being away, it is so wonderful to come back. College is different, likable too; but it never takes the place of school. Though I must say, toward the end of the year I begin to feel myself caring for it as I didn’t in the least think I should. It’s rough at first, as I told you before, as you could see from my pretending it wasn’t last fall. But here—well, the heart’s at home here.” Tony smiled his appreciation of the phrase. “Old chap, you do get your sentiments expressed now and then in perfectly good nice poetry, don’t you? I feel like that ever so often, but to save my life I can never find words that seem in the least to do justice to my thoughts.” “Oh, well, that comes a good deal not only from feeling a thing, boy; but quite as much from the habit of hunting for the right phrase now and then, as old Jack used to tell us in Sixth English.”