Tony had never been to Monday Port before, but he had heard a great deal of it from his mother, who had spent gay summers there in her girlhood, before the war. It had once been a favorite resort for Southerners, but after their exodus, was taken up by Northern people, and for a decade or so was one of the most popular Cæsarean watering-places. The town occupied a long stretch of level country between the sea and a range of low-lying sandhills. Its streets were pretty and clean, shaded for the most part by maple trees, with modest cottages on either side, and here and there more pretentious modern “villas,” representing almost every conceivable style of architecture. Tony was not much interested in Monday Port, however, and he eyed these pleasant homes with a rueful glance, which gave an odd expression to his attractive young face; for despite the shadows in his gray-blue eyes and the frown on his dark brows, it was evident that he was anything but a surly or fretful lad. There was a sparkle in the depths of the shadow; lines of cheerfulness behind the frown; the glow of health in his cheeks. At last the old horse dragged the fly listlessly out of the shady street and they came into an open space, which fronted on a broad sheet of water flowing down with a fine sweep to the sea. A long bridge led across Deal Water to a straight white road which cleft a clean path through the rising meadowland. Eastward the wide expanse of green was edged by a line of tawny sands, where the turf swept down to the bluffs. Beyond lay the sea, sparkling like a great splendid jewel. Tony loved the sea, and a thrill went through him as he saw it again now after a long time. A load seemed lifted from his heart, though there was still some wistfulness for the sleepy bayou and the old plantation and the dear familiar faces. He remembered how so many Deerings before him had crossed that great still pond on their way to school, and had known that restless sea during happy boyhood. “Is that the school?” he cried to the driver, springing up as he caught sight of a pile of buildings which crowned a hill-top at the end of the long white road ahead of them. There seemed to be a great many of these buildings, standing shoulder to shoulder, long and low for the most part, but one higher than the rest, marked by a tapering spire. The rays of the morning sun glinted on the windows so that they seemed ablaze with light. A fresh breeze was blowing off the ocean. There was the smell of seaweed in the air and of herby autumnal flowers. Here and there a field was stained literally purple with Michaelmas daisies,—a vivid contrast to the deep green of the meadows.