When the "Boston Boat" drew near Charlottetown I could see Mac waving me a welcome to the "Island" from the very last inch of standing space upon the dock. When I grasped his hard and muscular hand fifteen minutes later, I knew that my old college chum had changed, only outwardly. True, the stamp of Prince Edward Island, which the natives call "the Island," as if there were no other, was upon him; but that stamp really made Mac the man he was. The bright red clay was over his rough boots. Could any clay be redder? It, with his homespun clothes, made the Greek scholar look like a typical farmer. We had dinner somewhere in the town before we left for the farm. It was a plain, honest dinner. I enjoyed it. Of course, there was meat; but the mealy potatoes and the fresh cod--oh, such potatoes and cod--were the best part of it. I then and there began to like the Island for more reasons than because it had produced Mac. We drove out of town, across the beautiful river and away into the country, along red clay roads which were often lined with spruce, and always with grass cropped down to a lawnlike shortness by the sheep and kept bright green by the moisture. "You must enjoy this immensely, you old hermit," I said to Mac, as the buggy reached the top of a charming hill, overlooking a picture in which the bright green fields, the dark green spruce, the blue sky and the bluer waters were blended. "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."