THE EARL OF EGMONT 7

decided to ramble around Prince Edward Island on foot, on bicycle, or by any other conveyance which opportunity affords. New friends ahead? Perhaps. New places? Undoubtedly. Perhaps I shall see the places Whose very setting seems to encourage old legends; modern towns still dreaming of their past; Villages asleep in the sun or active in the springtime of their growth. My journey across the ”Red Sea” is completed. The threshold is reached. The ramble begins. The boat lurches heavily against the pier. The people crowd near the gang-plank excited and eager to set foot on the Emerald Isle. Ahead of me that tweedy man with the Yankee twang is pushing. “Quit shovin’,” an urchin reproves him. The tweed retracts slightly. The grandmother with the elaborate travelling bag is excited. Her granddaughter is excited. Heavens! we are all excited! Near me is an elderly American woman unencumbered with baggage, and I look at her enviously. My rucksack is beginning to feel heavy. She appears to be as lonely as the average solitary traveller.

“Aren't the porters nice?” she confided in me.

I was amazed. The porters looked as usual.

“Three of them came up and took all my bags and parcels, ” she continued.

I looked at her curiously. It was refreshing in this modern age to meet some one who really believed that porters worked for the exercise they got out of it.

“They may expect a tip,” I reminded her.

Her face registered complete disillusionment. I was sorry.

Again the boat lurches heavily. So it is the Island which lies ahead—the Island whose son made the name known in American circles. When asked in