172 OVER ON THE ISLAND

rocked briskly back and forth, he reviewed the events of his lively life. He would think of Scotland; of how happy the tenants were to know that they had found a protector; at their gloom when they left, for ever, their native land; of the journey over; of the early struggles to hew down the forest and obtain fields. Then the year 1775, when he went away on active service that lasted eight years and was unable to pay any attention to the Island. Here the rockers move still more briskly and indignantly. His settlers, in despair, moved to the estates of other proprietors and his lands were seized for quit-rent not paid. His petition to the king . . . and he ultimately recovers his land. The rocking subsides gradually, and the impetuous Captain sits musing and then falls asleep, his hands folded across his stomach.

“Did they sail up the Hillsborough?”

“Yes. They passed a French fort on the way up, so that gave them the idea of calling this place Scotch- fort. They must have been sad, though—

F air these broad meads—these hoary woods are grand. But we are exiles from our father’s land.

“Have you been to Dalvay?” Jean asked suddenly. “A MacDonald, a millionaire, built it, I think, for a summer house. It is a hotel now and is still beautiful. It seems to me that that mansion would be just the sort of place that Captain John would like—spacious and well built.”

“ Let’s go up and see it,” suggested our newly found friend. “ My car is just outside and you can pile your bikes in the rumble seat. ”

Cycling, of course, is fun. But what honest-to- goodness cyclist, who is worthy of the name, scorns a