Rowland watched the shadows on Mount Holyoke, listened to the gurgle of the river, and sniffed the balsam of the pines.

A gentle breeze had begun to tickle their summits, and brought the smell of the mown grass across from the elm-dotted river meadows.

He sat up beside his companion and looked away at the far-spreading view.

It seemed to him beautiful, and suddenly a strange feeling of prospective regret took possession of him.

Something seemed to tell him that later, in a foreign land, he would remember it lovingly and penitently.
"It 's a wretched business," he said, "this practical quarrel of ours with our own country, this everlasting impatience to get out of it.