Besides, Ted had taken quite civil leave of him before going back to Oxford, and had said he fancied would be down again next Sunday, and that he would be on hand, like as not, if Uncle Fritz decided to come over--all of which, for any one who knew Ted as Harold knew him, was graciousness itself, and made Harold wish he had not waited so long before taking matters into his own hands. And in addition to all this, the morning was fine enough to brace anybody up, no matter what their troubles. The Eton boys in their tall hats (atoning, as it were, for the extreme briefness of their jackets) and wide-rolling linen collars were skurrying through the streets as though they had the right of way, as indeed they have in dear old royal Windsor; and here and there the flowing gown of a colleger spread itself to the April wind and floated out behind, to all appearances as glad as any peacock to show what it could do in that direction. Indeed, who knows of a more inspiriting sight anywhere than Eton College on an April morning? The quaint old buildings seem to bask in the broad spring sunshine; the trees that dot the grass-bare turf where the Upper School fronts the street are already casting tiny leaf-shadows, and on the other side, where the garden slopes down to the Thames, many a little branch and bush begins to glow with color. Even the old bronze statue of Henry VI. in the outer quadrangle, with all its panoply of robes of state and globe and sceptre, appears to look a little more chipper than ever and a trifle more conscious of the distinction of being the “munificent founder” of so glorious an institution. No wonder the boys love the old place, and even the dingy recitation rooms, whose quaint, high desks and slippery benches are notched with the penknives of many a boy, whose name, as a man, has come to be known through the length and breadth of England. To Harold it was a matter of no small pride, I assure you, that his particular seat on the form during that spring term was the same that had once been Gladstone's--“the prettiest little boy,” by the way, in the mind of his partial teacher, that ever went up to Eton. But all this, as you can plainly see, has nothing whatever to do with the title of this chapter, so it “behooves us,” as the preachers used to say, to turn our back on Harold and the charms of the renowned old college, and our faces toward the ocean and a far-off land--far off, that is, as far as Windsor and the English are concerned, but very near and dear to the hearts of some of the rest of us. Of course it is the letter that is turning our thoughts that way at this particular moment. It is tied firmly in a packet within a great leather bag, and, having been just in time to catch the mail-train, is being spirited down to Queenstown, where one of the great White Star steamers has been waiting full four long hours, so important are these reams upon reams of letters we and our English cousins keep sending one to the other across the water. Wind and tide favor the huge, swift ship, and early in the morning, the sixth day out, Fire Island light is sighted. It is a cloudless morning, the white sands of the South-shore beaches shine like silver in the sunlight, and the fresh sea breeze that is stirring holds its own the whole length of Long Island, and blows its purifying way into every street and alley of the vast city that lies at its farther end. A most uninteresting city, this city of Brooklyn, some people affirm; even those of us who love it best cannot claim that it is great in anything but “bigness” but there are homes there we will match against homes the world over, not for show or for luxury, but for pure and transcendent comfort. It is only a corner of the wide-spreading city of which we are speaking, and a little corner at that, but the charm of it lies in the fact that many of the streets open right to the harbor, and that many of the houses, as well, command the same glorious view. To be sure, one has need to overlook, in quite too literal fashion, the warehouses that front the water below the bluff, and here and there an unsightly elevator, but why let the eye rest on these, with the dancing blue water beneath you, and the Jersey hills beyond, and beyond that again, like as not, a glorious sunset. To be sure, the houses that line these streets stand most of them shoulder to shoulder, in barbarous, city-like fashion, and with far too much sameness in their general make-up and plan. But that is neither here nor there; we simply are claiming--we who love it--that it is a region of ideal homes. And more than this, there is a rare kindliness of spirit and an open-handed hospitality prevalent among the people. They are friends and neighbors in the best sense of the word; too high-minded and preoccupied to be gossipy or prying, they are interested in each other's affairs with the interest that means a sharing of each other's joys and sorrows.