She was not lonely, although she had never in her life been as much cut off from society as she was this summer. She despised Rossignol, she disliked the people in it. Only one person had made the place endurable to her, and that person had been driven from her. She had now but one desire,--to accomplish her vengeance, to see Derrice unhappy, one-tenth as unhappy as she was,--and then to take her aunt to some place nearer the man without whom her life was unendurable. He would never return to Rossignol, she felt persuaded of that. She had been patient and stealthy in waiting for the time to come when she might go in search of him, and something told her that this time was now approaching. Her interview to-day would probably close her dealings with H. Robinson, and calmly making her way to the library, she took up a book and sat down to await his coming. CHAPTER XXV. IN THE FRENCH CROSS WOOD. In early days old Louis Gastonguay, who had no mind to be teased by the Indians as were other less shrewd settlers, purchased from a band of Penobscots their summer camping-ground, consisting of a strip of beautiful woodland extending along the river bank behind his log cabin. To ensure peaceful possession, he paid what was considered an exorbitant price for two hundred acres of land, but time proved that the price he paid was not a ruinous one, for during the long Indian wars not a Gastonguay lost his scalp, though there were some members of his family little liked by the red men. This wood had been, through successive generations, the pride of the Gastonguays, and it had been cleared and embellished by various members of the family until at this time it was famed throughout the State for its combination of natural and artificial beauty. Miss Gastonguay and her guests strolled in a leisurely way through its shady alleys, crossing and recrossing at intervals the one broad avenue that ran through it. The sun was hot overhead, but protecting pines and spruces interposed verdant and sheltering arms, and gently waved toward the pedestrians a river breeze that caught and carried to them a dozen spicy odours from the forest paths. Justin went with his hat in his hand, his mother on his arm. Captain White kept up an animated conversation with his hostess, who seemed to have some particular attraction for him, while Derrice, with the pony, wandered erratically behind, sometimes in the path, sometimes far from it, in search of some shy wild flower that had stretched out a slender neck to look at them, and then had vainly tried to hide itself from her vandal fingers behind some leafy fern.