"We don't call this an avenue, child, we call it a street, in spite of the magnificent elms," said Miss Gastonguay, stepping to the gutter and picking up a fur lap-robe. "Now where is that brat of a pony?" and putting two fingers in her mouth she whistled shrilly. "Look at him coming from the parsonage," she went on, "his mouth full of bread and sugar and rattling my new cart over the gutters. I declare there is nothing bigger than his appetite but the public debt of Maine. Come here, you villain. You are worse than a dog, creeping around to back doors while your mistress is calling." Derrice smiled as the fat white animal, with a mischievous roll of his light eyes at his mistress, hurried down the drive to the street, and, with the dexterity of a veteran, wheeled the cart directly in front of her. Derrice got in, and Miss Gastonguay, after a soft slap on the animal's neck, followed her. "It is 'jolly,' as English people say, that you have not seen the town," said Miss Gastonguay, picking up the lines. "I love to get hold of new people. Don't you know a thing about it? Hasn't your husband told you?" "Well, really, I have slept the most of the time since arriving. I was tired from my journey, and I have asked few questions." "You don't want to be too communicative," said Miss Gastonguay, turning her sharp black eyes on her. "You are quite a woman of the world, baby though you seem. Well, I'll not bother you till after you have had a chance to ask some one if I am quite respectable and one to be encouraged, though it will be hard work for me to restrain myself, as I am little better than an interrogation point. You don't belong to New England?" "No,--to New York more than any place, but I have no home. My mother died when I was a baby, and my father has had me travelling with him almost ever since, though sometimes he would put me in a school for awhile." "You must miss him." "I do," said Derrice, quietly. "You won't like living here if you have been a globe-trotter." "Perhaps I may." "My child,--you know you can think of nothing more dismal." "I will not say that, Miss Gastonguay." "But you feel it. I can look into the minds of my fellow beings. The time before this when I was reincarnated, I was a witch." Derrice looked at her in irresistible amusement. "Come now, Miss or Mrs. New Yorker," said Miss Gastonguay, vivaciously, "tell me what is your idea of New England." "I don't know that I have ever formulated anything. I have been in Boston once or twice. I liked it." "But you avoided the smaller places." "Yes; though my father often spoke to me of Rossignol. What a fine street this is!"