Phil had come at last, and stood looking over his grandmother’s shoulder at the new arrival. His face was very red with his recent exercise, and a little soiled by the hands which had come in contact with fences and walls, and bogs, and then wiped the perspiration from it, so that he was not quite as jaunty and handsome as usual. At a glance he had seen how matters stood. Miss Reinette did not take kindly to her new relatives, if indeed she believed they were her relatives at all. Miss Reinette was neither an Amazon nor a blonde; she was petite and a brunette. He had lost his bet; the new hat he wore so airily was not his, but Mr. Beresford’s, and quick as thought he snatched it from his head and exchanged with his friend, just as he was presented to Reinette as _another cousin_. Instantly the large, bright black eyes darted toward him a perplexed, wondering look, but aside from that there was no response to the lifting of Phil’s old hat. Another cousin was the straw too many, and Reinette fairly gasped as she involuntarily said to herself in French, “I believe I shall die;” then, taking the sailor hat from her head, she fanned herself furiously, while the look of a hunted, worried creature deepened on her dark, flushed face and shone in her flashing eyes. Just then Pierre came to the rescue, and said something to her in his own language, whereupon she turned swiftly to Mr. Beresford and said: “You received my telegram? You will bury him straight from here?” “Yes,” he answered, “and I believe every thing is ready. Shall I take you to your carriage?” “Yes, yes! Oh, do!” she replied, and placing her hat on her head again, she took his arm, and Anna always insisted that she held her skirts back as with the air of a grand duchess, she walked past them to the carriage, the door of which the coachman held open with as much respect as if she had been a queen. Reinette must have guessed the intention of her new relatives to ride with her, for she said, rapidly and low, to Mr. Beresford: “You go with me, of course, and Pierre; he loved father; he is nearer to me now than any one in the wide world.” “Why, yes; only I think your relatives—your grandmother will naturally expect to accompany you,” Mr. Beresford answered, and Reinette said quickly: “My relatives! my grandmother! Mr. Beresford, father said I was to ask you everything. Are they my grandmother? Tell me true.” Mr. Beresford could not repress a smile at the way she put the question, in her vehemence, but he answered her very low and cautiously, as the Ferguson party was close behind: “I think they are.” Then, as a sudden idea flashed upon him, he continued: “Was your father twice married?” “No, never, never!” “Tell me, then, please, your mother’s name?” “Margaret Ferguson, and she died in Rome, when I was born.” He had her in the carriage by this time, and her eyes were looking straight into his as he began: