As before, everything was quiet, and no one was to be seen until he came opposite a great ledge of rocks on the hill-side higher up than the house itself and commanding a still better view of the surrounding country. This ledge, which covered quite a space of ground and was in some places as level as the floor, presented in other sections a broken, uneven appearance, like a succession of little rooms, and one niche in particular was called the “Lady’s Chair” from its peculiar formation of seat, sides and back. Here with the fading sunlight falling upon it, sat a little figure in gray with the blue veil twisted round the hat, and the hands folded together and lying upon the lap, reminding Phil of that picture of Evangeline sitting by the river and watching the distant boat. Pierre was kneeling upon the rock beside his mistress, and stretched at her feet was the watch-dog, King, with whom she had already made friends. The three made a very pretty picture far up the hill-side with the western sky behind them, and Phil, without knowing whether he was seen or not, involuntarily raised his hat. But the courtesy was not acknowledged, and he bit his lip with vexation as he galloped rapidly on thinking to himself: “Hang the girl, I believe Anna is half right. She is proud as Lucifer, and means to cut us all. Well, let her. Maybe she’ll find some day that a Rossiter is quite as good as a Hetherton!” In Phil’s estimation Reinette was not altogether a success, but then he did not know her. CHAPTER IX. REINETTE AT HOME. When Phil envied Mr. Beresford his opportunity for being alone with Reinette and listening to her conversation, he made a mistake, for during the first of the drive from the cemetery to Hetherton Place, she scarcely spoke to him, but sat with closed eyes and locked hands, leaning back in a corner of the carriage, as motionless as if she had been asleep. Once, however, when they were crossing the river, she looked out and asked: “Isn’t this the Chicopee?” and on being told it was, she said to Pierre, in French: “This is the river, Pierre, where papa used to gather the pond lilies when he was a boy. It empties into the Connecticut as the Seine does into the sea. You know you looked it out on the map for me.” Pierre nodded, and Reinette, although she now kept her eyes open, did not speak again until they reached the long hill which wound up to the house Then, as she saw to her left a lovely little sheet of water sparkling in the sunlight, she started up, exclaiming: “That must be Lake Petit, where father used to keep his boat, the Waif.” “Yes,” said Mr. Beresford, surprised at her knowledge of the neighborhood. “Your grandmother, Mrs. Hetherton, called it Lake Petit, I believe, but to most of the people here it is the Mill Pond.” Reinette shrugged her shoulders, and asked: “Isn’t it on papa’s land?”