It was very pleasant on the ledge of rocks, with the soft, rose-tinted glow of the summer sunset in the western sky, and the long line of wooded hills and grassy meadows stretching away to north, and south, and east, as far as the eye could reach. Through a deep cut to the westward a train of cars was coming swiftly into view, while over the tops of the pine trees, to the east, wreaths of smoke were curling, heralding the approach of another train, for Merrivale was on the great thoroughfare between Boston and Albany. At the foot of the hill the waters of Lake Petit lay like a bit of silvery moonlight amid the green fields around it, while further to the left another lake or pond was seen, with the Chicopee winding its slow course through strips of meadow land and green pastures, where the cows fed through the day and from which there now came a faint tinkle of bells as they were driven slowly home. Everything was quiet, and calm, and peaceful, and Reinette felt quiet and peaceful, too, as she seated herself in the “Lady’s Chair” and scanned the lovely landscape spread out below her. “America is beautiful,” she said to Pierre, who stood at her side; “and I should be so happy in papa’s old home, if only he were here. And I mean to be happy, as it is, for I know he would wish it to be so, and I understand now what he meant when he said such strange things to me just before he died. He was preparing me for a surprise—a—a—Pierre—” and forcing down a great sob, Reinette began rapidly, “Pierre, did you notice those people—those ladies, I mean, who came to meet me at the station?” “Yes,” said Pierre; “they rode with you to the grave. I thought, maybe, they were the servants of the house: who were they, mademoiselle?” “Servants,” and the dark eyes flashed angrily, for if they were hers—her flesh and blood—nobody must speak against them. “Servants! Pierre, you are an idiot!” “Yes, mademoiselle,” the old man answered, humbly, and Reinette continued: “You don’t yet understand how different everything is in America. There is no nobility here—no aristocracy like what we have in Europe. Your son, if you had one born here, might be the President, for all of his birth. It’s worth and education which make nobility here, with, perhaps, a little bit of money, and, Pierre, those ladies—mind you, _ladies_—whom you thought servants, were my own grandmother, and aunt, and cousin, my mother’s relatives.” “_Mon Dieu!_” dropped involuntarily from the old man’s lips, as he looked searchingly at his mistress for an instant, and then dropped his eyes meekly as he met her threatening gaze.