Amy looked back. The carriage was so far behind that it was hardly worth while for her to hurry on toward the Hotel Paris. Moreover, if she knew just where the house was, she would not care to reach it ahead of her mother and the others; so she walked along with the boy.
Although less talkative than some of the older Acadians whom she had met, he was not at all shy, this little Pierre, who, after telling her his name, confidently asked her hers.
"You speak good English," Amy said in compliment.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, we are taught English in school; we must learn it, we Acadians. One often meets the English." The last was said with a condescending air, amusing enough in one who was born a subject of the Queen of England. "But you," continued Pierre, "are not English. You are American,—is it not so?"
"Yes, Americans from the United States."
"Ah! they are strange, the Americans; you are going, perhaps, to the Hotel Paris?"
"Yes, but how did you know?"
"Because it is the only place where Americans stay. So late, you would be going somewhere. It is a good house, but Madame who keeps it has had a death there to-day."
This piece of news disturbed Amy.
"A death! I must tell my mother. She is behind, in the carriage."