"Ah, yes, he helped me find my way last evening. He may come in, may he not?"
"Ah, surely, since you wish it. Pierre talks much, and I have known those whom he tired. But enter, Pierre, since you have been invited."
Then Pierre followed Amy into the little sitting-room, where Priscilla and Martine were already seated near an open fire; for the gray and damp early morning had introduced a foggy day, and at present sightseeing was out of the question. Priscilla had been writing letters, Amy had been reading a history of the Acadians, and Martine, before Pierre's arrival, had been looking through "Evangeline."
"Pierre," Amy asked, not knowing just what to say to the old-fashioned boy, "do you care for 'Evangeline'?"
"Surely, yes," he replied, his face lighting up. "Your Longfellow has sympathy for the Acadians. A lady who stayed here last summer lent me his poems, but best I understand the 'Evangeline.'
"'Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!'"
Pierre recited with much expression.
"Ah," he continued, "I can say much of that beautiful poem, and indeed it makes me weep to think how they were treated, those poor Acadians, my ancestors. The English were most cruel."
"Amy," half-whispered Martine, "my history is a little rusty, so please tell me if the Acadians were driven out from Little Brook."
"No, my dear, Little Brook was founded by some who made their way back from exile. Pierre," she added in a louder tone, "you are so interested in your people, can you tell us about those who founded Little Brook?"