The pony adored Derrice, and he was greatly interested in the wild flowers. As he stood with his delicate hoofs planted in mossy beds, his fat knees hidden by branching brakes, he often extended his head over her shoulder, and if he approved, by his sense of smell, of the blossom she was gathering, he immediately appropriated it as a dainty morsel for his own delectation.
Derrice playfully slapped his face, and finally taking off her beflowered hat perched it on his head, whereupon, having something else to think of, he left her alone and stood sheepishly waiting for her to rejoin the rest of the party.
After a time she threw an arm over his neck and hurried after the others. Miss Gastonguay had been looking for her herd of tame deer, but was just giving up the quest. "It is too hot," she said, "they have probably gone across the swamps. Shall we sit here?" and she indicated a circular seat about an enormous oak-tree.
"Have you ever favoured Derrice with the story of this tree?" asked Justin, as they sat down.
"I believe I have."
"Yes, ever so long ago," said Derrice, shaking the sunbeams from her uncovered head. "See if I have it right,—the Gastonguays in Revolutionary time warmly espoused the cause of the colonies. They considered one of their sea captains a traitor, so they tied him to this tree and whipped him soundly until he took an oath of fidelity to his country, and promised to fight against the 'Bands of Tyranny,' whose 'Plodding Pates' had long projected methods to enslave his countrymen. He took the oath and they set him loose, and drank several draughts of toddy with him and lived in 'Peace and Harmony' ever after. I saw the record in the French Cross attic. Dear Miss Gastonguay, tell some other stories of the olden times."
Miss Gastonguay happened to be in a humour for reminiscences, and, without further persuasion, she launched into a recital of her family history through the cruel Indian wars, the days of painful adversity that fell upon the colony, the stirring episodes of the Revolutionary War, and the War of the Rebellion, in which four Gastonguays, who served in the gallant First Maine Regiment, were killed and buried in Southern soil.
"You forgot about the black day of 1780," Derrice reminded her when she stopped.
Miss Gastonguay patiently went back and related the story of her family's sudden exodus from Rossignol during a brief occupancy by the British, of their sojourn in the wilderness, and of their fright on a certain dark day when candles were lighted at noon, and the whole country sat in terrified expectancy of the sudden ending of the world. This story ended, she closed her lips and refused to talk further.
"It is too fine to sit still," said Captain White, who had been listening to her words with breathless interest, but who found the spell broken when she ceased to speak. "I'm going up river to see if that old prison is still scowling at your property with its hangdog face. Does any one want to go?"