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?”
“Yes, it belongs to the Hetherton estate,” was the reply, and she continued, in a decisive tone:
“Then it is never any more to be Mill Pond. It is Lake Petit forever.”
They were half way up the hill by this time, and as one after another views of the surrounding country greeted Reinette’s wondering gaze, her delight knew no bounds, and, forgetting for a moment the load of pain at her heart, she gave vent to her delight in true girlish fashion, uttering little screams of surprise and gladness, and occasionally seizing Pierre by the shoulder and shaking him to make him see what she was seeing, and appreciate it, too.
“It’s better than Switzerland, better than France—better than anything! I like America,” she cried, but Pierre shook his head, and gave a sigh for “La Belle France,” the best country in the world, where he wished he had staid, he said, adhering to his opinion in spite of all his mistress could say.
Mr. Beresford could not understand them, but he knew that some altercation was going on between them, and was astonished to see the different expressions which passed in an instant over Reinette’s face, and how beautiful she grew as the bright color came and went, and she sparkled, and flashed, and laughed, and frowned, and shook up the stupid Pierre all in the same breath. They were driving up to the house by this time, and the moment the carriage stopped she sprang to the ground and began to look about her, gesticulating rapidly, and talking now in French and now in English, now to Mr. Beresford and now to Pierre, who was almost as excited as she was. The chateau, as she called it, was so much larger than she supposed, and the grounds more pretentious, and “Oh, the flowers!” she cried, darting in among them like a little humming-bird, and filling her hands with the sweet summer pinks, which she pressed to her lips and kissed as if they had been living things and sharers of her joy.