All at once the mists seemed to lift from the long range of hills on the right and revealed the dark background of forest, broken here and there with jutting rocks and beetling crags.  We stopped and sat down on the bank-side to view the scene.  Close up under the shadow of the dark forest nestled a little white village.  Near it was the red-tile roof of an old mansion, half-lost in the foliage.  All around this old mansion I could make out a string of small buildings or additions to the original chateau.

I looked at White Pigeon and she looked at me.

“Yes; that is the place!” she said.

The sun’s rays were growing warmer.  I took off my coat and tucked it through the handle of the basket.  White Pigeon took off her jacket to keep it company, and toting the basket, slung on my cane between us, we moved on up the gently winding way to the village of By.  Everybody was asleep at By, or else gone on a journey.  Soon we came to the old, massive, moss-covered gateposts that marked the entrance to the mansion.  A chain was stretched across the entrance and we crawled under.  The driveway was partly overgrown with grass, and the place seemed to be taking care of itself.  Half a dozen long-horned Bonnie Brier Bush cows were grazing on the lawn, their calves with them; and evidently these cows and calves were the only mowing-machines employed.  On this wide-stretching meadow were various old trees; one elm I saw had fallen split through the center—­each part prostrate, yet growing green.

Close up about the house there was an irregular stone wall and an ornamental iron gate with a pull-out Brugglesmith bell at one side.  We pulled the bell and were answered by a big shaggy Saint Bernard that came barking and bouncing around the corner.  I thought at first our time had come.  But this giant of a dog only approached within about ten feet, then lay down on the grass and rolled over three times to show his goodwill.  He got up with a fine, cheery smile shown in the wag of his tail, just as a little maid unlocked the gate.

“Don’t you know that dog?” asked White Pigeon.

“Certainement—­he is on the wall of your room.”

We were shown into a little reception-parlor, where we were welcomed by a tall, handsome woman, about White Pigeon’s age.

The woman kissed White Pigeon on one cheek, and I afterwards asked White
Pigeon why she didn’t turn to me the other, and she said I was a fool.

Then the tall woman went to the door and called up the stairway: 
“Antoine, Antoine, guess who it is?  It’s White Pigeon!”

A man came down the stairs three steps at a time, and took both of White
Pigeon’s hands in his, after the hearty manner of a gentleman of France. 
Then I was introduced.

Antoine looked at our lunch-basket with the funniest look I ever saw, and asked what it was.

“Lunch,” said White Pigeon; “I can not tell a lie!”