"Ah," he cried.

"There is a beech-tree there, mademoiselle, and if I might take my blanket out yonder, I should like it better than any room.

In winter, indeed, one must do it, but in summer I am smothered with a ceiling pressing down upon me." "You are not from a town then ?" said De Catinat.
"My father lives in New York--two doors from the house of Peter Stuyvesant, of whom you must have heard.

He is a very hardy man, and he can do it, but I--even a few days of Albany or of Schenectady are enough for me.

My life has been in the woods." "I am sure my father would wish you to sleep where you like and to do what you like, as long as it makes you happy." "I thank you, mademoiselle.