What a picture she was as she sat there, my own Bessie and what a strange place it was to rest on, those church steps Behind us lay the Woolsey woods, with their wooing fragrance of pine and soft rushes of scented air; and the lakes were in the distance, lying very calm in the cloud-shadows and seeming to wait for us to come. But to-day Bessie would nothing of lakes or ledges: she would sit on the church steps. In front of us, straight to the gate, ran a stiff little walk of white pebbles, hard and harsh as some bygone creed.