“That didn’t hurt me, John.”
“Then it is the apprehension you suffer on account o’ that wench that is making you sick.”
“No, John; it isn’t that at all.”
“Then what is it?”
“Ask Jean. I have nothing more to say.”
But there was no time for further parleying. The breakfast was ready, and the hurry of preparation for departure was the theme of the hour.
“We reached camp in a pouring rain last night and pitched our tents, amid much discomfort, on the outskirts of the little town of St. Joseph,” wrote Jean on the morning of the fifth of May. “But I haven’t much time for you, my journal, for there are other things to claim attention,” and she shut the book with the usual impatient bang.
“Got any blank deeds along with you, daddie?” she asked, after it was announced that they were to be ready to break camp the next morning.
“Yes; why?”
“Because we must have that deed of Grandma Robinson’s all ready for mother to acknowledge before a notary in the morning, as we go through town on our way to the ferry.”