“And she spake the truth, ma'am—or, what is the same, she thought she did; but a little limb of the old one, saving your presence, my lady, had fingered all the poor cratur had been earning in three years, in as many minutes, and was off to the States with it.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Mr. Morris, who had been intently listening—“the son of Belial—I told you so—I knew the rascal had it.”
“So dame Barton said one of the gentlemen told her; but the bundle was all tight and snug, for the little devil had sewed it up again, and she did not examine it till she come to look for the money to pay the captain of a schooner, who had agreed to take her down the lakes: and just think, my lady, at that moment what an overcast it was.”
“That mischief was done,” said Edward, as soon as he had an opportunity of speaking, “when you and I, Julia, left that little wretch Tristy in the wood. I shall always think we were to blame for leaving him.”
“Does the poor woman,” asked Mrs. Sackville, “still think of returning to Quebec?”
“To Quebec! ah, madam, and to the world's end, but she'll find her husband if he is above ground. She is that resolute, that neither wind nor tide can turn her. If she was left on a naked island in mid ocean, she would contrive to get off from it.”
“Come, children,” said Mrs. Sackville, “we will just leave your father and uncle to finish their survey here, while we look in upon our poor friend.”
“Well, go on mother,” said Edward, “I will overtake you; first I must run up to the flag-staff and get at least a clover stalk for a memorial of the gallant Brock who is buried there.”
“And I will overtake you too, mother,” said Julia, falling back with Edward.
The soldier's eye followed the children: “God bless them—God bless them!” said he, “that is better than a monument.”