In a moment his children were enfolded in his arms. It is a mistaken idea that joy kills, it is a life restorer. Could you, my young readers, have seen how quickly the bloom of health began to reappear on the faded cheek of that pale mother, and how soon that dim eye regained its bright sparkle, you would have said that joy does not kill.
“But where is Louis, dear Louis, our nephew, where is he?”
Louis whose impetuosity was not to be restrained by the caution of old Jacob, had cleared the log fence at a bound, had hastily embraced his cousins Kenneth and Donald, and in five minutes more had rushed into his father’s cottage, and wept his joy in the arms of father, mother, and sisters by turns, before old Jacob had introduced the impatient Hector and Catharine to their father.
“But while joy is in our little dwelling, who is this that sits apart upon that stone by the log fence, her face bent sadly down upon het knees, her long raven hair shading her features as with a veil,” asked the Highlander Maxwell, pointing as he spoke’ to the spot where, unnoticed and unsharing in the joyful recognition, sat the poor Indian girl. There was no paternal embrace for her, no tender mother’s kiss imprinted on that dusky cheek and pensive brow—she was alone and desolate, in the midst of that scene of gladness.
“It is my Indian sister,” said Catharine, “she also must be your child;” and Hector hurried to Indiana and half leading, half carrying the reluctant girl, brought her to his parents and bade them be kind to and cherish the young stranger, to whom they all owed so much.
I will not dwell upon the universal joy that filled that humble dwelling, or tell the delight of Kenneth and Donald at the return of their lost brother and sister, for my story hurries to a close.
Time passes on—years, long years have gone by since the return of the lost children to their homes, and many changes have those years effected. The log-houses have fallen to decay—a growth of young pines, a waste of emerald turf with the charred logs that once formed part of the enclosure, now, hardly serve to mark out the old settlement—no trace or record remains of the first breakers of the bush, another race occupy the ground. The traveller as he passes along on that smooth turnpike road that leads from Coburg to Cold Springs, and from thence to Gore’s Landing, may notice a green waste by the road-side on either hand, and fancy that thereabouts our Canadian Crusoes’ home once stood—he sees the lofty wood-crowned hill, and sees in spring-time, for in summer it is hidden by the luxuriant foliage, the little forest creek, and he may if thirsty, taste of the pure fresh icy water, as it still wells out from a spring in the steep bank, rippling through the little cedar-trough that Louis Perron placed there for the better speed of his mother when filling her water jug. All else is gone. And what wrought the change?—a few words will suffice to tell. Some travelling fur merchants brought the news to Donald Maxwell, that a party of Highlanders had made a settlement above Montreal, and among them were some of his kindred. The old soldier resolved to join them, and it was not hard to prevail upon his brother-in-law to accompany him, for they were all now weary of living so far from their fellow-men; and bidding farewell to the little log-houses at Cold Springs, they now journeyed downwards to the new settlement, where they were gladly received, their long experience of the country making their company a most valuable acquisition to the new colonists.
Not long after the Maxwells took possession of a grant of land, and cleared and built for themselves and their family. That year Hector, now a fine industrious young man, presented at the baptismal font as a candidate for baptism, the Indian girl, and then received at the altar his newly baptized bride. As to Catharine and Louis, I am not sufficiently skilled in the laws of their church to tell how the difficulty of nearness of kin was obviated, but they were married on the same day as Hector and Indiana, and lived a happy and prosperous life; and often by their fireside would delight their children by recounting the history of their wanderings on the Rice Lake Plains.