"Well, I believe, if my old memory fails me not, I can strike the Indian trail that used to lead to the Cold Springs over the pine hills. It will not be difficult for an old trapper to find his way."
"For my part, I shall not leave this lovely spot without regret," said Hector. "It would be a glorious place for a settlement—all that one could desire—hill and valley, and plain, wood, and water. I will try and persuade my father to leave the Cold Springs, and come and settle hereabouts. It would be delightful—would it not, Catharine?—especially now we are friends with the Indians."
With their heads full of pleasant schemes for the future, our young folks laid them down that night to rest. In the morning they rose, packed up such portable articles as they could manage to carry, and with full hearts sat down to take their last meal in their home—in that home which had sheltered them so long—and then, with one accord, they knelt down upon its hearth, so soon to be left in loneliness, and breathed a prayer to Him who had preserved them thus far in their eventful lives; and then they journeyed forth once more into the wilderness. There was one, however, of their little band they left behind this was the faithful old dog Wolfe. He had pined during the absence of his mistress, and only a few days before Catharine's return he had crept to the seat she was wont to occupy, and there died. Louis and Hector buried him, not without great regret beneath the group of birch-trees on the brow of the slope near the corn-field.
CHAPTER XVII.
"I will arise, and go to my father."—St. Luke.
It is the hour of sunset; the sonorous sound of the cattle-bells is heard, as they slowly emerge from the steep hill-path that leads to Maxwell and Louis Perron's little clearing; the dark shadows are lengthening that those wood-crowned hills cast over that sunny spot, an oasis in the vast forest desert that man, adventurous, courageous man, has hewed for himself in the wilderness. The little flock are feeding among the blackened stumps of the uncleared chopping: those timbers have lain thus untouched for two long years; the hand was wanting that should have given help in logging and burning them up. The wheat is ripe for the sickle, and the silken beard of the corn is waving like a fair girl's tresses in the evening breeze. The tinkling fall of the cold spring in yonder bank falls soothingly on the ear. Who comes from that low-roofed log-cabin to bring in the pitcher of water—that pale, careworn, shadowy figure that slowly moves along the green pasture, as one without hope or joy; her black hair shared with silver, her cheek pale as wax, and her hand so thin it looks as though the light might be seen through if she held it towards the sun? It is the heart-broken mother of Catharine and Hector Maxwell. Her heart has been pierced with many sorrows; she cannot yet forget the children of her love, her first-born girl and boy. Who comes to meet her, and with cheerful voice chides her for the tear that seems ever to be lingering on that pale cheek,—yet the premature furrows on that broad, sunburnt, manly brow speak, too, of inward care? It is the father of Hector and Catharine. Those two fine, healthy boys, in homespun blouses, that are talking so earnestly as they lean across the rail-fence of the little wheat field, are Kenneth and Donald; their sickles are on their arms—they have been reaping. They hear the sudden barking of Bruce and Wallace, the hounds, and turn to see what causes the agitation they display.
An old man draws near; he has a knapsack on his shoulders, which he casts down on the corner of the stoup; he is singing a line of an old French ditty; he raps at the open door. The Highlander bids him welcome, but starts with glad surprise as his hand is grasped by the old trapper.
"Hah, Jacob Morelle, it is many a weary year since your step turned this way." The tear stood in the eye of the soldier as he spoke.
"Can you receive me and those I have with me for the night?" asked the old man; in a husky voice—his kind heart was full. "A spare corner, a shake-down, will do; we travellers in the bush are no wise nice."
"The best we have, and kindly welcome, Jacob. How many are ye in all?"