‘What a life!’ exclaimed Phœbe. ‘Realities, indeed!’
‘It is only what many colonists undergo,’ he answered; ‘if they do not prosper, it is a very hard life, and the shifting hopes render it the more trying to those who are not bred to it.’
‘And to those that are?’ she asked.
‘To those that are there are many compensations. It is a free out-of-doors life, and the glorious sense of extent and magnificence in our woods, the sport one has there, the beauty of our autumns, and our white, grand, silent winters, make it a life well worth living.’
‘And would these have made you content to be a backwoodsman all your life?’
‘I cannot tell,’ he said. ‘They—and the boys—were my delight when I was one. And, after all, I used to recollect it was a place where there was a clear duty to do, and so, perhaps, safer than what fancy or choice would point at.’
‘But you are very glad not to be still condemned to it.’
‘Heartily glad not to be left to try to prop up a tumble-down log-hut with my own shoulder,’ he laughed. ‘This journey to England has been the great desire of my life, and I am very thankful to have had it brought about.’
The conversation was broken off by Robert’s entrance. Finding that it was nearly nine o’clock, he went up-stairs to remind Miss Charlecote that tea had long been awaiting her, and presently brought her back from the silent watch by Owen’s side that had hitherto seemed to be rest and comfort to all the three.
Owen had begged that his cup might be sent up by his friend, on whom he was very dependent, and it was agreed that Mr. Randolf should sleep in his room, and remain as a guest at Woolstone-lane until Mr. Currie should come to town. Indeed, Miss Charlecote relied on him for giving the physician an account of the illness which Owen, at his best, could not himself describe; and she cordially thanked him for his evidently devoted attendance, going over every particular with him, but still so completely absorbed in her patient as to regard him in no light but as an appendage necessary to her boy.