At last the winter set in, with its usual fall of snow. Captain Sinclair took his leave for a long time, much to the sorrow of all the family, who were warmly attached to him. It was now arranged that the only parties who were to go on the hunting excursions should be Malachi and John, as Henry had ample employment in the barns; and Martin and Alfred, in felling timber and dragging up the stems to the saw-mill, would, with attending to the mill as well, have their whole time taken up. Such were the arrangements out of doors, and now that they had lost the services of poor Percival, and the duties to attend to indoors were so much increased, Mrs Campbell and the girls were obliged to call in the assistance of Mr Campbell whenever he could be spared from the garden, which was his usual occupation. Thus glided on the third winter in quiet and security; but in full employment, and with so much to do and to attend to, that it passed very rapidly.
It was in the month of February, when the snow was very heavy on the ground, that one day Malachi went up to the mill to Alfred, whom he found alone attending the saws, which were in full activity; for Martin was squaring out the timber ready to be sawed at about one hundred yards’ distance.
“I am glad to find you alone, sir,” said Malachi, “for I have something of importance to tell you of, and I don’t like at present that anybody else should know anything about it.”
“What is it, Malachi?” inquired Alfred.
“Why, sir, when I was out hunting yesterday I went round to a spot where I had left a couple of deer-hides last week that I might bring them home, and I found a letter stuck to them with a couple of thorns.”
“A letter, Malachi!”
“Yes, sir, an Indian letter. Here it is.” Malachi then produced a piece of birch-bark, of which the underneath drawing is a fac-simile.
“Well,” said Alfred, “it may be a letter, but I confess it is all Greek to me. I certainly do not see why you wish to keep it a secret. Tell me.”
“Well, sir, I could not read one of your letters half so well as I can this; and it contains news of the greatest importance. It’s the Indian way of writing, and I know also whom it comes from. A good action is never lost, they say, and I am glad to find that there is some gratitude in an Indian.”
“You make me very impatient, Malachi, to know what it means; tell me from whom do you think the letter comes?”