The Campbells remained for some time on the shore of the lake watching the receding bateaux until they turned round the point and were hidden from their sight, and then they walked back to the house. But few words were exchanged as they returned, for they felt a sensation of loneliness from having parted with so many of their own countrymen; not that they were, with the exception of Captain Sinclair, companions, but that, accustomed to the sight of the soldiers at their labour, the spot now appeared depopulated by their departure. Martin, too, and John, were both absent; the latter had been two days away, and Martin, who had not yet found time to ascertain where old Malachi Bone had fixed his new abode, had gone out in search of it, and to mention to him Mr Campbell’s wishes as to John’s visits to him, which were becoming more frequent and more lengthened than Mr Campbell wished them to be.
When they entered the house, they all sat down, and Mr Campbell then first spoke.
“Well, my dearest wife, here we are at last, left to ourselves and to our own resources. I am not at all doubtful of our doing well, if we exert ourselves, as it is our duty to do. I grant that we may have hardship to combat, difficulties to overcome, occasional disappointments, and losses to bear up against; but let us recollect how greatly we have, through Providence, been already assisted and encouraged, how much help we have received, and how much kindness we have experienced. Surely we ought to feel most grateful to Heaven for blessings already vouchsafed to us, and ought to have a firm and lively faith in Him who has hitherto so kindly watched over us. Let us not then repine or feel dispirited, but with grateful hearts do our duty cheerfully in that state of life to which it has pleased Him to call us.”
“I agree with you, my dear husband,” replied Mrs Campbell; “nay, I can say with sincerity, that I am not sorry we are now left to our own exertions, and that we have an opportunity of proving that we can do without the assistance of others. Up to the present, our trial has been nothing; indeed, I can fancy to myself what our trials are to be. Come they may, but from what quarter I cannot form an idea: should they come, however, I trust we shall shew our gratitude for the past blessings, and our faith derived from past deliverances, by a devout submission to whatever the Almighty may please to try or chasten us with.”
“Right, my dear,” replied Mr Campbell; “we will hope for the best; we are as much under His protection here in the wilderness, as we were at Wexton Hall; we were just as liable to all the ills which flesh is heir to when we were living in opulence and luxury as we are now in this log-house; but we are, I thank God, not so liable in our present position to forget Him who so bountifully provides for us and in His wisdom ordereth all our ways. Most truly has the poet said, ‘Sweet are the uses of adversity.’”
“Well,” observed Emma, after a pause, as if to give a more lively turn to the conversation, “I wonder what my trials are to be! Depend upon it, the cow will kick down the pail, or the butter won’t come!”
“Or you’ll get chapped fingers in the winter time, and chilblains on your feet,” continued Mary.
“That will be bad; but Captain Sinclair says that if we don’t take care we shall be frost-bitten and lose the tips of our noses.”
“That would be hard upon you, Emma, for you’ve none to spare,” said Alfred.
“Well, you have, Alfred, so yours ought to go first.”