“Yes, my dear boy, and we must sometimes go to bed; and I think it is high time now, as we must all be up to-morrow at daylight.”
The next morning, Mary and Emma set off to milk the cows—not, as usual, attended by some of the young men, for Henry and Alfred were busy, and Captain Sinclair was gone. As they crossed the bridge, Mary observed to her sister, “No more gentlemen to attend us lady milkmaids, Emma.”
“No,” replied Emma; “our avocation is losing all its charms, and a pleasure now almost settles down to a duty.”
“Alfred and Henry are with Martin about the fishing-boat,” observed Mary.
“Yes,” replied Emma; “but I fancy, Mary, you were thinking more of Captain Sinclair than of your cousins.”
“That is very true, Emma; I was thinking of him,” replied Mary, gravely. “You don’t know how I feel his absence.”
“I can imagine it, though, my dearest Mary. Shall we soon see him again?”
“I do not know; but I think not for three or four weeks, for certain. All that can be spared from the fort are gone haymaking, and if he is one of the officers sent with the men, of course he will be absent, and if he is left in the fort, he will be obliged to remain there; so there is no chance of seeing him until the haymaking is over.”
“Where is it that they go to make hay, Mary?”
“You know they have only a sufficiency of pasture round the fort for the cattle during the summer, so they go along by the borders of the lake and islands, where they know there are patches of clear land, cut the grass down, make the hay, and collect it all in the bateaux, and carry it to the fort to be stacked for the winter. This prairie was their best help, but now they have lost it.”