The sun had set when Cameron returned. He tethered the cow to the wheel of the wagon and clamped rusty hobbles about the horses' fetlocks. Then he looked towards the woman.
"Mary!" he called.
She did not hear, and he walked towards her.
A man of few words, Cameron did not speak as he searched his wife's face.
"I—I was dreaming," she said, looking up, startled at the sight of him.
"You're not grieving?" he asked.
There was a tremor in his voice, though its roughness almost covered that.
"No, not grieving," she said. "But thinking what it will be to us and our children, by and by, in this place. It is a new country and a new people we're making, they said at home, and I'm realising what they meant now."
"Aye. But it's a fine country!"
Cameron's eyes travelled the length of the clearing, over the slope of the hill. They took in the silent world of the trees, the rosy mist that still glowed between their slender, thronging stems. There was pride and an expression of sated hunger in his glance.