Our mother’s energies had sustained her in the saddle until this day, but she was now fairly obliged to give in, and yield her place on little Brunêt to Sister Margaret.
Thus we went on, one little knoll rising beyond another, from the summit of each of which, in succession, we hoped to descry the distant woods, which were to us as the promised land.
“Take courage,” were the cheering words, often repeated, “very soon you will begin to see the timber.”
Another hour would pass heavily by.
“Now, when we reach the rising ground just ahead, look sharp.”
We looked sharp—nothing but the same unvarying landscape.
There were not even streams to allay the feverish thirst occasioned by fatigue and impatience.
At length a whoop from Shaw-nee-aw-kee broke the silence in which we were pursuing our way.
“Le voila!” (“There it is!”)
Our less practised eye could not at first discern the faint blue strip edging the horizon, but it grew and grew upon our vision, and all fatigue and discomfort proportionably disappeared.