“That means,” said he, “that it is not so far off as Canada. We must not be too sanguine.”
The men sat about unpacking the horses, and I in the meantime was paddled across the river. The old woman immediately returned, leaving the younger one with me for company. I seated myself on the fallen trunk of a tree, in the midst of the snow, and looked across the dark waters. I am not ashamed to confess my weakness—for the first time on my journey I shed tears. It was neither hunger, nor fear, nor cold which extorted them from me. It was the utter desolation of spirit, the sickness of heart which “hope deferred” ever occasions, and which of all evils is the hardest to bear.
The poor little squaw looked into my face with a wondering and sympathizing expression. Probably she was speculating in her own mind what a person who rode so fine a horse, and wore so comfortable a broadcloth dress, could have to cry about. I pointed to a seat beside me on the log, but she preferred standing and gazing at me, with the same pitying expression. Presently she was joined by a young companion, and after a short chattering, of which I was evidently the subject, they both trotted off into the woods, and left me to my own solitary reflections.
“What would my friends at the East think,” said I to myself, “if they could see me now? What would poor old Mrs. Welsh say? She who warned me that if I came away so far to the West, I should break my heart? Would she not rejoice to find how likely her prediction was to be fulfilled?”
These thoughts roused me. I dried up my tears, and by the time my husband with his party, and all his horses and luggage, were across, I had recovered my cheerfulness, and was ready for fresh adventures.
BELIEF
We followed the old squaw to her lodge, which was at no great distance in the woods. I had never before been in an Indian lodge, although I had occasionally peeped into one of the many, clustered round the house of the interpreter at the Portage on my visits to his wife.