“I wouldn’t shun a drink o’ water just now if I could get it,” whispered Bobby to his friend, “for I’m uncommon thirsty.”
At this point the whole band were permitted to disperse in the woods, where they went about climbing and skipping like wild squirrels, for these novel sights, and scents, and circumstances were overwhelmingly delightful after the dirt and smoke of London.
When pretty well breathed—our waifs were grown too hardy by that time to be easily exhausted—the Guardian got them to sit round him and sing that sweet hymn:
“Shall we gather at the river?”
And tears bedewed many eyes, for they were reminded that there were yet many partings in store before that gathering should take place.
And now the remnant of the band—still a goodly number—proceeded in the direction of the far west. All night they travelled, and reached Belleville, where they were received joyfully in the large house presented as a free gift to Miss Macpherson by the Council of the County of Hastings. It served as a “Distributing Home” and centre in Canada for the little ones till they could be placed in suitable situations, and to it they might be returned if necessary, or a change of employer required it. This Belleville Home was afterwards burned to the ground, and rebuilt by sympathising Canadian friends.
But we may not pause long here. The far west still lies before us. Our gradually diminishing band must push on.
“It’s the sea!” exclaimed the boy who had been named little Mouse, alias Robbie Dell.
“No, it ain’t,” said Konky, who was a good deal older; “it’s a lake.”
“Ontario,” said the Guardian, “one of the noble fresh-water seas of Canada.”