CHAPTER XV.
One July morning Mr Forsyth was working in the field beside the river when he saw a canoe shoot in sight. It drew up to the bank and its occupant walked towards him.
“Man, it is you!” he exclaimed, grasping the extended hand. “At the first look I didna ken you. Hoo ye hae changed since last I saw you.”
“I know I have,” answered Morton, “the months since we parted have aged me more than half as many years would in ordinary course of life. The hardships of war, the strife between life and death on the battle-field, develop fast what is good or bad in a man.”
“Ye’ll hae had your share o’ the fechtin?”
“Yes; our regiment took part in all the movements in the Niagara district, and during the campaigning season there was not a week we did not exchange shots with the enemy or have to endure a toilsome march to check his plans.”
“And were you hurt at a’?”
“Nothing to speak of; scratches that did not keep me off duty over a few days. I may be thankful to have got off so well, for many a pretty fellow will never see home again.”
“War’s a gruesome trade.”