The next morning was bright and clear, and when Emma and Mary went out,
attended by Alfred, to go and milk the cows, although the cold was
intense, everything looked so brilliant and sparkling in the sunshine
that they regained their spirits. The lake was still unfrozen, and its
waters, which were of an azure blue, contrasted with the whole of the
country covered with snow, and the spruce firs with their branches
loaded presented an alternate layer of pure white and of the darkest
green. Birds there were none to be seen or heard. All was quiet, so
quiet that as they stepped along the path which had been cleared away to
the cow-house, they almost started at the sound of their own voices,
which the atmosphere rendered more peculiarly sonorous and ringing.
Alfred had his rifle on his shoulder, and walked in front of his
cousins.
"I have come to prove that all your fears are groundless, my dear Emma,
and that you need not have any alarm about a skulking, cowardly wolf,"
said Alfred.
"Well, that may be," replied Emma, "but still we are very glad of your
company."
They arrived at the cow-house without any adventure, let loose Sancho,
who had been tied up, as it was decided that the dog should remain at
home with the others, and proceeded to milk the cows. Having finished
that task and supplied them with fodder, Mary Percival observed, as they
were retracing their steps, "I must say that it would not only be more
convenient, but more agreeable if the cows were kept nearer to the
house."
"It would be, certainly," replied Alfred. "It is a pity that there is
not a cow-shed within the palisades; but we have no means of making one
at present. Next year, when my father has purchased his horses and his
sheep, which he talks of doing, we are to build a regular yard and sheds
for all the animals close to the house, and palisaded round as the house
now is, with a passage from one palisade to the other. Then it will be
very convenient; but `Rome was not built in one day,' and we must,
therefore, wait another winter."
"And be devoured by the wolves in the meantime," replied Emma, laughing.
"Why, you are getting over your fright already, Emma."
"Yes; I feel bold, now there is nothing to be afraid of." The remainder
of the week was passed away in practising upon the snow-shoes by the
males of the party, the women scarcely ever venturing out of doors, as
the cold was very severe. Mary and Emma were accompanied by Alfred for
the first three or four days; and after that, notwithstanding that the
howling of the wolves was heard every night, they took courage when they
found that the animals never made their appearance by daylight, and went
as before to milk the cows by themselves. On the Saturday, they were in
the hopes of seeing old Malachi Bone, but he did not make his
appearance, and John, who could now get on very well in his snow-shoes,
became very impatient. Alfred and Martin were also very anxious to see
the old man, that they might ascertain if he had made any discoveries
relative to the Indians. Sunday, as usual, was a day of rest from
labour; the services were read by Mr Campbell, and the evening passed
in serious conversation. Mr Campbell, although usually in good
spirits, was certainly not so on that evening. Whether it was that the
severity of the winter which had set in and the known long duration of
it which they had to encounter had an effect upon his spirits, he was
melancholy as well as serious. He more than once referred to their
former residence when in England, which was a very unusual thing for him
to do, and by degrees the conversation was turned in that direction,
and, although no one said so, they all felt what a change there was in
their present position from that which they had been forced to leave.
Mrs Campbell, who perceived that a gloom was gathering over the whole
party, made several remarks tending to reconcile them to their present
lot, and, after a time Mr Campbell observed, "Perhaps, my dear
children, it may be a divine mercy which has sent you here to this
wilderness; true it is that we are removed from civilisation, and shut
up here by a severe winter, deprived of the enjoyments and pleasures
which were to be found in the society which we were compelled to leave;
but let us also bear in mind that we are removed from the many
temptations which might have there assailed us."
"But still, papa, you would be very glad if circumstances would permit
us to return to England; would you not?" said Percival.
"Yes, my child, I should, and even if I had remained here so long as to
have become attached to the place and to the isolation which at first is
felt so irksome, I would still return to England and to society, if I
had the means. As Christians, we are not to fly from the world and its
temptations, but to buckle on our armour, and, putting our trust in Him
who will protect us, fight the good fight; that is, doing our duty in
that state of life to which it shall please God to call us."
"But if ever we were to return to England, there would be no chance of
our living as we did before we left it, would there, papa?"
"I see none, my dear boy; but we never know what is in store for us.
Should any of us ever return, I presume it would be to live in a more
humble way; and for my part, I should prefer that it were so, for
although I trust I did not greatly misuse that wealth which I so long
supposed to be mine, I should not be sorry to have much less, and
therefore less responsibility."
"Indeed, my dear Campbell, imperfect as we all are, I do not believe
that many could have made a better use of it than you did."
"I thought so at the time, my dear," replied Mr Campbell, "but since it
has been lost to me, I have often thought that I might have done more
good with it. But the fact is, my dear children, there is nothing so
dangerous to our eternal welfare as great wealth; it tends to harden the
heart by affording the means of constant self-indulgence:--under such
circumstances, man is apt to become selfish, easily satisfied with his
own works, and too proud to see his errors. Did you observe in the
Litany, which I read at this morning's service, how very appropriately
is inserted the prayer for deliverance under the perils of wealth?
"`In all time of our tribulation, in all time of our _wealth_, in the
hour of death, and in the day of judgment, good Lord deliver us.'
"Examine this, my dear children: in all time of our tribulation,--that
is in poverty and distress, and perhaps famishing from want (and in few
positions are people so incited to crime), _then_ in all time of our
wealth, evidently and distinctly placing wealth as more dangerous to the
soul's welfare than the extremest poverty and its accompanying
temptations; and observe, only exceeded by the most critical of all
dangerous positions, when all has been done and nothing can be undone,--
the hour of death, followed by the day of judgment." Mr Campbell
ceased speaking, and there was a pause for a minute or two in the
conversation, when Mary Percival said, "What, then, my dear uncle, do
you consider as the most enviable position in life?"
"I consider a moderate independence as the most enviable; not occupied
in trade, as the spirit of barter is too apt to make us bend to that
which is actually fraud. I should say, a country gentleman living on
his own property and among his own tenants, employing the poor around
him, holds a position in which he has the least temptation to do wrong,
and the most opportunities of doing good."
"I agree with you, my dear Campbell," said his wife; "and yet how few
are satisfied even with that lot."
"Because the craving after wealth is so strong, that everyone would have
more than he hath, and few men will be content. This desire of
aggrandisement overcomes and masters us; and yet, what can be more
absurd than to witness the care and anxiety of those to gain riches, who
have already more, perhaps, than is necessary for their wants,--thus
`heaping up riches, not knowing who may gather them,' and endangering
the soul to obtain that which they must leave behind them when they die.
Others amass wealth, not actuated by the avarice of hoarding it up, but
by the appetite for expending it; who collect unjustly that they may
lavish profusely; these are equally foolish, and how important is that
lesson given in the Scriptures." Mr Campbell opened the Bible which
lay before him and read--
"`And he spake a parable unto them. The ground of a certain rich man
brought forth plentifully.
"`And he said, What shall I do? because I have no room where to bestow
my fruits.
"`And he said: This will I do; I will pull down my barns and build
greater, and there will I bestow all my fruits and my goods.
"`And I will say to my soul: Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many
years, take thine ease; eat, drink, and be merry.
"`But God said unto him: Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be
required of thee.'"
After a short silence, Mr Campbell observed, "I have often reflected
since I have been here upon what might have been our position had we
decided upon remaining in England. We might at this moment have been in
the greatest distress, even wanting a meal; and I have, therefore, often
thanked God that he left us the means of coming here and providing for
ourselves as we have done, and as I have no doubt shall, with His
blessing, continue to do. How much better off are we at this moment
than many thousands of our countrymen who remain in England? How many
are starving? How many are driven into crime from want? while we have a
good roof over our heads, sufficient clothing and more than sufficient
food. We have, therefore, great reason to thank God for the mercies He
has vouchsafed to us; He has heard our prayer, `Give us this day our
daily bread.' Yes," continued Mr Campbell, "`Give us this day our
daily bread,' is all that we are taught to ask for; and it comprehends
all; and yet how heartlessly is this pronounced by many of those who do
repeat their daily prayers. So is the blessing asked at meals, which is
by too many considered as a mere matter of form. They forget, that He
who gives can also take away; and in their presumption, suppose their
own ability and exertion to have been the sole means of procuring
themselves a daily supply of food; thanking themselves rather than the
Giver of all good. How many thousands are there who have been supplied
with more than they require from their cradle down to their grave,
without any grateful feeling towards Heaven; considering the butcher and
baker as their providers, and the debt cancelled as soon as the bills
are paid. How different must be the feeling of the poor cottager, who
is uncertain whether his labour may procure him and his family a meal
for the morrow, who often suffers privation and hunger, and, what is
more painful, witnesses the sufferings of those he loves. How earnest
must be his prayer when he cries, `Give us this day our daily bread.'"
This conversation had a very strong effect upon the party, and when they
retired to rest, which they did shortly after, they laid their heads
upon their pillows not only with resignation, but with thankfulness for
the mercies which had been vouchsafed to them, and felt that in the
wilderness, they were under the eye of a watchful and gracious
Providence.