There was yet another whose devotion to the young missionary was scarcely less than that of the faithful wife.  We refer to the Irishman, Teddy, who had been a favorite servant for many years in the family of the Richters.  Having fully determined on sharing the fortunes of his young master, it would have grieved his heart very deeply had he been left behind.  He received the announcement that he was to be a life-long companion of the young man, with an expression at once significant of his pride and his joy.

“Be jabers, but Teddy McFadden is in luck!”

And thus it happened that our three friends were ascending one of the tributaries of the upper Mississippi on this balmy day in the spring of 1820.  They had been a long time on the journey, but were now nearing its termination.  They had learned from the Indians daily encountered, the precise location of the large village, in or near which they had decided to make their home for many and many a year to come.

After landing, and before starting his fire, Teddy pulled the canoe up on the bank.  It was used as a sort of shelter by their gentler companion, while he and his master slept outside, in close proximity to the camp-fire.  They possessed a plentiful supply of game at all times, for this was the Paradise of hunters, and they always landed and shot what was needed.

“We must be getting well up to the northward,” remarked the young man, as he warmed his hands before the fire.  “Don’t you notice any difference in the atmosphere, Cora?”

“Yes; there is a very perceptible change.”

“If this illigant fire only keeps up, I’m thinking there’ll be a considerable difference afore long.  The ways yees be twisting and doubling them hands, as if ye had hold of some delightsome soap, spaaks that yees have already discovered a difference.  It is better nor whisky, fire is, in the long run, providin’ you don’t swaller it—­the fire, that is.”

“Even if swallowed, Teddy, fire is better than whisky, for fire burns only the body, while whisky burns the soul,” answered the minister.

“Arrah, that it does; for I well remimbers the last swig I took a’most burnt a hole in me shirt, over the bosom, and they say that is where the soul is located.”

“Ah, Teddy, you are a sad sinner, I fear,” laughingly observed Mrs. Richter, at this extravagant allusion.

“A sad sinner!  Divil a bit of it.  I haven’t saan the day for twinty year whin I couldn’t dance at me grandmother’s wake, or couldn’t use a shillalah at me father’s fourteenth weddin’.  Teddy sad?  Well, that is a—­is a—­a mistake,” and the injured fellow further expressed his feelings by piling on the fuel until he had a fire large enough to have roasted a battalion of prize beeves, had they been spitted before it.