It was with no ordinary feelings of satisfaction that we quitted the old log tenement and took possession of our new dwelling, small and insignificant though it was.

I was only too happy to enjoy the luxury of a real bedchamber, in place of the parlor floor which I had occupied as such for more than two months.  It is true that our culinary arrangements were still upon no greatly improved plan.  The clay chimney was not of sufficient strength to hold the trammel and pot-hooks, which at that day had not been superseded by the cooking-stove and kitchen-range.  Our fire was made as in the olden time, with vast logs behind, and smaller sticks in front, laid across upon the andirons or dogs.  Upon these sticks were placed such of the cooking-utensils as could not be accommodated on the hearth; but woe to the dinner or the supper, if through a little want of care or scrutiny one treacherous piece was suffered to burn away.  Down would come the whole arrangement—­kettles, saucepans, burning brands, and cinders, in one almost inextricable mass.  How often this happened under the supervision of Harry or little Josette, while the mistress was playing lady to some visitor in the parlor, “’twere vain to tell.”

Then, spite of Monsieur Plante’s palisades round the chimney, in a hard shower the rain would come pelting down, and, the hearth unfortunately sloping a little the wrong way, the fire would become extinguished; while, the bark on the roof failing to do its duty, we were now and then so completely deluged, that there was no resource but to catch up the breakfast or dinner and tuck it under the table until better times—­that is, till fair weather came again.  In spite of all these little adverse occurrences, however, we enjoyed our new quarters exceedingly.

Our garden was well furnished with vegetables, and even the currant-bushes which we had brought from Chicago with us, tied in a bundle at the back of the carriage, had produced us some fruit.

The Indian women were very constant in their visits and their presents.  Sometimes it was venison—­sometimes ducks or pigeons—­whortleberries, wild plums, or cranberries, according to the season—­neat pretty mats for the floor or the table—­wooden bowls or ladles, fancy work of deer-skin or porcupine-quills.  These they would bring in and throw at my feet.  If through inattention I failed to appear pleased, to raise the articles from the floor and lay them carefully aside, a look of mortification and the observation, “Our mother hates our gifts,” showed how much their feelings were wounded.  It was always expected that a present would be received graciously, and returned with something twice its value.

Meantime, week after week wore on, and still was the return of “the master” delayed.

The rare arrival of a schooner at Green Bay, in which to take passage for Detroit, made it always a matter of uncertainty what length of time would be necessary for a journey across the lakes and back—­so that it was not until the last of August that he again reached his home.  Great was his surprise to find us so nicely moved and settled; and under his active supervision the evils of which we had had to complain were soon remedied.