We crossed Lake Winnebago by the clear, beautiful light of a summer moon.  The soft air was just enough to swell the sail, and thus save the men their labor at the oar.

The witchery of the hour was not, however, sufficient to induce us to forego our repose after the heat and annoyances of the day—­we therefore disposed ourselves betimes, to be packed away in the centre of the boat.  How it was accomplished no one of the numerous company could tell.  If any accident had occurred to disturb our arrangement, I am sure it would have been a Chinese puzzle to put us back again in our places.  The men on the outside had much the best of it, and we rather envied those who were off watch, their ability to snore and change position as the humor took them.

We reached Powell’s just in time to have gone ashore and prepare our breakfast had we had wherewithal to prepare it.  We had hoped to be able to procure some supplies here, for hitherto we had been living on the remains of my husband’s ample stock.  That was now so nearly exhausted that when we found the mess-basket could not be replenished at this place we began to talk of putting ourselves on allowance.

The wet bread, of which there had remained an ample store, had, as may be readily imagined, soon fermented under the influence of a July sun.  The tea, too, notwithstanding our careful efforts at drying it on newspapers and pieces of board, ere long became musty and unfit for use.  There was, literally, nothing left, except the salted meat and a few crackers, hardly sufficient for the present day.

The men were therefore urged to make all the speed possible, that we might reach Gleason’s, at Lake Puckaway, in good season on the following day.

At evening, when we stopped to take our tea at a beautiful little opening among the trees, we found our old enemies, the mosquitoes, worse than ever.  It was necessary to put on our cloaks and gloves, and tie our veils close around our throats, only venturing to introduce a cracker or a cup of tea under this protection in the most stealthy manner.

The men rowed well, and brought us to Gleason’s about eleven o’clock the next day.  We were greeted with the most enthusiastic demonstrations by my old friend La Grosse Americaine, who had removed here from Bellefontaine.

“Oh, Mrs. Armstrong,” cried we, “get us some breakfast—­we are famishing!”

At that instant who should appear but our faithful Mata, driving the old caleche in which we were in the habit of making our little excursions in the neighborhood of the Port.  He had ridden over, hoping to meet us, in the idea that some of us would prefer this method of reaching our home.

With provident thoughtfulness, he had brought tea, roasted coffee, fresh butter, eggs, etc., lest we should be short of such luxuries in that advanced stage of our journey.

His “Good-morning, Madame Johns!  How do you dos?” was a pleasant and welcome sound.