this new path we should fall into the direct one we had been so long seeking?  If we decided to take the trail, should we go north or south?  Mr. Kinzie was for the latter.  He was of opinion we were still too far north—­somewhere about the Grand Marais, or Kish-wau-kee.  Mr. Kellogg and Plante were for taking the northerly direction.  The latter was positive his bourgeois had already gone too far south—­in fact, that we must now be in the neighborhood of the Illinois River.  Finding himself in the minority, my husband yielded, and we turned our horses’ heads north, much against his will.  After proceeding a few miles, however, he took a sudden determination.  “You may go north, if you please,” said he, “but I am convinced that the other course is right, and I shall face about—­follow who will.”

So we wheeled round and rode south again, and many a long and weary mile did we travel, the monotony of our ride broken only by the querulous remarks of poor Mr. Kellogg.  “I am really afraid we are wrong, Mr. Kinzie.  I feel pretty sure that the young man is right.  It looks most natural to me that we should take a northerly course, and not be stretching away so far to the south.”

To all this, Mr. Kinzie turned a deaf ear.  The Frenchmen rode in silence.  They would as soon have thought of cutting off their right hand as showing opposition to the bourgeois when he had once expressed his decision.  They would never have dreamed of offering an opinion or remark unless called upon to do so.

The road, which had continued many miles through the prairie, at length, in winding round a point of woods, brought us suddenly upon an Indian village.  A shout of joy broke from the whole party, but no answering shout was returned—­not even a bark of friendly welcome—­as we galloped up to the wigwams.  All was silent as the grave.  We rode round and round, then dismounted and looked into several of the spacious huts.  They had evidently been long deserted.  Nothing remained but the bare walls of bark, from which everything in the shape of furniture had been stripped by the owners and carried with them to their wintering-grounds, to be brought back in the spring, when they returned to make their corn-fields and occupy their summer cabins.

Our disappointment may be better imagined than described.  With heavy hearts, we mounted and once more pursued our way, the snow again falling and adding to the discomforts of our position.  At length we halted for the night.  We had long been aware that our stock of provisions was insufficient for another day, and here we were—­nobody knew where—­in the midst of woods and prairies—­certainly far from any human habitation, with barely enough food for a slender evening’s meal.

The poor dogs came whining round us to beg their usual portion, but they were obliged to content themselves with a bare bone, and we retired to rest with the feeling that if not actually hungry then, we should certainly be so to-morrow.