After Paul had been fishing along the stream for some time, seeing that Mrs. Godfrey and her children had not come up with him, he decided to return and look them up.

As they rested together on the shore beside their birchen boat, the thunder gradually died away, and there was also a truce to the lightning and rain.  In two hours from the time of the happy reunion of the loved and lost the water became quite calm.  Paul Guidon then launched the canoe and the little ships’ company were soon heading toward the mouth of the St. John.  In another hour and a half Paul and his companion had safely paddled Margaret Godfrey and her children to the sloop.

Margaret’s first act, after reaching her small floating home, was to place each child upon its knees, doing likewise herself.  As her clear voice rang out over the water, conveying words of thankfulness to Him whom winds and seas obey, the two Indians sank slowly on their knees.

Plenty of fish had been secured by Paul to last the family some days Margaret cooked the supper, Paul and his companion ate heartily, then left the sloop and proceeded in the canoe to their homes, Paul promising to return the next day with a load of wood to replenish the stock of fuel which was well nigh exhausted.

At seven o’clock next morning Paul again was seen sailing along toward the sloop, his little bark skimming over the river like a petrel on the ocean’s breast.  He appeared anxious and excited as he approached the side of the vessel.  He had but a few pieces of wood in his canoe.  Margaret at first sight noticed a change in his features; he looked worn and weary.  His bright black eye had lost much of its fire, and as he stepped on board Mrs. Godfrey thought she noticed a tear on his cheek.  As usual she saluted him and asked him on board, and as he stepped over the rail she took his hand in her own.  This act of kindness on the part of Margaret seemed to electrify his whole frame.  She said to him, “And how is Paul this morning.”  Without answering her he placed his hand on his left breast and sighed deeply.  “Is my Paul ill this morning,” she again asked, thinking that the strain from carrying the children the day previous, and the worry and excitement, had been too severe a task even upon the hardy and wiry frame of the Iroquois.  “No!  No!” he replied, “but,” “but,” and here he stopped being too full to utter another word.  He pointed to his canoe, and then pointed up the river past the fort.  She guessed his meaning.  It was to return to his home at once.

Margaret said to him, “Paul do you want me and the children to go with you?”

He bowed an assent.

All hands were soon on board the canoe and in a few strokes of the paddle the homeless emigrants were sailing toward the rapids.  The tide was running up and the long sinewy arms of Paul, as he plied the paddle, made the little bark fairly leap along.  The rippling of the water was all that broke in upon the stillness of the morning.