The steep, rugged country on either side the mouth of the St. John was dressed in deepest green, tall and noble trees lined both banks.  The clear bright sky and the brighter sun made the river appear like a winding stream of silver with borders of emerald.  Her admiration of natural beauty, she had herself confessed more than once during the voyage to Grimross.

While Mrs. Godfrey was drinking in the beauties of the scenery, and meditating on the loneliness that reigned supreme among the hills, the canoe touched the shore.  As Margaret stepped from the little bark to the shore, a large grey snake passed athwart her pathway and disappeared into a hole at the roots of a tree.  She felt much concerned at this circumstance, as in Ireland, her native land, it was a common belief among the people that if a snake passed across a persons track without being killed by the traveller, some evil was close upon his or her track.

After the Indian had pulled the canoe out of the water, he led the way up a slight incline, followed by Margaret and her children.  They had walked some two hundred yards over uneven ground and among trees, when Paul suddenly stopped and then stepped off to the right, and beckoned to those in his rear to follow him.  A few steps brought the visitors in sight of a wigwam.  It was situated in a small open space, surrounded by a dense forest of large, tall trees.  In a minute or two all stood at the opening in the camp.

Paul seemed to hesitate as he led the way inside.  He removed an old blanket which was hanging over the aperture.  Opposite the entrance on the further side of the camp lay a human form stretched on some old grey blankets, that were spread over branches of spruce trees.  The Indian approached the bed and then stooped down and kissed its occupant, and then beckoned to Margaret Godfrey to step forward.  She at once obeyed.  To her astonishment there lay an old squaw with sunken cheeks and eyes.  Over her form was stretched a time-worn grey blanket, and on it laid a wampum belt, and a string of wampum beads, an old plaid shawl supported her head.

Margaret thought that she recognized the shawl as one she had brought with her from Ireland, and wondered how it came there.  She knelt down, and placing her arm under the old squaw’s neck, gently raised her head a few inches.  The poor old squaw tried to speak but was too weak to do so.  Margaret took the withered hand of the Indian woman and placed it in her own.  On one of the bony fingers of the squaw was a ring which fell off into Margaret’s hand.  Margaret recognized it as a ring she had often seen.  She asked Paul who the sick woman was.  “She is my poor old mother,” he replied, “she has been sick long time, since last winter, got bad fall and almost stiffened with cold.”  “She fast going away from her Paul.”  Margaret noticed the old woman’s lips moving, she put her ear close to the squaw’s mouth and heard her say in a whisper, “Me Mag!”