She then commenced to speak in a low weak voice.  Mrs. Fowler, listening attentively, heard her say, “Forever honored be this spot of earth:  Here ‘Old Mag’ departed this life.  Here her son Paul, that most noble spirit of the woods, who when I was weary, distressed, and a wanderer, broken in everything but spirit, poor in all but faith and courage:  Here!  Here!  Paul took refuge, and my husband, my children and myself rested.  Never shall that day be forgotten by me.  I shall always look back during my life, and when I get to that other home, I shall, too, look back to this sacred spot with unabated affection and regard.  Here!  Here was I eight years ago with husband and children, unprovided for, unprotected, on the shore of this river, in a rude and fearful wilderness, surrounded by savages, but that noble Indian, that splendid Iroquois, whose old mother lies in everlasting sleep near here, protected us and provided for us.  The hills around are hallowed in my memory, and these trees seem to stand with grace and beauty.  This shore is as sacred to my mind as those of the Jordan were to the people of old.  Here! yes here! how often have I communed with my loving Saviour!  This ground is sacred to me because it incloses the dust of the mother of my protector.  The ashes of old Margaret Guidon repose here.  Is this sacred ground soon to claim the dust of her loving son?  It may be that both came here to live for a brief space and then to die and mingle their ashes with this Acadian soil.”

Tears streamed down over her beautiful waxen features, as Mrs. Fowler and little Mag assisted her to her feet.  No penitent at a Methodist revival-service ever looked more serious than did Jim Newall, as Margaret Godfrey uttered the above.

Margaret had at length sufficiently recovered to proceed to the wigwam, assisted on either side by little Mag and Mrs. Fowler.  The three walked slowly toward the home of Paul Guidon.  Arriving at the entrance of the wigwam the little Chipewayan led the way inside.

The first object that met the eyes of Mrs. Godfrey was the sick Indian lying, wasted and emaciated, on a bed of spruce-boughs covered with a blanket.

Margaret Godfrey at once knelt at his bed-side and placing his dark thin hand in that of her own, said “Dear Paul, I come to see you.”

He looked up at her and stared in a sort of vacant manner.  He tried to raise his head, but was too weak to do so.  She looked straight in his eyes, and said again, “Paul, you remember your old pale-faced friend who used to live at Grimross Neck?” As Margaret spoke the last word, Paul Guidon faintly whispered, “Thank Great Chief, I told him get you come me, Paul must not be made die till you come.”  Great tears rolled down his sunken cheeks as he whispered the above, and Margaret Godfrey, overpowered with emotion, lightly rested her forehead on his thin sinewy arm.  Not a step.  Not a sound was heard for a few minutes within the narrow circle of the wigwam, all rested as if in silent prayer, a more touching, a more peaceful, a more solemn scene, was never witnessed in palace or cottage.  Deep grief, real sorrow, took full possession of those women who knelt around the bed of the dying Iroquois, in that birchen home on the banks of the St John, on the morning of September the 20th, 1784.