“They did not often seem bloodthirsty,” replied mamma, “for the reason, I suppose, that the woods were full of smaller animals on which they could prey, and consequently they did not need to attack human beings for sustenance.  I remember, however, one incident that may perhaps satisfy your desire for more thrilling adventures.

“An old woman living near what was called ‘the Carter settlement,’ some six miles from us, started to pay a visit to a friend in the next ‘clearing.’  To reach her destination she had to pass through the densest part of the forest, with no indication of a path to guide her:  but she never thought of danger as she started upon her long, lonely walk.

“Several days elapsed before it was fairly realized that the old lady was missing; and then the neighbors started en masse through the forest with tin pans, tin horns, and stalwart lungs, to look for her.  Their shouts met with no response, but after a long search they met a pack of wolves who fled rapidly past them.  Fairly alarmed now lest the old woman should have perished from fatigue and exposure, they pursued the search with desperate haste, and not far from the spot where they had met the wolves, found some scraps of a dress that was recognized as hers, a few bones, and her feet, which, encased as they were in stout boots, the wolves had disdained to devour.  Whether the old woman had fallen a live victim to the wolves, or had died of hunger and fatigue and then furnished a repast to them, we never knew; this latter supposition, however, seemed hardly probable, for she could have found in the woods wild berries, succulent roots, and water sufficient to subsist upon for several days.”

A shiver of horror went around our little circle, and even Gabrielle’s love for the terrible was satisfied.

After a short pause, Marguerite said: 

“You must often have felt lonely, mamma, did you not, living so far away from all places of amusement, lectures, and the like?  Indeed, I suppose that buried as you were in the woods, you did not even have the excitement of going to church.”

“No,” said mamma; “we were dependent for entertainment entirely upon our own resources and the few books we had brought with us from Vermont; but we children were never conscious of a lonely hour, and if dear mother felt sad and weary of our uneventful life, we never knew it.

“We worked hard all day, every one of us, even little Margaret having something to do; but in the evening we had a change of occupation.  At twilight, when father and brother Barnes had come home, and our early supper was over, father would say: 

“‘Mary, what have you to read to us to-night?’

“Immediately fresh logs would be piled up in the great open fireplace, the candles lighted, we girls would draw up to the table with our knitting or sewing, Barnes would throw himself down before the fire, and mother would take up a book for the evening’s reading.  This reading was as much a part of the routine of the day as dinner or supper, and was indeed our only means of culture that winter, distant as we were from schools and all other educational advantages.  Mother always monopolized the position of reader; indeed, until after her death, father seldom read a book, but contented himself with being a listener.”