Alas, for poor Chance! he had, unknown to his master, contracted a private liking for fresh mutton, and one night he killed no less than eight sheep that belonged to Mr. D—–­, on the front road; the culprit, who had been long suspected, was caught in the very act, and this mischance cost him his life.  Brian was sad and gloomy for many weeks after his favourite’s death.

“I would have restored the sheep fourfold,” he said, “if he would but have spared the life of my dog.”

My recollections of Brian seemed more particularly to concentrate in the adventures of one night, when I happened to be left alone, for the first time since my arrival in Canada.  I cannot now imagine how I could have been such a fool as to give way for four-and-twenty hours to such childish fears; but so it was, and I will not disguise my weakness from my indulgent reader.

Moodie had bought a very fine cow of a black man, named Mollineux, for which he was to give twenty-seven dollars.  The man lived twelve miles back in the woods; and one fine, frosty spring day—­(don’t smile at the term frosty, thus connected with the genial season of the year; the term is perfectly correct when applied to the Canadian spring, which, until the middle of May, is the most dismal season of the year)—­he and John Monaghan took a rope, and the dog, and sallied forth to fetch the cow home.  Moodie said that they should be back by six o’clock in the evening, and charged me to have something cooked for supper when they returned, as he doubted not their long walk in the sharp air would give them a good appetite.  This was during the time that I was without a servant, and living in old Mrs. —–­’s shanty.

The day was so bright and clear, and Katie was so full of frolic and play, rolling upon the floor, or toddling from chair to chair, that the day passed on without my feeling remarkably lonely.  At length the evening drew nigh, and I began to expect my husband’s return, and to think of the supper that I was to prepare for his reception.  The red heifer that we had bought of Layton, came lowing to the door to be milked; but I did not know how to milk in those days, and, besides this, I was terribly afraid of cattle.  Yet, as I knew that milk would be required for the tea, I ran across the meadow to Mrs. Joe, and begged that one of her girls would be so kind as to milk for me.  My request was greeted with a rude burst of laughter from the whole set.

“If you can’t milk,” said Mrs. Joe, “it’s high time you should learn.  My girls are above being helps.”

“I would not ask you but as a great favour; I am afraid of cows.”

“Afraid of cows!  Lord bless the woman!  A farmer’s wife, and afraid of cows!”

Here followed another laugh at my expense; and, indignant at the refusal of my first and last request, when they had all borrowed so much from me, I shut the inhospitable door, and returned home.

After many ineffectual attempts, I succeeded at last, and bore my half-pail of milk in triumph to the house.  Yes!  I felt prouder of that milk than many an author of the best thing he ever wrote, whether in verse or prose; and it was doubly sweet when I considered that I had procured it without being under any obligation to my ill-natured neighbours.  I had learned a useful lesson of independence, to which, in after-years, I had often again to refer.