The fiercest droughts of summer may diminish the volume and power of these romantic streams, but it never leaves their rocky channels bare, nor checks the mournful music of their dancing waves.

Through the openings in the forest, we now and then caught the silver gleam of the river tumbling on in moonlight splendour, while the hoarse chiding of the wind in the lofty pines above us gave a fitting response to the melancholy cadence of the waters.

The children had fallen asleep.  A deep silence pervaded the party.  Night was above us with her mysterious stars.  The ancient forest stretched around us on every side, and a foreboding sadness sunk upon my heart.  Memory was busy with the events of many years.  I retraced step by step the pilgrimage of my past life, until arriving at that passage in its sombre history, I gazed through tears upon the singularly savage scene around me, and secretly marvelled, “What brought me here?”

“Providence,” was the answer which the soul gave.  “Not for your own welfare, perhaps, but for the welfare of your children, the unerring hand of the Great Father has led you here.  You form a connecting link in the destinies of many.  It is impossible for any human creature to live for himself alone.  It may be your lot to suffer, but others will reap a benefit from your trials.  Look up with confidence to Heaven, and the sun of hope will yet shed a cheering beam through the forbidding depths of this tangled wilderness.”

The road now became so bad that Mr. D—–­ was obliged to dismount, and lead his horses through the more intricate passages.  The animals themselves, weary with their long journey and heavy load, proceeded at foot-fall.  The moon, too, had deserted us, and the only light we had to guide us through the dim arches of the forest was from the snow and the stars, which now peered down upon us, through the leafless branches of the trees, with uncommon brilliancy.

“It will be past midnight before we reach your brother’s clearing” (where we expected to spend the night), said D—–.  “I wish, Mr. Moodie, we had followed your advice, and staid at Peterborough.  How fares it with you, Mrs. Moodie, and the young ones?  It is growing very cold.”

We were now in the heart of a dark cedar-swamp, and my mind was haunted with visions of wolves and bears; but beyond the long, wild howl of a solitary wolf, no other sound awoke the sepulchral silence of that dismal-looking wood.

“What a gloomy spot!” said I to my husband.  “In the old country, superstition would people it with ghosts.”

“Ghosts!  There are no ghosts in Canada!” said Mr. D—–.  “The country is too new for ghosts.  No Canadian is afear’d of ghosts.  It is only in old countries, like your’n, that are full of sin and wickedness, that people believe in such nonsense.  No human habitation has ever been erected in this wood through which you are passing.  Until a very few years ago, few white persons had ever passed through it;