He then went back to his work in the bush, and I cleared away the dishes, and churned, for I wanted butter for tea.

About four o’clock Mr. Malcolm entered the room.  “Mrs. Moodie,” said he, in a more cheerful voice than usual, “where’s the boss?”

“In the wood, under-bushing.”  I felt dreadfully afraid that there would be blows between them.

“I hope, Mr. Malcolm, that you are not going to him with any intention of a fresh quarrel.”

“Don’t you think I have been punished enough by losing my dinner?” said he, with a grin.  “I don’t think we shall murder one another.”  He shouldered his axe, and went whistling away.

After striving for a long while to stifle my foolish fears, I took the baby in my arms, and little Dunbar by the hand, and ran up to the bush where Moodie was at work.

At first I only saw my husband, but the strokes of an axe at a little distance soon guided my eyes to the spot where Malcolm was working away, as if for dear life.  Moodie smiled, and looked at me significantly.

“How could the fellow stomach what I said to him?  Either great necessity or great meanness must be the cause of his knocking under.  I don’t know whether most to pity or despise him.”

“Put up with it, dearest, for this once.  He is not happy, and must be greatly distressed.”

Malcolm kept aloof, ever and anon casting a furtive glance towards us; at last little Dunbar ran to him, and held up his arms to be kissed.  The strange man snatched him to his bosom, and covered him with caresses.  It might be love to the child that had quelled his sullen spirit, or he might really have cherished an affection for us deeper than his ugly temper would allow him to show.  At all events, he joined us at tea as if nothing had happened, and we might truly say that he had obtained a new lease of his long visit.

But what could not be effected by words or hints of ours was brought about a few days after by the silly observation of a child.  He asked Katie to give him a kiss, and he would give her some raspberries he had gathered in the bush.

“I don’t want them.  Go away; I don’t like you, you little stumpy man!”

His rage knew no bounds.  He pushed the child from him, and vowed that he would leave the house that moment—­that she could not have thought of such an expression herself; she must have been taught it by us.  This was an entire misconception on his part; but he would not be convinced that he was wrong.  Off he went, and Moodie called after him, “Malcolm, as I am sending to Peterborough to-morrow, the man shall take in your trunk.”  He was too angry even to turn and bid us good-bye; but we had not seen the last of him yet.

Two months after, we were taking tea with a neighbour, who lived a mile below us on the small lake.  Who should walk in but Mr. Malcolm?  He greeted us with great warmth for him, and when we rose to take leave, he rose and walked home by our side.  “Surely the little stumpy man is not returning to his old quarters?” I am still a babe in the affairs of men.  Human nature has more strange varieties than any one menagerie can contain, and Malcolm was one of the oddest of her odd species.