bulk, descending from which we plumped down into holes in the snow, sinking mid-leg into the rotten trunk of some treacherous, decayed pine-tree.  Before we were half through the great swamp, we began to think ourselves sad fools, and to wish that we were safe again by our own firesides.  But, then, a great object was in view,—­the relief of a distressed fellow-creature, and like the “full of hope, misnamed forlorn,” we determined to overcome every difficulty, and toil on.

It took us an hour at least to clear the great swamp, from which we emerged into a fine wood, composed chiefly of maple-trees.  The sun had, during our immersion in the dark shades of the swamp, burst through his leaden shroud, and cast a cheery gleam along the rugged boles of the lofty trees.  The squirrel and chipmunk occasionally bounded across our path; the dazzling snow which covered it reflected the branches above us in an endless variety of dancing shadows.  Our spirits rose in proportion.  Young C—–­ burst out singing, and Emilia and I laughed and chatted as we bounded along our narrow road.  On, on for hours, the same interminable forest stretched away to the right and left, before and behind us.

“It is past twelve,” said my brother T—–­ thoughtfully; “if we do not soon come to a clearing, we may chance to spend the night in the forest.”

“Oh, I am dying with hunger,” cried Emilia.  “Do C—–­, give us one or two of the cakes your mother put into the bag for us to eat upon the road.”

The ginger-cakes were instantly produced.  But where were the teeth to be found that could masticate them?  The cakes were frozen as hard as stones; this was a great disappointment to us tired and hungry wights; but it only produced a hearty laugh.  Over the logs we went again; for it was a perpetual stepping up and down, crossing the fallen trees that obstructed our path.  At last we came to a spot where two distinct blazed roads diverged.

“What are we to do now?” said Mr. T—–.

We stopped, and a general consultation was held, and without one dissenting voice we took the branch to the right, which, after pursuing for about half a mile, led us to a log hut of the rudest description.

“Is this the road to Dummer?” we asked a man, who was chopping wood outside the fence.

“I guess you are in Dummer,” was the answer.

My heart leaped for joy, for I was dreadfully fatigued.

“Does this road lead through the English Line?”

“That’s another thing,” returned the woodman.  “No, you turned off from the right path when you came up here.”  We all looked very blank at each other.  “You will have to go back, and keep the other road, and that will lead you straight to the English Line.”

“How many miles is it to Mrs. N—–­’s?”

“Some four, or thereabouts,” was the cheering rejoinder. “’Tis one of the last clearings on the line.  If you are going back to Douro to-night, you must look sharp.”