Sadly and dejectedly we retraced our steps.  There are few trifling failures more bitter in our journey through life than that of a tired traveller mistaking his road.  What effect must that tremendous failure produce upon the human mind, when at the end of life’s unretraceable journey, the traveller finds that he has fallen upon the wrong track through every stage, and instead of arriving at a land of blissful promise, sinks for ever into the gulf of despair!

The distance we had trodden in the wrong path, while led on by hope and anticipation, now seemed to double in length, as with painful steps we toiled on to reach the right road.  This object once attained, soon led us to the dwellings of men.

Neat, comfortable log houses, surrounded by well-fenced patches of clearing, arose on either side of the forest road; dogs flew out and barked at us, and children ran shouting indoors to tell their respective owners that strangers were passing their gates; a most unusual circumstance, I should think, in that location.

A servant who had hired two years with my brother-in-law, we knew must live somewhere in this neighbourhood, at whose fireside we hoped not only to rest and warm ourselves, but to obtain something to eat.  On going up to one of the cabins to inquire for Hannah J—–­, we fortunately happened to light upon the very person we sought.  With many exclamations of surprise, she ushered us into her neat and comfortable log dwelling.

A blazing fire, composed of two huge logs, was roaring up the wide chimney, and the savoury smell that issued from a large pot of pea-soup was very agreeable to our cold and hungry stomachs.  But, alas, the refreshment went no further!  Hannah most politely begged us to take seats by the fire, and warm and rest ourselves; she even knelt down and assisted in rubbing our half-frozen hands; but she never once made mention of the hot soup, or of the tea, which was drawing in a tin teapot upon the hearth-stone, or of a glass of whiskey, which would have been thankfully accepted by our male pilgrims.

Hannah was not an Irishwoman, no, nor a Scotch lassie, or her very first request would have been for us to take “a pickle of soup,” or “a sup of thae warm broths.”  The soup was no doubt cooking for Hannah’s husband and two neighbours, who were chopping for him in the bush; and whose want of punctuality she feelingly lamented.

As we left her cottage, and jogged on, Emilia whispered, laughing, “I hope you are satisfied with your good dinner?  Was not the pea-soup excellent?—­and that cup of nice hot tea!—­I never relished anything more in my life.  I think we should never pass that house without giving Hannah a call, and testifying our gratitude for her good cheer.”

Many times did we stop to inquire the way to Mrs. N—–­’s, before we ascended the steep, bleak hill upon which her house stood.  At the door, Mr. T—–­ deposited the sack of provisions, and he and young C—–­ went across the road to the house of an English settler (who, fortunately for them, proved more hospitable than Hannah J—–­), to wait until our errand was executed.