“No wonder you had the cholera,” said the backwoodsman, “you deserved it for your barbarity.  If I had a good plate of oysters here, I’d teach you the way to eat them.”

Our journey during the first day was performed partly by coach, partly by steam.  It was nine o’clock in the evening when we landed at Cornwell, and took coach for Prescott.  The country through which we passed appeared beautiful in the clear light of the moon; but the air was cold, and slightly sharpened by frost.  This seemed strange to me in the early part of September, but it is very common in Canada.  Nine passengers were closely packed into our narrow vehicle, but the sides being of canvas, and the open space allowed for windows unglazed, I shivered with cold, which amounted to a state of suffering, when the day broke, and we approached the little village of Matilda.  It was unanimously voted by all hands that we should stop and breakfast at a small inn by the road-side, and warm ourselves before proceeding to Prescott.

The people in the tavern were not stirring, and it was some time before an old white-headed man unclosed the door, and showed us into a room, redolent with fumes of tobacco, and darkened by paper blinds.  I asked him if he would allow me to take my infant into a room with a fire.

“I guess it was a pretty considerable cold night for the like of her,” said he.  “Come, I’ll show you to the kitchen; there’s always a fire there.”  I cheerfully followed, accompanied by our servant.

Our entrance was unexpected, and by no means agreeable to the persons we found there.  A half-clothed, red-haired Irish servant was upon her knees, kindling up the fire; and a long, thin woman, with a sharp face, and an eye like a black snake, was just emerging from a bed in the corner.  We soon discovered this apparition to be the mistress of the house.

“The people can’t come in here!” she screamed in a shrill voice, darting daggers at the poor old man.

“Sure there’s a baby, and the two women critters are perished with cold,” pleaded the good old man.

“What’s that to me?  They have no business in my kitchen.”

“Now, Almira, do hold on.  It’s the coach has stopped to breakfast with us; and you know we don’t often get the chance.”

All this time the fair Almira was dressing as fast as she could, and eyeing her unwelcome female guests, as we stood shivering over the fire.

“Breakfast!” she muttered, “what can we give them to eat?  They pass our door a thousand times without any one alighting; and now, when we are out of everything, they must stop and order breakfast at such an unreasonable hour.  How many are there of you?” turning fiercely to me.

“Nine,” I answered, laconically, continuing to chafe the cold hands and feet of the child.

“Nine!  That bit of beef will be nothing, cut into steaks for nine.  What’s to be done, Joe?” (to the old man.)