“Very well in romance, but terribly dull in reality.  We cannot, however, call it a dry joke,” continued she, wringing the rain from her dress.  “I wish we were suspended over Old Snow-storm’s fire with the bull-frog, for I hate a shower-bath with my clothes on.”

I took warning by this adventure, never to cross the lake again without a stronger arm than mine in the canoe to steer me safely through the current.

I received much kind attention from my new neighbour, the Rev. W. W—–­, a truly excellent and pious clergyman of the English Church.  The good, white-haired old man expressed the kindest sympathy in all my trials, and strengthened me greatly with his benevolent counsels and gentle charity.  Mr. W—–­ was a true follower of Christ.  His Christianity was not confined to his own denomination; and every Sabbath his log cottage was filled with attentive auditors, of all persuasions, who met together to listen to the word of life delivered to them by a Christian minister in the wilderness.

He had been a very fine preacher, and though considerably turned of seventy, his voice was still excellent, and his manner solemn and impressive.

His only son, a young man of twenty-eight years of age, had received a serious injury in the brain by falling upon a turf-spade from a loft window when a child, and his intellect had remained stationary from that time.  Poor Harry was an innocent child; he loved his parents with the simplicity of a child, and all who spoke kindly to him he regarded as friends.  Like most persons of his caste of mind, his predilection for pet animals was a prominent instinct.  He was always followed by two dogs, whom he regarded with especial favour.  The moment he caught your eye, he looked down admiringly upon his four-footed attendants, patting their sleek necks, and murmuring, “Nice dogs—­nice dogs.”  Harry had singled out myself and my little ones as great favourites.  He would gather flowers for the girls, and catch butterflies for the boys; while to me he always gave the title of “dear aunt.”

It so happened that one fine morning I wanted to walk a couple of miles through the bush, to spend the day with Mrs. C—–­; but the woods were full of the cattle belonging to the neighbouring settlers, and of these I was terribly afraid.  Whilst I was dressing the little girls to accompany me, Harry W—–­ came in with a message from his mother.  “Oh, thought I, here is Harry W—–.  He will walk with us through the bush, and defend us from the cattle.”

The proposition was made, and Harry was not a little proud of being invited to join our party.  We had accomplished half the distance without seeing a single hoof; and I was beginning to congratulate myself upon our unusual luck, when a large red ox, maddened by the stings of the gad-flies, came headlong through the brush, tossing up the withered leaves and dried moss with his horns, and making directly towards us.  I screamed to my champion for help; but where was he?—­running like a frightened chipmunk along the fallen timber, shouting to my eldest girl, at the top of his voice—­