Mr. S—–­ was absent, but I found little Mary—­the sweet child who used to listen with such delight to Moodie’s flute—­grown up into a beautiful girl; and the baby that was, a fine child of eight years old.  The next morning was so intensely cold that my brother would not resume the journey until past ten o’clock, and even then it was a hazardous experiment.

We had not proceeded four miles before the horses were covered with icicles.  Our hair was frozen as white as old Time’s solitary forelock, our eyelids stiff, and every limb aching with cold.

“This will never do,” said my brother, turning to me; “the children will freeze.  I never felt the cold more severe than this.”

“Where can we stop?” said I; “we are miles from C—–­, and I see no prospect of the weather becoming milder.”

“Yes, yes; I know, by the very intensity of the cold, that a change is at hand.  We seldom have more than three very severe days running, and this is the third.  At all events, it is much warmer at night in this country than during the day; the wind drops, and the frost is more bearable.  I know a worthy farmer who lives about a mile ahead; he will give us house-room for a few hours; and we will resume our journey in the evening.  The moon is at full; and it will be easier to wrap the children up, and keep them warm when they are asleep.  Shall we stop at Old Woodruff’s?”

“With all my heart.”  My teeth were chattering with the cold, and the children were crying over their aching fingers at the bottom of the sleigh.

A few minutes’ ride brought us to a large farm-house, surrounded by commodious sheds and barns.  A fine orchard opposite, and a yard well-stocked with fat cattle and sheep, sleek geese, and plethoric-looking swine, gave promise of a land of abundance and comfort.  My brother ran into the house to see if the owner was at home, and presently returned, accompanied by the staunch Canadian yeoman and his daughter, who gave us a truly hearty welcome, and assisted in removing the children from the sleigh to the cheerful fire, that made all bright and cozy within.

Our host was a shrewd, humorous-looking Yorkshireman.  His red, weather-beaten face, and tall, athletic figure, bent as it was with hard labour, gave indications of great personal strength; and a certain knowing twinkle in his small, clear grey eyes, which had been acquired by long dealing with the world, with a quiet, sarcastic smile that lurked round the corners of his large mouth, gave you the idea of a man who could not easily be deceived by his fellows; one who, though no rogue himself, was quick in detecting the roguery of others.  His manners were frank and easy, and he was such a hospitable entertainer that you felt at home with him in a minute.

“Well, how are you, Mr. S—–?” cried the farmer, shaking my brother heartily by the hand.  “Toiling in the bush still, eh?”

“Just in the same place.”