“Oh, make yourself easy; I will force that old witch, Joe’s mother, to clear out.”

“But ’tis impossible to stow ourselves into that pig-sty.”

“It will only be for a week or two, at farthest.  This is October; Joe will be sure to be off by the first of sleighing.”

“But if she refuses to give up the place?”

“Oh, leave her to me.  I’ll talk her over,” said the knowing land speculator.  “Let it come to the worst,” he said, turning to my husband, “she will go out for the sake of a few dollars.  By-the-by, she refused to bar the dower when I bought the place; we must cajole her out of that.  It is a fine afternoon; suppose we walk over the hill, and try our luck with the old nigger?”

I felt so anxious about the result of the negotiation, that, throwing my cloak over my shoulders, and tying on my bonnet without the assistance of a glass, I took my husband’s arm, and we walked forth.

It was a bright, clear afternoon, the first week in October, and the fading woods, not yet denuded of their gorgeous foliage, glowed in a mellow, golden light.  A soft purple haze rested on the bold outline of the Haldimand hills, and in the rugged beauty of the wild landscape I soon forgot the purport of our visit to the old woman’s log hut.

On reaching the ridge of the hill, the lovely valley in which our future home lay smiled peacefully upoon us from amidst its fruitful orchards, still loaded with their rich, ripe fruit.

“What a pretty place it is!” thought I, for the first time feeling something like a local interest in the spot, springing up in my heart.  “How I wish those odious people would give us possession of the home which for some time has been our own.”

The log hut that we were approaching, and in which the old woman, R—–­, resided by herself—­having quarrelled years ago with her son’s wife—­was of the smallest dimensions, only containing one room, which served the old dame for kitchen, and bed-room, and all.  The open door, and a few glazed panes, supplied it with light and air; while a huge hearth, on which crackled two enormous logs—­which are technically termed a front and a back stick—­took up nearly half the domicile; and the old woman’s bed, which was covered with an unexceptionally clean patched quilt, nearly the other half, leaving just room for a small home-made deal table, of the rudest workmanship, two basswood-bottomed chairs, stained red, one of which was a rocking-chair, appropiated solely to the old woman’s use, and a spinning wheel.  Amidst this muddle of things—­for small as was the quantum of furniture, it was all crowded into such a tiny space that you had to squeeze your way through it in the best manner you could—­we found the old woman, with a red cotton handkerchief tied over her grey locks, hood-fashion, shelling white bush-beans into a wooden bowl.  Without rising from her seat, she pointed to the only remaining chair.  “I guess, miss, you can sit there; and if the others can’t stand, they can make a seat of my bed.”