A Canadian Heroine, Volume 2 | Page 4

that
the same causes which had parted Lucia from Percy, and which she had
said would part her from the whole world, would be just as powerful
here; but the mother had at the bottom of her heart a kind of child-like
confidence that somehow, some time, all must come right, and in the
meantime she loved Maurice heartily, and wished for this happy
consummation almost as much for his sake as for her daughter's.

CHAPTER II.
There was a good deal of difference in the aspect of the country above
and below Cacouna. Below it the river bank was high; and cultivated
and fertile lands stretched back for a mile or two, till they were
bordered and shut in by the forest. Above, the bank was low. Just
beyond the town lay the swamp, which brought ague to the Parsonage
and its neighbours. On the further side of this was the steam sawmill,
and a few shanties occupied by workmen; and higher still, a road
(called the Lake Shore Road, because, after a few miles, it joined and
ran along the side of the lake) wound its way over a sandy plain,
studded with clumps and knots of scattered trees or brushwood. Rough,
stubbly grass covered a good deal of the sand, but here and there the
wind had swept it up into great piles round some obstacle that broke the
level, and on these sand-hills wild vines grew luxuriantly, covering
them in many places with thick and graceful foliage, and small purple
clusters of grapes. There were pools, too, in some places, where
water-lilies had managed to plant themselves, and where colonies of
mud-turtles lived undisturbed; and there were shady places by the sides
of the pools, where the brown pitcher-plant held its cups of clear water,
and the ghost-flower glimmered spectrally among the dead leaves of
last year. But the plain generally was hot and sunny in summer, and
very dreary in winter; for the larger trees which grew upon it were oaks,
and when they were bare of foliage, and the sand-hills and the pools
had a deep covering of snow, the wind swept icily cold over its wide
space. In September the oaks were still in leaf, and the grass green, and,
though they were but stunted in size and coarse in texture, both were
pleasant to look at. The sunshine was no longer hot, but it was serenely
bright, and there was as lovely a blue overhead as if the equinox were
months away.
A light waggon came winding in and out with the turnings of the
road--now crossing a wooden bridge, now passing through the shadows
of a dozen or more oaks which grew close together. Sometimes, when
the ground was clear, the waggon went straight through one of these
groups. Sometimes it turned aside, to avoid the thick brushwood
underneath. The "waggon," which was neither more nor less than a

large tray placed upon four wheels, and having a seat for two people,
was occupied by two young men, Harry Scott and George Anderson.
They were coming down from their homes, two farms which lay close
together some little distance up the lake, and were going first to the
sawmill and then to the town. But they were in no particular hurry, and
the afternoon was pleasant, so they let their horse take his own time,
and came jogging over the sand at a most leisurely pace.
They had passed that very piece of land which had given Dr. Morton so
much trouble lately; it was natural enough, therefore, that their chat
should turn to speculations as to his success in ejecting Clarkson from
his house, and the Indians from their fisheries.
"More trouble than it's worth," said George Anderson; "there is not a
tree on the land that will pay for cutting down."
"Very likely not; but the land may not be bad; and it is a capital
situation. I only wish it were mine," answered Harry, who had his own
reasons for wishing to be a little more independent in circumstances.
"Tell you what," said George, making a knot on the end of his
whip-lash, "my belief is, that it is quite as much for pleasure as profit
that the Doctor is so busy about his land."
"Pleasure?"
"Yes. Do not you see any pleasure in it? By Jove, I asked him
something about Clarkson the other day; and if you'd seen his face,
you'd believe he enjoyed the fight."
"Well, that's not unlikely. He's a great brute, that Clarkson. I should not
mind pitching into him myself."
"I should, though," said George laughing; "the chances of his pitching
into me in return would be too strong."
Harry shrugged his shoulders. "He has a queer character certainly; but
of the two, I