Mr. Bellairs came, according to his promise, and drove Mrs. Costello and Lucia to Fairfield, where they were to take the boat for Moose Island. It was a distance of about five miles; and as they glided along rapidly and smoothly, Lucia remembered with a sigh that this was probably the last sleigh drive of any length that she would have before leaving Canada. Perhaps it was not right, considering what the object of their present journey was, that she should be at liberty to have any such thoughts; it might have been more decorous if she had been absorbed by the grave and sombre ideas which the occasion demanded; but Lucia was at heart too frank and natural to try to force upon herself the affectation of a grief she did not feel. It had come into her heart, while Christian was slowly wearing out the last days of his unhappy life, to care for him as her father, to be deeply sorry for him, and to desire to comfort him; but now that his sufferings were over, she honestly thought that there was no further reason for grieving on his account. She was sad, however, for very simple and childish reasons; and this idea that it was her last sleigh drive actually brought tears into her eyes. Everything was so lovely! The road along which they passed lay like a broad white line between the dark woods and the river. The sun, setting over the opposite shore, brought out millions of sparkling points brighter than diamonds on the surface of the snow, and the gorgeous colours of the sky, deeper and more vivid even than in summer, filled her heart with an inexpressible and ever-changing delight. That wonderful union of spotless purity and glorious colour seemed almost supernatural—as if it needed but for men's eyes to be opened that they might see plainly the city of "pure gold like unto clear glass" which stood upon those many-hued foundations, and the forms with garments white as snow which might come down and walk unsullied over the white-robed earth. But to see all this loveliness for the last time! To enjoy for the last time this luxury of nestling down among the sleigh robes, and being carried silently and swiftly forward, with nothing to disturb the dreamy, fanciful mood of the moment! She was actually crying, letting large heavy tears drop quietly down upon her furs—crying with the first premonitory attack of homesickness—when the village came in sight, and she had to rouse herself and dry her eyes, lest her mother should turn round and see her.

By-and-by they turned down the road to the steamboat wharf, and found themselves among a little group of people. The boats only stopped here when they were signalled to do so; but to-night there happened to be other passengers going, and Mr. Bellairs advised Mrs. Costello to remain in the sleigh till the 'Reindeer,' which was just in sight, should arrive. They sat still, accordingly, while he stood beside them talking; and when the boat had stopped at the landing, they went on board and straight down to the ladies' cabin. It was by this time growing dusk; in the low cabin, with its small windows, there was but a faint glimmer of daylight remaining, and as soon as the boat was again under way, the hanging lamps were lighted and people who had till then lingered on deck began to come down by twos and threes. Mrs. Costello and Lucia took possession of a sofa; their voyage was to end about ten o'clock, and for the few hours it would last they were disposed to keep quiet and avoid observation. It happened that the number of passengers was large, the last boat having been detained at some of the Lake ports, and the continuance of navigation at that time of year being so uncertain; and the greater part of the women on board having come from places much further west than Cacouna, formed a crowd of strangers, among whom two veiled and muffled figures easily passed unnoticed.

The cabin had grown very quiet, and the dull monotonous noise of the paddles had lulled Lucia almost to sleep, when she was startled by the touch of her mother's hand upon her arm.

"It is very nearly time we were there," Mrs. Costello said. "If it is a fine night we ought to be able to see the island."

They drew their cloaks closely round them and went up on deck. The night was brilliantly clear and starlight, though there was no moon, and already the lights of the small American town of Claremont, where they were to land, were in sight, with their bright reflection shining in the river below them. To the left a large dark mass seemed to lie upon the water, and to that Mrs. Costello's eyes turned.

"There is the island," she said in a low voice. "Your birthplace, Lucia, and my first Canadian home."

But in vain Lucia strained her eyes to distinguish the size or form of the land. The end of the island which they were approaching was still thickly wooded, and the drooping branches added still more vagueness to the outline. Only as they came nearer a small clearing was dimly distinguishable, where a kind of promontory ran out into the river, and on the point of land a small white house.

Mrs. Costello laid her hand upon Lucia's.

"Look!" she said, "can you see that space where the house stands? What a lonely place it looks! I wonder how I lived there for six years. I can see even the place where the canoe used to lie on the beach. There is one there now!" She stood straining her eyes to watch the scene once so familiar, until the steamer, drawing towards the landing-place, completely hid it from her. Then the lights on shore flashed out more brightly close at hand, and the figures of men waiting on the wharf could be distinguished. Just as the cable was thrown on shore a boat came flying across the river from the island. It drew up to the wharf, and next moment Mr. Strafford was seen coming through the little crowd to receive his visitors. They landed immediately, and he led them to his boat.

"You remember this crossing?" he said to Mrs. Costello; "it was by this way that you left the island."

"With my baby in my arms. Yes; I am not likely to forget it."

They took their places in the boat, where an Indian boy was waiting. Mr. Strafford took an oar, and they glided out of the light and noise of the shore into the starry darkness.

Very few words passed as they crossed the river. Mrs. Costello's mind was full of thoughts of her life here, and Lucia looked forward with wondering curiosity to the sight of an Indian settlement. She was conscious, too, that the feeling of terror and dislike, which for so many years of her life had been always awakened by the sight of one of her father's people, was not even now altogether extinguished. Since she had known her own origin she had tried to get rid of this prejudice more earnestly than before, but the habit was so strong that she had not yet quite mastered it. She sat and watched the shadowy outline of the Indian boy's figure in the boat, and lectured herself a little on the folly and even wickedness of her sensations.

They had to pass round the lower end of the island, where the village lay, in order to reach Mr. Strafford's house; but the lights were all extinguished, and the inhabitants already asleep. They coasted along, passing a little wooden pier, and some fishing-boats and canoes lying moored beside the beach, and at last came to a boarded landing-place with a small boat-house at one end. Here they stopped, and Mr. Strafford bidding his boy run up to the door and knock, assisted the strangers to land. They were scarcely out of the boat when a bright gleam of lamplight flashing from the open door showed them a sloping path, up which they went, and found themselves in a bright warm room, all glowing with lamplight and firelight. A very neat little old woman in a Quaker-like cap and dress was ready to welcome them, and in front of the great blazing fire a table stood ready for supper. The old woman Mr. Strafford introduced as his housekeeper, Mrs. Hall, and Mrs. Costello recognized her as her own successor in the charge of that school for Indian women and girls of which she had told Lucia.

The room in which supper was laid, and into which the outer door opened, was large and square. At each end two smaller ones opened off it—on one side Mr. Strafford's study and bedroom, at the other Mrs. Hall's room and the one which had been prepared for the guests. Here also a fire burned brightly on the hearth, shining on the white walls and on the bed where, years ago, Mrs. Costello had watched her baby through its first illness. She sat down for a moment to recall that time, and to recognize bit by bit the familiar aspect of the place; then she made haste to lay aside her wrappings and get ready for supper.

It was quite ready by this time—the most luxurious meal Mrs. Hall's resources could provide. There was coffee—not to be praised in itself, but hot, and accompanied by an abundance of cream. There were venison steaks, and a great pile of buckwheat cakes that moment taken from the fire, with a glass dish of clear golden maple syrup placed beside them, and expressly intended for Lucia's benefit. Altogether not a meal to be despised.

When supper was over, and Mrs. Hall had left them, Mr. Strafford began to ask Mrs. Costello for particulars of the arrangements made for the removal of Christian's remains, and when they would probably arrive at the island.

Mr. Bellairs had had some difficulty, she told him, in finding means of transport, but the matter had been finally settled by his engaging a sailing-boat belonging to a fisherman. The coffin had been put on board early in the morning, and the boat started at once. It ought, therefore, to reach the island early to-morrow.

"All here is ready," Mr. Strafford said. "I suppose three o'clock in the afternoon will do to fix for the funeral; the boat is sure to be here long before that."

"Oh! yes, long before. Do the people know?"

"Yes, I suppose most of them do. There are not very many who remember you, but Mary Wanita will be here in the morning to see you. Shall you dislike it?"

"On the contrary, I shall be very glad. Mary was a true friend."

They talked a little longer, sitting round the fire, when the great logs began to break through in the middle and fall down on the hearth outside the andirons, sending up clouds of sparks as they were put back into the fire. The night was very still; and in the pauses of their talk they could hear the mournful wash of the river as its steady current pressed against the landing-place below. To the two elder people, who said nothing to each other of their fancy, another presence, shadowy and silent, seemed to take its place among them at the fireside—a fair, serene presence, matronly and gracious, which had passed away from human eyes years ago. And they paused and thought of her as she had been that winter night when she took the fugitive mother and child into her kindly home, and gave them all her womanly pity and help. What lonely years had passed here since then!

By some instinctive sympathy their eyes met, and each knew what the other's thoughts had been. Mr. Strafford rose.

"To-morrow," he said, "we shall have time for a long chat; to-night you must be tired. I hope Mrs. Hall has done what she could to make you comfortable."

There could be no doubt about that. For two or three days nothing had occupied the good woman's thoughts but this strange and wonderful arrival of strangers—of ladies, too—at the house where so few strangers ever came; and she had exerted all her backwoods' ingenuity to repair what deficiency of comfort there might be.

They were in no humour either to be critical; and Lucia was soon asleep, while her mother lay listening to the sound of the river, and thinking of the many things which this very room brought so freshly to her mind.