e was the remotest hope of the place
ever being properly colonised by the English, and the condition of the
aborigines ameliorated.

"Mamma, I'm going with Flora Macdonald to visit her poor people," said
Lucy, entering at the moment with a flushed face,--for Lucy was addicted
to running when in a hurry,--and with a coquettish little round straw
hat.

"Very well, my love, but do take that good-natured man to guide you--Mr
What's-his-name, I've _such_ a memory! Ah! McCannister; do take him
with you, dear."

"There is no need, mamma. Nearly all the cottages lie along the
road-side, and Flora is quite at home here, you know."

"True, true, I forgot that."

Mrs Sudberry sighed and Lucy laughed gaily as she ran down the hill to
meet her friend. The first cottage they visited was a little rough
thatched one with a low roof; one door, and two little windows, in which
latter there were four small panes of glass, with a knot in each. The
interior was similar to that of old Moggy's hut, but there was more
furniture in it, and the whole was pervaded by an air of neatness and
cleanliness that spoke volumes for its owner.

"This is Mrs Cameron's cottage," whispered Flora as they entered. "She
was knocked over by a horse while returning from church last Sunday, and
I fear has been badly shaken.--Well, Mrs Cameron, how are you to-day?"

A mild little voice issued from a box-bed in a corner of the room.
"Thankee, mem, I'm no that ill, mem. The Lord is verra kind to me."--
There was a mild sadness in the tone, a sort of "the world's in an awfu'
state,--but no doot it's a' for the best, an' I'm resigned to my lot,
though I wadna objec' to its being a wee thing better, oo-ay,"--feeling
in it, which told of much sorrow in years gone by, and of deep humility,
for there was not a shade of complaint in the tone.

"Has the doctor been to see you, my dear granny?" inquired Flora,
sitting down at the side of the box-bed, while Lucy seated herself on a
stool and tried to pierce the gloom within.

"Oo, ay, he cam' an' pood aff ma mutch, an' feel'd ma heed a' over, but
he said nothin'--only to lie quiet an' tak a pickle water-gruel, oo-ay."

As the voice said this its owner raised herself on one elbow, and,
peering out with a pair of bright eyes, displayed to her visitor the
small, withered, yet healthy countenance of one who must have been a
beautiful girl in her youth. She was now upwards of seventy, and was,
as Lucy afterwards