en the fair
aspect of this world is darkened--when everything, whether past,
present, or future, assumes a hue of the deepest gloom; a period when,
for the first time, the sun, which has shone in the mental firmament
with more or less brilliancy from childhood upwards, entirely disappears
behind a cloud of thick darkness, and leaves the soul in a state of deep
melancholy; a time when feelings somewhat akin to despair pervade us, as
we begin gradually to look upon the past as a bright, happy vision, out
of which we have at last awakened to view the sad realities of the
present, and look forward with sinking hope to the future. Various are
the causes which produce this, and diverse the effects of it on
differently constituted minds; but there are few, we apprehend, who have
not passed through the cloud in one or other of its phases, and who do
not feel that this _first_ period of prolonged sorrow is darker, and
heavier, and worse to bear, than many of the more truly grievous
afflictions that sooner or later fall to the lot of most men.

Into a state of mind somewhat similar to that which we have endeavoured
to describe our friend Charley Kennedy fell immediately after the events
just narrated. The sudden and awful death of his friend Mr Whyte fell
upon his young spirit, unaccustomed as he was to scenes of bloodshed and
violence, with overwhelming power. From the depression, however, which
naturally followed he would probably soon have rallied had not Harry
Somerville's wound in the shoulder taken an unfavourable turn, and
obliged him to remain for many weeks in bed, under the influence of a
slow fever; so that Charley felt a desolation creeping over his soul
that no effort he was capable of making could shake off. It is true he
found both occupation and pleasure in attending upon his sick friend;
but as Harry's illness rendered great quiet necessary, and as Hamilton
had been sent to take charge of the fishing-station mentioned in a
former chapter, Charley was obliged to indulge his gloomy reveries in
silence. To add to his wretchedness, he received a letter from Kate
about a week after Mr Whyte's burial, telling him of the death of his
mother.

Meanwhile, Redfeather and Jacques--both of whom, at their young master's
earnest solicitation, agreed to winter at Stoney Creek--cultivated each
other's acquaintance sedulously. There were no books of any kind at the
outpost, excepting three Bibles--one belonging to Charley,