for a moment, but instantly recovering himself, covered the
tumbler with his four fingers, and, to use a Western phrase, "got outside
of the contents quicker than lightning." Then he brought from his bed-room
a coarse sort of worsted horse-blanket, and with a "Ye'll may-be like to
sleep an hour or twa?" threw down his family-quilt and retired to the arms
of Mrs. McG. Picton gave a great crunching blow with his boot-heel at the
back-stick, and laid on a good supply of fuel. We were wet through and
through, but we wrapped ourselves in our travelling-blankets like a brace
of clansmen in their plaids, put our feet towards the niggardly blaze, and
were soon bound and clasped with sleep.

At two o'clock our host roused us from our hard bed, and after a stretch,
to get the stiffness out of joints and muscles, we took leave of the
Presbyterian quarters. The day was just dawning: at this early hour, lake
and hill-side, tree and thicket, were barely visible in the grey twilight.
The wagon, with its pyramid of luggage, moved off in the rain, McGibbet
walking beside Boab, and Picton and I following after, with all the
gravity of chief mourners at a funeral. To give some idea of the road we
were upon, let it be understood, it had once been an old _French_ military
road, which, after the destruction of the fortress of Louisburgh, had been
abandoned to the British Government and the elements. As a consequence, it
was embroidered with the ruts and gullies of a century, the washing of
rains, and the tracks of wagons; howbeit, the only traverse upon it in
later years were the wagon of McGibbet and the saddle-horse of the
post-rider. "Get-Along" had a population of seven hundred Scotch
Presbyters, and therefore it will be easy to understand the condition of
its turnpike.

Up hill and down hill, through slough and over rock, we trudged, for mile
after mile. Sometimes beside Get-Along Lake, with its grey, spectral
islands and woodlands; sometimes by rushing brooks and dreary farm-fields;
now in paths close set with evergreens; now in more open grounds, skirted
with hills and dotted with silent, two-penny cottages. Sometimes Picton
mounted his pyramid of trunk-leather for a mile or so of nods; sometimes I
essayed the high perch, and holding on by a cord, dropped off in a
moment's forgetfulness, with the constant fear of waking up in a mud-hole,
or under the wagon-wheels. But even these respites were brief. It is not
easy to ride up hill and