that girded the northern shores
of the lake as with an ebon frame. Insensibly her thoughts wandered far
away from the lonely spot whereon she sat, to the stoup _[FN:
The Dutch word for verandah, which is still in common use among the
Canadians.]_ in front of her father's house, and in memory's eye she
beheld it all exactly as she had left it. There stood the big spinning
wheel, just as she had set it aside; the hanks of dyed yarn suspended
from the rafters, the basket filled with the carded wool ready for
her work. She saw in fancy her father, with his fine athletic upright
figure, his sunburnt cheeks and clustering sable hair, his clear
energetic hazel eye ever beaming upon her, his favourite child, with
looks of love and kindness as she moved to and fro at her wheel.
_[FN: Such is the method of working at the large wool wheel,
unknown or obsolete in England.]_ There, too, was her mother, with her
light step and sweet cheerful voice, singing as she pursued her daily
avocations; and Donald and Kenneth driving up the cows to be milked, or
chopping firewood. And as these images, like the figures of the magic
lantern, passed in all their living colours before her mental vision,
her head drooped heavier and lower till it sunk upon her arm, and then
she started, looked round, and slept again, her face deeply buried in
her young bosom; and long and peacefully the young girl slumbered.

A sound of hurrying feet approaches, a wild cry is heard and panting
breath, and the sleeper with a startling scream sprang to her feet: she
dreamed that she was struggling in the fangs of a wolf--its grisly
paws were clasped about her throat; the feeling was agony and
suffocation--her languid eyes open. Can it be?--what is it that she
sees? Yes, it is Wolfe; not the fierce creature of her dreams by night
and her fears by day, but her father's own brave devoted dog. What joy,
what hope rushed to her heart! She threw herself upon the shaggy neck of
the faithful beast, and wept from the fulness of heart.

"Yes," she joyfully cried, "I knew that I should see him again. My own
dear, dear, loving father! Father! father! dear, dear father, here are
your children. Come, come quickly!" and she hurried to the head of
the valley, raising her voice, that the beloved parent, who she now
confidently believed was approaching, might be guided to the spot by the
well-known sound of her voice.

Poor, child! the echoes of thy eager voice, prolonged by every