“Eggs and ham, summat of that dried venison, and pumpkin pie,” responded the aide-de-camp, thoughtfully.  “I don’t know of any other fixings.”

“Bestir yourself, then, and lay out the table, for the coach can’t stay long,” cried the virago, seizing a frying-pan from the wall, and preparing it for the reception of eggs and ham.  “I must have the fire to myself.  People can’t come crowding here, when I have to fix breakfast for nine; particularly when there is a good room elsewhere provided for their accommodation.”  I took the hint, and retreated to the parlour, where I found the rest of the passengers walking to and fro, and impatiently awaiting the advent of breakfast.

To do Almira justice, she prepared from her scanty materials a very substantial breakfast in an incredibly short time, for which she charged us a quarter of a dollar per head.

At Prescott we embarked on board a fine new steam-boat, William IV., crowded with Irish emigrants, proceeding to Cobourg and Toronto.

While pacing the deck, my husband was greatly struck by the appearance of a middle-aged man and his wife, who sat apart from the rest, and seemed struggling with intense grief, which, in spite of all their efforts at concealment, was strongly impressed upon their features.  Some time after, I fell into conversation with the woman, from whom I learned their little history.  The husband was factor to a Scotch gentleman, of large landed property, who had employed him to visit Canada, and report the capabilities of the country, prior to his investing a large sum of money in wild lands.  The expenses of their voyage had been paid, and everything up to that morning had prospered them.  They had been blessed with a speedy passage, and were greatly pleased with the country and the people; but of what avail was all this?  Their only son, a fine lad of fourteen, had died that day of the cholera, and all their hopes for the future were buried in his grave.  For his sake they had sought a home in this far land; and here, at the very onset of their new career, the fell disease had taken him from them for ever—­here, where, in such a crowd, the poor heart-broken mother could not even indulge her natural grief!

“Ah, for a place where I might greet!” she said; “it would relieve the burning weight at my heart.  But with sae many strange eyes glowering upon me, I tak’ shame to mysel’ to greet.”

“Ah, Jeannie, my puir woman,” said the husband, grasping her hand, “ye maun bear up; ‘tis God’s will; an sinfu’ creatures like us mauna repine.  But oh, madam,” turning to me, “we have sair hearts the day!”

Poor bereaved creatures, how deeply I commiserated their grief—­how I respected the poor father, in the stern efforts he made to conceal from indifferent spectators the anguish that weighed upon his mind!  Tears are the best balm that can be applied to the anguish of the heart.  Religion teaches man to bear his sorrows with becoming fortitude, but tears contribute largely both to soften and to heal the wounds from whence they flow.