That tasteful garden before the white cottage, to the
right, is Colonel Brown's, and there are pretty farms and cultivated spots;
but silence and loneliness reigned there at the time of which I write.
Where those few dark pines rise above the oak groves like the spires of
churches in a crowded city, is Mount Ararat. [Footnote: Appendix N.] The
Indian girl steers straight between the islands for that ark of refuge, and
Catharine's eyes are dimmed with grateful tears as she pictures to herself
the joyful greeting in store for her. In the overflowings of her gladness
she seizes the old man's rugged hand and kisses it, and flings her arms
about the Indian girl and presses her to her heart, when the canoe has
touched the old well-remembered landing place, and she finds herself so
near, so very near her lost home. How precious are such moments--how few we
have in life--they are created from our very sorrows--without our cares our
joys would be less lively; but we have no time to moralize--Catharine flies
with the speed of a young fawn, to climb the steep cliff-like shoulder of
that steep bank, and now, out of breath, stands at the threshold of her
log-house--how neat and nice it looks compared with the Indians' tents--the
little field of corn is green and flourishing--there is Hector's axe in a
newly-cut log--it is high noon--the boys ought to have been there taking
their mid-day meal, but the door is shut.
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