of deep sadness, that interested Mrs. Sackville, though
at first it failed to draw the attention of the children from their
good-humored blithe companion.

"Does this woman belong to your company, Biddy?"

"Bless you, no, my leddy."--"I thought not," said Mrs. Sackville, who
was struck with the extreme neatness of the woman's appearance, which
presented a striking contrast to all the Irish, even to our friend
Biddy.--Her child's head was covered with a linen handkerchief--coarse
and patched, but white as the driven snow. There was scarcely a thread
of the original cloth in her children's clothes--neither was there a
hole in them--their faces and hands were perfectly clean, and their hair
neatly combed.

"You seem to find it possible, my friend," said Mrs. Sackville, patting
the little boy's face, "to keep your children clean in the most difficult
circumstances." "I try my best, ma'am," replied the woman. "And a slave,
my leddy," interposed Biddy, "she makes of herself for it. Do you know
that when I offered this morning to stay by the childer while she took
a bit of sleep, that instead of resting her soul and body, she went and
washed her things in the river, and got leave to iron in the house
yonder, and did it all as particular as it might have been done for you,
my leddy."

The poor woman was wetting the sick child's lips from a cup of water that
stood by her; and she took no notice of Biddy's remark. Mrs. Sackville
inquired into the particulars of the child's sickness, which she thought
would yield to some common restoratives which she had at hand; and just
as she was dispatching Julia for the dressing case which contained them,
a little rugged impish looking boy came towards them, throwing himself
heels over head, with a segar in his mouth, which he continued smoking
while he was making his somersets.--"Come, come, Goody Barton," said he,
without heeding Mrs. Sackville's presence, "come, we must be up and
moving. If we don't get over in this boat, I shall disappoint the
company at Chippewa to-night."

"Don't speak so loud, Tristy," replied the woman, "but take the pack to
the boat, and I will follow you."

"That surely is not your child?" said Mrs. Sackville, as the boy walked
off with the bundle singing, at the top of his voice, a very vulgar
song, and affecting to reel like a drunken man.

"No, thank God," said the woman, "he is a poor heaven-forsaken lad, who
is going into Canada. He has helped me along