"What will
become of us? Where are we to go?"
"Oh, make yourself easy; I will force that old witch, Joe's mother,
to clear out."
"But 'tis impossible to stow ourselves into that pig-sty."
"It will only be for a week or two, at farthest. This is October;
Joe will be sure to be off by the first of sleighing."
"But if she refuses to give up the place?"
"Oh, leave her to me. I'll talk her over," said the knowing land
speculator. "Let it come to the worst," he said, turning to my
husband, "she will go out for the sake of a few dollars. By-the-by,
she refused to bar the dower when I bought the place; we must cajole
her out of that. It is a fine afternoon; suppose we walk over the
hill, and try our luck with the old nigger?"
I felt so anxious about the result of the negotiation, that,
throwing my cloak over my shoulders, and tying on my bonnet without
the assistance of a glass, I took my husband's arm, and we walked
forth.
It was a bright, clear afternoon, the first week in October, and the
fading woods, not yet denuded of their gorgeous foliage, glowed in a
mellow, golden light. A soft purple haze rested on the bold outline
of the Haldimand hills, and in the rugged beauty of the wild
landscape I soon forgot the purport of our visit to the old woman's
log hut.
