A general rush was made upon him, and in a few minutes a dead silence
reigned in the hall, broken only at intervals by an exclamation of
surprise or pathos, as the inmates, in the retirement of their
separate apartments, perused letters from friends in the interior of
the country and friends at home: letters that were old--some of them
bearing dates many months back--and travel-stained, but new and fresh
and cheering, nevertheless, to their owners, as the clear bright sun
in winter or the verdant leaves in spring.
Harry Somerville's letters were numerous and long. He had several
from friends in Red River, besides one or two from other parts of the
Indian country, and one--it was very thick and heavy--that bore the
post-marks of Britain. It was late that night ere the last candle was
extinguished in the hall, and it was late too before Harry Somerville
ceased to peruse and re-peruse the long letter from home, and found
time or inclination to devote to his other correspondents. Among the
rest was a letter from his old friend and companion, Charley Kennedy,
which ran as follows:--
MY DEAR HARRY,--It really seems more than an age since I saw you.
Your last epistle, written in the perturbation of mind consequent
upon being doomed to spend another winter at York Fort, reached me
only a few days ago, and filled me with pleasant recollections of
other days. Oh! man, how much I wish that you were with me in this
beautiful country! You are aware that I have been what they call
"roughing it" since you and I parted on the shores of Lake Winnipeg;
but, my dear fellow, the idea that most people have of what that
phrase means is a very erroneous one indeed.
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