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“Gude e’en, freen; ye’re oot late. But I see ye’re are o’ the military and your wark caas ye at a’ hoors. Is there ony news o’ the Yankee army?”

Morton explained he had not been on duty but had got belated in hunting and craved the boon of shelter until morning, for which he would pay.

“Pay! say ye. A dog wearing the King’s colors wad be welcome to my best. You maun be new to this country to think the poorest settler in it wad grudge to share his bite with ony passerby. Come your ways; we are richt glad to see you.”

Entering the shanty Morton was astounded at the contrast between the homelike tidiness of the interior and the rudeness of the exterior, everything being neatly arranged and of spotless cleanliness. “Truly,” he thought, “it is not abundance that makes comfort, but the taste and ingenuity to make the best of what we have.” The glow of the log-fire in the open chimney was supplemented by the faint light afforded by a candle made from deer-fat, which showed him a tall young woman, who came forward to shake hands without the slightest embarrassment, an elderly woman, evidently the mother, who kept her seat by the fire, explaining she “wasna very weel,” and two stout young men.