We were received by Mrs. M., an extremely pretty, delicate woman, part
French and part Sioux, whose early life had been passed at Prairie du
Chien, on the Mississippi. She had been a great belle among the young
officers at Fort Crawford; so much so, indeed, that the suicide of the
post-surgeon was attributed to an unsuccessful attachment he had
conceived for her. I was greatly struck with her soft and gentle
manners, and the musical intonation of her voice, which I soon learned
was a distinguishing peculiarity of those women in whom are united the
French and native blood.

A lady, then upon a visit to the Mission, was of the company. She
insisted on my lying down upon the sofa, and ministered most kindly to
my suffering head. As she sat by my side, and expatiated upon the new
sphere opening before me, she inquired:

"Do you not realize very strongly the entire deprivation of religious
privileges you will be obliged to suffer in your distant home?"

"The deprivation," said I, "will doubtless be great, but not _entire_;
for I shall have my Prayer-Book, and, though destitute of a church, we
need not be without a _mode_ of worship."

How often afterwards, when cheered by the consolations of that precious
book in the midst of the lonely wilderness, did I remember this
conversation, and bless God that I could never, while retaining it, be
without "religious privileges."

We had not yet left the dinner-table, when the bell of the little
steamer sounded to summon us on board, and we bade a hurried farewell to
all our kind friends, bearing with us their hearty wishes for a safe and