had many questions to ask him as the speedy horses bore them further and
further away from Calumet. The farms, which at first had followed one
another in close succession, grew more widely apart, and finally ended
altogether before many miles of the dusty road had been covered, and
thenceforward their way ran through unbroken woods, not the stately
"forest primeval" but the scrubby "second growth," from which those who
have never been into the heart of the leafy wilderness can form but a
poor conception of the grandeur to which trees can attain.

About mid-day they halted at a lonely log-house which served as a sort of
inn or resting-place, the proprietor finding compensation for the
dreariness of his situation in the large profit derived from an illegal
but thriving traffic in liquor. A more unkempt, unattractive
establishment could hardly be imagined, and if rumour was to be relied
upon, it had good reason to be haunted by more than one untimely ghost.

"A wretched den!" said Mr. Stewart, as he drew up before the door. "I
wouldn't think of stopping here for a moment but for the horses. But we
may as well go in and see if old Pierre can get us a decent bite to eat."

The horses having been attended to, the travellers entered the house,
where they found Pierre, the proprietor, dozing on his bar; a bloated,
blear-eyed creature, who evidently would have much preferred making them
drunk with his vile whisky to preparing them any pretence for a dinner.
But they firmly declined his liquor, so muttering unintelligibly to
himself he shambled off to obey their behests. After some delay they
succeeded in getting a miserable meal of some kind; and then, the horses
being sufficiently rested, they set off once more at a good pace, not
halting again until, just before sundown, they arrived at the depot,
where the first stage of their journey ended.