The evening camps were short spaces of blessed quietude and converse
when Sheila O'Halloran sat beside her and they talked of many things,--
chiefly the dear little Island whose green sod would soon again receive
the feet of "herself an' Terence."
"'Tis thankful I am, me dear, to be out av this forsaken land alive wid
me hair on me head instid av on a hoop painted green wid little red
arrows on th' stretched shkin inside! 'Tis a sorry counthry an' fit f'r
no woman, but whin Terence must come on some mysterious business av th'
government,--an' niver, till this minute, accushla, do I know whut it
is,--a cryin' shame 'tis, too, wid me, his devoted wife!--I must come
along or die. Wurra! Many's th' time I thought I'd do th' thrick here!
But now are th' dangers passin' wid ivery mile,--hark to th' men
singin'! 'Tis bad business whin men do not sing at th' day's work. 'Tis
glad I am f'r safe deliverance from that counthry av nightmares wid its
outlandish name,--Athabasca,--where Terence must moon from post to post
av th' Hudson's Bay--"
"Athabasca!"
Maren's head was up and she was looking at the little woman with an
eager wistfulness.
"The Land of the Whispering Hills!"
"Thrue,--'tis th' Injun word,--but a woild, woild land f'r all that.
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