It remained wan and cold, like a moon behind grey vapours.

"I'll not get back in a week, or on wheels," said Saul. He spoke more
cheerfully than was pleasing to his employer.

"If it snows ye'll have to hire a sleigh and get back the first minute
you can." The reply was stern.

The elder and bigger man made no further comment. However much he might
desire to be kept in the gay world by the weather, the stronger will and
intellect, for the hour at least, dominated his intention.

They rowed their boat past the head of the river. In an hour they had
reached that part of the shore from which the inland road might be
gained. They again loaded the cart. It, like the boat, was of the
roughest description; its two wheels were broad and heavy; a long pole
was mortised into their axle. The coffin and the potash barrel filled
the cart's breadth; the sacks of buckwheat steadied the barrel before
and behind. The meek red oxen were once more fastened to it on either
side of the long pole. The men parted without farewells.

Saul turned his back on the water. The large, cold morning rang to his
voice--"Gee. Yo-hoi-ist. Yo-hoi-eest. Gee." The oxen, answering to his
voice and his goad, laboured onward over the sandy strip that bound the
beach, up the hill among the maple trees that grew thickly in the vale
of the small river. Bates watched till he saw the cattle, the cart, and
Saul's stalwart form only indistinctly through the numerous grey
tree-stems that broke the view in something the way that ripples in
water break a reflection. When the monotonous shouting of Saul's
voice--"Gee, gee, there. Haw, wo, haw. Yo-hoi-eest," was somewhat