Go? The child fairly clung to the fingers of this saviour-sister--the
poor little, inexperienced, seventeen-year-old bride who was giving
up her youth and her girlhood to lay it all upon the shrine of
endeavour to bring the radiance of the Star that shone above
Bethlehem to reflect its glories upon a forest-bred people of the
North!

It was a long, strange journey that the bride and her little sister
took. A stage coach conveyed them from their home in Ohio to Erie,
Pennsylvania, where they went aboard a sailing vessel bound for
Buffalo. There they crossed the Niagara River, and at Chippewa, on
the Canadian side, again took a stage coach for the village of
Brantford, sixty miles west.

At this place they remained over night, and the following day Mr.
Evans' own conveyance arrived to fetch them to the Indian Reserve,
ten miles to the southeast.

In after years little Lydia used to tell that during that entire
drive she thought she was going through an English avenue leading
up to some great estate, for the trees crowded up close to the
roadway on either side, giant forest trees--gnarled oaks, singing
firs, jaunty maples, graceful elms--all stretching their branches
overhead. But the "avenue" seemed endless. "When do we come to the
house?" she asked, innocently. "This lane is very long."

But it was three hours, over a rough corduroy road, before the
little white frame parsonage lifted its roof through the forest,
its broad verandahs and green outside shutters welcoming the
travellers with an atmosphere of home at last.