buried gates and hedges. The heaps and drifts
were not consumed uutil the twenty-eighth of
May following.

                     OVER THE ICE.

IN the winter of 1813 there was hard fighting
along the borders of Canada; the desultory
campaign went on with variable fortune, but the
Americans pressed us severely, and we, the few
regulars, were worn out with fatigue and
annoyance. This was the state of affairs when a
heavy fall of snow put an end to hostilities, as
the curtain of a theatre might drop upon a battle
scene. A space of enforced quiet succeeded.
The roads were impassable, the drifts lay deep
over the country, and we had for a time to
contend with the intense cold, instead of a human
foe. However, fuel abounded, provisions were
plentiful, and the troops enjoyed their rest after
the harassing marches and counter-marches of
the past season.

My detachment was stationed at Port Hope,
a little fresh-water harbour on the north bank of
Lake Ontario. It consisted of a single company
of my own regiment, a few artillerymen,
and a handful of sappers under charge of an
engineer officer. Captain Haworth, of our own
corps, was in command, and I was his only
effective subaltern; the ensign having been
wounded and removed to the hospital at
Quebec, just before the snow set in. I was then a
lieutenant, and, although a young man, had been
a lieutenant for some time, having been lucky
enough to win my first promotion in Spain,
within a few months after joining Lord
Wellington's army. But I was eager, almost
unreasonably eager, for further and speedy
advancement: not from motives of merely selfish
ambition, but because I had left a mother at
home in England who was old and in narrow
circumstances, as well as sisters who had
stinted themselves of many comforts to furnish
the outfit for my career.

Port Hope was at that time a sorry little place,
with mean sheds and shanties, a few boarded
houses roofed with glittering tin, and many
log-huts little better than the wigwams of the
savages. The few barges and coasting craft
belonging to it were fast ice-bound in the little
haven, surrounded by bavins and fenders made
of pliant brushwood, to protect the timbers from
the grinding and pressure of the jagged ice,
when the thaw should come. There was a
stockaded enclosure which was called the fort:
a place originally constructed by the French
masters of Canada; but it had never been fit for
defence against any but a hostile party of
Indians or scouts, and was decayed and ruinous.
We had toiled hard to strengthen it, under the
direction of the engineer officer, and what with
logs, and puddled clay for mortar, and gabions,
and sand-bags, and earthen ramparts built
up before the iron ground refused to admit the
spade, we had really succeeded in rearing a solid
and imposing series of defences. As the massive
flakes of snow darkened the air, we were just
finishing the embrasures, and we contrived to
get the guns into position, swathing them with
haybands and tarpaulin to preserve them from
the weather.

Then our labours ceased. There was barrack-room
drill, and nothing else, except a daily
inspection of arms, and proper vigilance in posting
and visiting sentries. But these precautions
were regarded as hardly needful. The militiamen
had been dismissed to their homes, and war
slumbered. Great then was my surprise when,
on my returning one evening from inspecting
the sentries, Captain Haworth, wrapped in his
cloak, met me with an unwonted look of trouble
on his bronzed face.

"Ned, here's a precious business. Say nothing
before the men, but go quietly up to my
quarters. I'll join you in a moment."

The barrack-yard was half full: not merely of
soldiers, their wives and children, but of settlers,
country-folks, and miscellaneous hangers-on,
white and black. Wondering what my commander
could possibly have to communicate, I
repaired to his quarters. In Haworth's
sitting-room—for, as commander, he enjoyed the luxury
of two rooms—a great fire of logs was burning,
and before this fire, wrapped in a gaudy-coloured
blanket, was an Indian asleep. The man's face
was hidden by his arm, but his careless attitude
and heavy breathing denoted fatigue, and his
fringed leggings were wet and steaming, as if
the frozen snow upon them had lately thawed.
A plate, on which were some clean-picked bones
and crumbs of bread, lay near, beside an empty
tumbler, the latter of which exhaled an aromatic
fragrance of whisky-and-water; a pair of
snow-shoes had been tossed into a corner of the
room.

I had barely time to take in all these objects
at a glance, when Haworth entered, humming a
tune, as if in lightness of heart. He was
followed by his servant, with a fresh store of
firewood.

"That will do, Martin; I shall want nothing
more till nine. Mr. Mills sups with me, so
you may grill the turkey legs as well as the
other things I ordered. I'll brew the punch
myself."

Martin made his military salute and departed.
Instantly the captain's gaiety of manner fell
like a mask.

"Ned Mills," said he, with unusual energy
and seriousness, "I believe you're a true friend
to me, and, Heaven help me, I want a friend this
night, if ever a man wanted one since the world
was a world."

I was a little startled by this preamble, but I
lost no time in assuring him that my regard for
him was genuine and of long date, and that I
was ready to aid him in any way. "What was
the matter?"

Haworth opened the door before replying,
and glanced down the passage, to make sure
no eavesdroppers were at hand; then gently
closing the door, he said, in a low voice,

"Ned, this Indian runner has brought bad
news. It is a lucky thing that he is a