Assisted by his son, a handsome young fellow, the paddles were dipped, and the boat was soon skimming lake St Francis, for so the expansion of the St Lawrence between Cornwall and Coteau is named. When half-way across they paused to rest, and as they viewed the noble sheet of water, embedded in a setting of bush whose bright colors glowed in the shimmering sunshine of a true Canadian fall day, they thought they had never seen anything more beautiful. “And the best of it is, Allan, that the water is fresh and not salt, and,” fixing his gaze on his shanty, which he could discern beneath the trees, “the land is our own, and there will be no rent to pay at Martinmas.” When they got to the mill they found there were other customers before them, and having to wait their turn, it was nearly dark when their canoe passed out of the river Raisin into lake St Francis on their homeward journey. The sun had set behind a cloud, and the lake, though calm, had an oily appearance--both signs of a coming change. They had gone far enough to lose sight of the shore they had left, when a slight swell of the waters was noticed, and immediately afterwards the hollow sound of approaching wind. Both practised boatmen of the Old World, they knew what these signs meant. “Had we our old boat, Allan,” said the father, “I would not care for the squall that’s coming, but this cockle-shell will not stand a rough sea. It may soon blow over. Yonder I think I see the light your mother has set in the window to guide us. We will hurry before the waves get big.” Urged by their strong arms, the canoe flew over the lake, but swifter came the storm, and before many minutes a violent gust of wind, accompanied by pelting rain, burst upon them. Like all shallow sheets of fresh water, the lake was quickly beaten into a fury, and before long waves large enough not merely to toss the boat but to drench its occupants were coursing over it. The danger of swamping was imminent when the father’s skill averted it. Directing his son to stretch himself full length in the bottom of the canoe, using the bag of flour as a pillow, it steadied under the living ballast. Then, taking his place at one end, the father brought the other bow-on the wind and skilfully kept it, by vigorous use of the paddle, in a line with the waves, so that the canoe breasted and slipped over them, hardly shipping a drop of water. The fury of the squall soon passed, and was succeeded by a gale which blew steadily from the west. With that fine respect for parents which characterizes Highlanders, Allan had offered no suggestion, obediently doing what his father ordered. When he heard him say to himself “My God, we are lost!” he exclaimed: “No, father, the storm will blow by, and we will then make our way home this night yet.”