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must, for I have such a yearning in me to understand it, like as if someone (Someone?) is calling me on the inside. Martha (that’s who Jesus was talking to) answered Him right back and said, “Yea, Lord, I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God,” and I have a sort of swelling up in my heart, like as if I feel the same thing. Now here I am, preaching to my Mam! The gospel really is good news, like they say. More later, I think.
    Days later—I know we’re into August, but I’ve lost track. So much has happened. One day we met a man coming out of the sea of grass shoving a wheelbarrow. In it, on top of their gear, sat his wife. “Stop, Henry,” she said, and he seemed glad to do so. She reached out a gloved hand and he helped her out. “Good day,” she said to all us watching (probably with our mouths open). We all chorused “Good day” in a sort of ragged chorus. “Is there coffee?” she asked as graciously as if she were Queen of England, and someone hastened to the campfire and poured her a cup. We saw to it that her poor husband had one, too, and that they had a good meal. (It was noontime and we were grazing the animals and resting a bit ourselves.)Their story, which is too long to repeat here, is that Madam Queen is sick and tired of “living like this,” and she swept her hand over the prairie’s vastness, and that their animals died somewhere back there and they were on their way “out.” We think she has gone straight out of her mind, poor thing. She finally climbed back in that barrow and the last we saw of them, Henry was trudging her on down the road. We passed three more graves today, which didn’t lift our spirits any.
    August 7?—Travel is slow due to lame oxen. And lame people! I think we could have walked to the moon by now. Passed freighters again today. Had many sloughs to go through or around. We are in hill country, having passed Fort Ellice, where many Indians were gathered. They stole, we believe, two oxen and ate them. When we passed their tents later, they laughed at us. Well, it’s better than scalping! The Indians’ dogs were a big nuisance, and you couldn’t blame Frank Grimm for shooting at them. But we were uneasy after that and glad to be on our way again. We are nearing the bush, and it is very pleasant. Bought some milk today from a settler and some cream, as raspberries are ready.
    August 18, I think. At least two hundred carts passed us today. We are in the Touchwood Hills, much cooler, and everyone is considerably cheered. You’d be surprised how often we meet people heading back! Of course some are going for supplies or some such reason, but some have had enough and want out. One man ate supper with us a couple of nights ago and gave Angus directions to Bliss, the place Angus has in mind. Said it was a good place, and his land is available. Maybe we’ll settle on the Fairfax land. Though I wonder why we think we can make it if he can’t. But, poor man, his wife died in childbed.
    Speaking of which makes me remember. Two days ago Mr. Swart, whose wife and infant we buried soon after starting, married Rose Fennel. She is only fifteen. It was a sort of sad occasion, and while we gathered around and wished them well, it was with mixed emotions. Poor Rose; she deserved a happier wedding. But that’s the way it is out here, they say. Mr. Swart had to turn his back on what’s happened and go on. Certainly he couldn’t make it without a wife, and his children need a mother.
    August 26—Yesterday we reached the south branch of the Saskatchewan River. Thankfully there were Indians to ferry us across. (More than once we have had to remove the wheels on the carts and float them over. These were such tense and tiring times that I had no strength or will to write when evening came.) There is so much I have not had time to tell you about, Mam. Someday, hopefully, you’ll come visit us (I doubt that we’ll ever make it back out—we’re here to stay), but when you