138 OVER ON THE ISLAND

the unruffled blue waters of the river the same Christ- mas colours stand out in the background.

Down this river, in 1803, came a group of immi- grants. They had intended to go to Virginia, but were sent to Nova Scotia by the waves. They had landed at Pictou and had chartered a vessel to take them to Prince Edward Island. It turned out to be an old, unseaworthy craft, however. The boat sprang a leak. All had to help, even the women. As they came up by this island, Christina, the wife of Donald McLaren, exclaimed: “What a lovely place to be buried in!” Three months later, she and a little child were buried in that island she loved so well. She had had to stand in water up to her knees in the hold of the boat, handing up buckets, and she had caught cold. Then, too, on that memorable first trip up the river, the immigrants in the boat saw the shadowy forms of a woman and two children going from the mainland by the bar to Brudenell Island. It did not concern them at first. But later, when Christina, and then a child, died, it was remembered as an omen. And still, to-day, at sunset, when the evening star comes out, the woman and child re—cross the bar to Brudenell Island.

Many pioneers came to the New World with sad memories. In fact, memories drove many of them here. James McLaren had memories, even of a tender age. After the star of the unfortunate Charles Edward Stuart had finally set at Culloden, in 1746, arrests of rebels and destruction of property went on apace. James McLaren’s father was taken prisoner but escaped. In the search for him, the troopers burned down his home and destroyed his cattle. The little James, then about three years of age, was