y up to its full height, which
must have been over that of twelve years, and looked my father
straight in the face with a glance of extreme hauteur as near as was
possible to that of the portrait of the old Marquis de Grez, who died
fighting on the field of Flanders.

"_Eh, la la_, what is it I have produced for you, Henri of
America? It is not a proper _jeune fille_, nor do I know what
punishment to impose upon her; but with you I must laugh," with which
my beautiful mother from the doorway threw herself into the arms of
her young American husband and her laughter of silver mingled with his
deep laugh of a great joy.

"Don't worry, Celeste; Bob is just a clear throw-back to her
great-grandmother, Nancy Donaldson, who shot two Indians and a bear in
defense of her kiddies one afternoon while my maternal grandsire was
in the stockades presiding over the council in which was laid down the
first broad draft for the formation of the Commonwealth of Harpeth.
I'm sorry, dear, that she is so vigorously American that she has to
climb the Rocky Mountains even here in the garden spot of France. Just
now she is French enough to be dealing with me in the terms of that
jolly old boy of Flanders fame in the hall downstairs; but cheer up,
sweetheart, she's a wild, daredevil American and I'm going to send her
back to the plains as soon as she speaks her native tongue with less
French accent. Then the rest of us can be happily French forever
after."

"I will speak as you do, my father, from this moment forth," I
answered him with something that was wild and fierce and free rising
in my child's heart. "I will not be a _grande dame_ of France. I
am a woman of America. I speak only United States." And I clung to my
father's arm as he drew me to him and embraced both my laughing mother
and me, before I was delivered to old Nannette who, with affectionate
French grumblings, led me away to the nursery for repairs.

The scene had become fixed in my memory, for from it had sprung a
friendship of a great closeness with my wonderful American father whom
love had chained in France. When he rode the great hunter that had
come across to him from a friend in Kentucky I demanded to cling
behind him or to sit the saddle in front of him, even at times running
at his side as long as my breath held out, to rise on his stirrup,
like the great terrifying Scotchmen do in battles, and cling as
Kentuck made flight over wall or fence. My very slim and stron