usly,
and called, in accents quite unlike his former feeble, drawling tones,--

"Therese, Therese--il y a icite un monsieur qui voudrait vous voir."[62]

The granddaughter presently made her appearance. She looked shyly at my
husband from under her brows.

"Do you know me, Therese?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. It is Mr. Kinzie."

"And do you know me also?" I said, approaching. She looked at me and
shook her head.

"No, I do not," she replied.

"What, Therese! Have you forgotten Madame John, who taught you to
read--you and all the little girls at the Portage?"

"Oh, my heavens, Mrs. Kinzie!--but you have changed so!"

"Yes, Therese, I have grown old in all these years; but I have not grown
old quite so fast as your grandpapa here."

There was a flash in her eye that told she felt my meaning. She hung
her head without speaking, while the color deepened over her
countenance.

"Now," said I, in French, to the grandfather, "you remember me--"

He interrupted me with a protest, "Non, non--je ne puis rappeler
rien--je suis vieux, vieux--le treize Septembre, mil sept cent
vingt-six, je suis ne a Detroit."

"And you recollect," I went on, not heeding his formula, "how I came to
the Portage a bride, and lived in the old cabins that the soldiers had
occupied--"

"Eh b'an! oui--oui--"

"And how you helped make the garden for me--and how Plante and Manaigre
finished the new house so nicely while Monsieur John was away for the
silver--and how there was a feast after it was completed--"

"Ah! oui, oui--pour le sur."

"And where are all our people now?" I asked, turning to Therese. "Louis
Frum _dit_ Manaigre--is he living?"

"Oh, Madame Kinzie! You remember that--Manaigre having two names?"

"Yes, Therese--I remember everything connected with those old times at
the Portage. Who among our people there are living?"

"Only Manaigre is left," she said.

"Mais, mais, Therese," interposed the old man, "Manaigre's daughter
Genevieve is living." It was a comfort to find our visit of such
miraculous benefit to his memory.

"And the Puans--are any of them left?" I asked.

"Not more than ten or twelve, I think--" Again her grandfather promptly
contradicted her:--

"Mais, mais, je compte b'an qu'il y en a quinze ou seize, Therese;" and
he went quite glibly over the names of such of his red friends as still
hovered around their old home in that vicinity.

He was in the full tide of gay reminiscence, touching upon experien