"Oh, yes," and a bright smile crossed Jeanne's face.
"Yes, indeed. Many a time in the Strait, with the beautiful green shores opposite."
"What strait, Mackinaw?"
"Oh, no. It is the river Detroit, but often called a strait."
"You can't manage a bow!" declared Robert.
"Yes. And fire a pistol. And—run."
"And climb trees?" The dark eyes were alight with mirth.
"Why, yes." Then Jeanne glanced deprecatingly at Miladi, so elegant, so refined, if the word had come to her, but it remained in the chaos of thought. "I was but a wild little thing in childhood, and there was no one except Pani—my Indian nurse."
"Then come and run a race. The Canadians are clumsy fellows."