She rose upright now, and stretched out her hands with a half-timid, half-joyous smile.
“Uncle Gaspard,” she said, “where are we?”
Old Antoine raised his head. The French was so pure, the voice had an old reminder of the one back of her mother.
“We are at St. Louis, child.”
“And where is the King?”
“Oh, my little girl, back in France. There is no king here. And we are not French any longer, but Spanish.”
“I am French.” She said it proudly.
“We keep our hearts and our language French. Some day there may be another overturn. I do not see as it matters much. The Spanish are pretty good to us.”
“Good! And with these cursed river laws!” grumbled Antoine.
“If report says true, it can’t interfere very much with you.”