"We're all named from Canadian history," she said. "I'm Jeanne Mance."
"I never heard of her," said Dallas.
"Of course not, being an American," said the eldest boy so patronisingly that I saw my young master wince. I foresaw that this boy, who was a big, sturdy fellow with a round bull-like head, would probably get on young Dallas' nerves.
"The real Jeanne," the girl went on, "was born in France in 1606. French people loved Canada then as now—she sailed for Quebec and spent her life in taking care of sick Indians and whites."
"And she died in the odor of sanctity," broke in the bull-headed boy, "but this one is nicknamed Cassowary and will probably be hanged."
"Why Cassowary?" asked Dallas.
"Don't you know about the great big Cassowary in Timbuctoo," said the lad, "who ate up the missionary and his hymn-book too?"
"Never heard of him," said Dallas. "There are lots of things I don't know."
Poor little master—he felt very humble that beautiful July evening.
Jeanne laid her hand on the big boy's shoulder—"This is Tecumseh Hallowell Devering, and he is fourteen years old—by the way, how old are you, Dallas?"