My husband changed his inquiries to the patois which Crély could not feign not to comprehend.
"Where is your granddaughter? I am acquainted with her, and would like to speak with her."
The old man sprang up with the greatest alacrity, and, running to a door in the wooden partition which cut off a corner of the room and thus furnished an apartment for the ancient phenomenon, he rapped vigorously, and called, in accents quite unlike his former feeble, drawling tones,—
"Thérèse, Thérèse—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, Thérèse?" 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, Thérèse! Have you forgotten Madame John, who taught you to read—you and all the little girls at the Portage?"