"Oh, my heavens, Mrs. Kinzie!—but you have changed so!"
"Yes, Thérèse, 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 né à 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 sûr."
"And where are all our people now?" I asked, turning to Thérèse. "Louis
Frum dit Manaigre—is he living?"