"I can show you what will strike you more," exclaimed Chamilly, in a moment. "I have been planning your visit a little."
"Have you a geyser or a catacomb?"
"No sir,—a fountain of life," replied he, jocosely. "Let us get our hats."
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE STATESMAN'S DREAM.
As they went down the village, he continued to banter.
"You great Ontarians believe too firmly that there is no progress here. According to you there is no being to be met in these forsaken wastes, except a superstitious peasant, clothed all the year in 'beefs' and homespun, capped with the tuque, girded with the sash, and carrying the capuchin hood on his shoulders, like the figure on some of our old copper sous;—who sows, after the manner of his fathers, a strip of the field of his grandfathers, and cherishes to his heart every prejudice of his several great, great-grandfathers."
"I do not think so," interrupted Chrysler laughing, "I might put you fifty years behind the age, but no further."
"Yes, but you, sir, have seen us. Why do not more of you come and see?"
"For some of the same reasons perhaps why you do not know us."